The Wheel is Turning, but the Hamster is Dead

Sinister snowman seeks goldfish for…I cant remember.

sy@wheelturninghamsterdead.com — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 07:12:01 +0000

According to the stats for the site, I get a lot of hits everyday for people searching for “vegetarian memory loss”.

Who is searching for this? How do they know they have memory loss if you cant remember what you were looking for in the first place? Are people very forgetful or are they just attention seeking?

“I cant remember what I was going to say”. “It was probably your usual boring crap then”.

And why are so many people searching for memory loss related to vegetarians? Is it the same person who has the memory of a goldfish and continually puts the same search term in to google and ends up reading the same post on my site (which incidentally is to do with vegetarians. And memory loss. Go figure.) Are they a vegetarian? Do I care?

Don’t get me wrong, I am ~~not~~ against vegetarians as much as the next guy. What do they have against vegetables that they feel they must rip them from the ground and eat them? That is why I eat chicken. And beef. They aren’t in the ground growing. Hell, with the right appliance (say…a gun) I can stop a bird flying. It isnt in the ground growing. It is trying to escape the world. I am doing it a favour by eating it.

Although back to the memory loss. There is one time when memory loss is a real inconvenience. When you wake up from a really weird dream. And think “What the…” and then it starts to fade away and you can’t remember it. OK fine, and not remembering where you put your keys, car, children. That is also a little inconvenient. But the dreams…far more important.

I am currently recovering from an interesting bout of flu. Not that “Man flu” that women think exist (it doesn’t…we do actually get more ill than you but you enjoy moaning so much you need to find a way of making it more about you than us) but actual proper can’t stand up, kick you in the backside and wish you were dead, flu. And for a while things got a little delirious. I slept for a couple of days in a row and had 2 recurring dreams. Which I can’t fully remember.

One was that I needed to share some money out between 3 people. Myself and 2 others. Who were the other 2 people? No idea. Why was I sharing it out? No idea. How many times did I dream this over and over? No idea. I hope that covers any questions about the dream for you. It was annoying. And not in that “Why cant I remember” way, but in that “What a stupid dream…it made no sense and made me more like I should be checked for autism than for flu”. What is my brain trying to tell me in that dream? It would have been just as useful to dream of a duck with a lisp who is trying to get an internship at a glue stick factory called “Sticky Stuff for Sticking Ltd” where he has aspirations of being head of the QC department and will have the title QC Services Centre Manager and he is worried he wont be able to pronounce his job to Mrs Duck when he gets home at night and tells her of his promotion. I just got nothing out of it at all.

The other dream I seem to remember a little more about. It was about my family. And lots of other people. And they were all being turned in to zombies.

But not zombies as you see in films.

They were being turned in to zombies that were Christmas characters. People turned in to zombie snowmen and elves and hunted around looking for people to also turn. And they all had really sinister faces. That is, if you can have a sinister looking snowman. You have to wonder if he is sinister, misunderstood or just that his face is starting to melt.
They got my family. My daughters turned in to elves. My wife a snowman…well, maybe snow woman. In my dream I didn’t have the thought of checking for the existence of snowballs or snowboobs. But that is all I remember. I don’t remember actually why people were turning in to zombies. Nor why they stopped being zombies. I also don’t know if Santa was the main bad guy in the dream. That is why dreams suck.

I woke from the christmas zombie dream thinking that it should technically have been a nightmare. My family was being attacked afterall. Instead I thought “I should go see a Dr. This being ill thing isnt working out well for me.”

And I don’t believe people who remember all of their dreams. Nor do I trust them. You know the ones. They tell you every intricate detail of their dream from 4 days ago. How can you trust a person who remembers that level of subconscious detail? The chances are they have a little book and they write things about you in. How often you go to the toilet. What clothes you wear. And at night they sneak in your house and watch you sleep while occasionally stroking your hair and drinking the orange juice in the fridge. Yeah, that is where it goes…it isn’t you drinking more than you thought. It is that person sneaking in your house. And that is why some days your bed hair is worse than others. And they take cuttings of your hair and make their dinner with it. Seriously…this is true. People who remember dreams actually do this stuff. I read all about it in the “Things I make up for this site” book I have. Which co-incidently I wrote.

I have another dream on occasion but I find it is silly and dont even know why I am mentioning it on here. I dream I am being taken aboard a big spaceship where I am restrained and scared. Little green men put various probes in to places they shouldn’t go. I always wake up the next morning with a really sore arse, but I guess that is just my body remembering the dream.

SyHamster050375

Get my nuts out of your mouth…we are splitting up until the 15th.

sy@wheelturninghamsterdead.com — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 09:11:59 +0000

Ah yes. Valentines day is on the horizon. A time of year when between the 5th and 13th of the month, many young males will use the words “It just isn’t working out. No, it isn’t you. It isn’t anything to do with your over-sized head, clown feet and the fact that in the morning you smell like cabbage…seriously…what is that about? Anyway…my dear…I want to end it”.

It is the perfect way to not buy a present. You dump her. She is devastated. You dont buy a present. On the 15th of the month you say “I miss your oversized head and clowns feet…and I have a cold so wont be able to smell you in the morning”. The male has totally dodged having to buy a card and present for Valentines. The girl who was dumped and feeling low gets the love of her life back and thinks things will be great for ever more. Until her birthday or Christmas….or when the next present buying opportunity arises.

My pet hate with Valentines is that on the 13th of the month and even the 15th of the month I can (maybe…I mean…probably not) take my wife out for dinner with no question of having to also supply a card or present. I can also go to a restaurant where we can sit on a table for 2 which has lots of room. The next table isn’t sitting on my lap. The food comes when it is ready and I am unrushed.

But on the 14th there are suddenly a billion more people in that restaurant (OK fine, not a billion…maybe 20 more people) and I end up on a table for 1 where we both have to eat. The table one side of me is now sitting on my lap and they will have an argument. The table the other side you think “that dude is getting lucky tonight”. Meanwhile, me and my wife will talk about our kids. The economy. The day at work. How tight my trousers are. And the meal will cost more and the waiter will be so stressed he will drip sweat in to the soup. My dessert will come out before my main and my starter will be given me in a doggybag so they can get us out so the next ~~victims~~ patrons can sit at the table.

So this year I am not doing it. I refuse. I refuse…and also cant take her out as we don’t have a babysitter. I know what she is like. If I take her out, she will ply me with drink (and probably then ply herself with painkillers) and demand me to perform my manly sex duties because it is Valentines. It is a stressful time for me. I am a meek mild mannered man. I don’t think about sex at all. What is sex anyway? No idea. Something to do with balloon modelling?

This year I have done my research…and am going to make her dinner. A chef called Charlie Bingham has made a cock and bull pie….which is believed to be an alternative to oysters and asparagus.

Well, I have never had oysters….because frankly the thought of eating them makes me want to hurl. How are they an aphrodisiac??? HOW!!??? And Asparagus? Also an aphrodisiac? The only way I can link them to being an aphrodisiac is if I eat them and immediately go to bed and fall asleep….then wake up in the morning pitching a tent. And every time you eat asparagus and then pee….it is all you can smell. How the hell does this make them an aphrodisiac? “Sweetie…come here…watch me pee…and have a sniff!” “Oh baby…never wanted you more”. I don’t see that conversation ever taking place.

So why bull testicles? According to the Chinese they are full of “sexually stimulating ingredients”. No…they are full of “baby making ingredients”. Two VERY different things entirely. And saying to my wife “Here, put someone elses testicles in your mouth until you want to have sex with me” is just….well…no. Just…no. They are also being sold from Saturday but have “very limited availablility”. Really? I am shocked…why did not more bulls come forward and say “yeah go on…chop em off, stick em in some pastry and then let some humans get their jollys!”.

I just don’t see how this pie will work. I mean, if it is a huge meaty pie…the last thing I am going to want after it is to go “Wow, I am so full I am going to undo the button on my trousers….fancy hopping in the sack and licking bull testicle from around my mouth?”

And then I saw the selling point. The pie also contains liquor. Remove your nuts and call it ”Get her drunk and take advantage of her” pie. If you both drink enough, the earth may not shake but I can promise the room will spin.

Should you want to read the news story where I read about the tasty nutty treat…it’s HERE.

SyHamster050375

Tazers and Concrete Flossing…It’s Just A Normal Day

sy@wheelturninghamsterdead.com — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 08:11:12 +0000

A couple of weeks ago there was a slight accident at my house. By “slight accident” I mean some degenerate idiot managed to lob a chunk of concrete at the window and it smashed. Sadly I wasn’t home as otherwise I would have got to enjoy having a criminal record from what happened when I caught whoever did it. “What happened when I caught it” may or may not have included taking said chunk of concrete (about 10cm in length), tying string to both ends. One end out of its mouth. The other out of its backside. Begin flossing. Continue until concrete has worn down to size of a very very small molecule. Find another piece of concrete. Repeat until bored.

Due to the insurance company being as useful as a multipack of sugary sweets to a very diabetic person having quite a diabetic day, I had to call the police and lodge a “oh gosh…some naughty children have been bad. Come get em…please! Yes I know it happened some point in the last 24 hours and the chances of you catching them as about on par with me catching Usain Bolt….while I am wearing iron trousers and have just been given a particularly nasty enema…but just give me a crime ref number so I can get the idiot at the insurance company to come do something about the window.”

In return for them giving me a crime ref number they passed my details on to “Victim Support” whose tagline is “We are here to help”. Really? With what? Somebody else fixed the window. I ironed my own clothes the following day. Only 6 people have ever changed my daughters nappy…and they weren’t one of them. Can they help me win the lottery? Help me become attractive to my wife? Stop the spam I get in my email inbox? No. So what the feck do they do?

They also sent a letter saying “If you don’t want us to contact you, please get in contact.”. This was on a piece of headed paper. Without a phone number. And in the signature…there was no number. It is OK, lets check for the existence of an email addre……oh…yeah nothing on there. I didn’t mind, I wasn’t expecting to ever see them short of the weird look they give you me when I am out on a run late at night. “He looks shifty…we should check him out”. Things I have when running: Running shoes. Shorts. Tee. Watch. Things I don’t have when running: All black clothes, balaclava, sledge hammer. Book called Idiots guide to burglary. Seriously guys…it is OK, just out for a run!

And then they (policey McPlod) decided to send me an email with some questions. All the classics you expect on a greatest hits of the 80s mixtape such as “Do we think we were targeted”, “Has this issue affected my day to day routine” – No, I often come home early to let someone in the house to put new glass in the window! and then we got to “Other details” question. My time to shine. My time to show I am a valuable member of the community whose superpowers can be used for the good rather than for the changing of TV channels.

So I asked:

What are Sussex Police thoughts on letting me have a tazer? I could vigilante the streets tazering old people and young kids to make sure it is not looked at as being bias towards gangs of kids. No? Fine. But you understand I had to check.

I figured showing that being an indiscriminate tazer user and my willingness to take down the pesky young and pointless old, I could clear up the mean streets where I live and make it a better place. I sent that email at 13:49 on Saturday 14th.

At 21:20 on Saturday 14th, myself and el wifeo were having a little drinky at the dinner table and the doorbell rings. Walking to the door I say to my wife…who is still in the kitchen “Who the bloody hell….it is night time. Who the hell is calling at thi….oh…it is the police.”

“Hi, we got your crime report and thought we would come around to meet you.”

Ah crap.

After a lengthy discussion, they STILL wont let me have a tazer. I also think I may be on a “watch list”.

SyHamster050375

Take as long as you want. No not that long. Done already? Why did we bother?

sy@wheelturninghamsterdead.com — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 08:55:37 +0000

I am not the greatest conversationalist in the world. I have a habit of finding that line that you do not cross….and then taking a running jump and seeing just how far over I can get. Then I will try again. I then manage to keep trying unabatedly until I realise I am the only person left in the room and don’t get invited to sleepovers anymore.

Other times I manage to steer a conversation in a direction that it didn’t need to go in and somewhat hijack the conversation for my own selfish needs.

And others I manage to turn a conversation about why a girl I know hates it when a guy keeps at it all night like a rampant sloth…and she only wants 20 minutes and a good nights kip.

It started with this post: http://livingaloneinyourthirties.blogspot.com/2012/01/all-night-long.html (unashamed plug for a fellow blogger and friend) and then she posted it on her Facebook wall for people to read. And then I felt the need to comment on her FB wall about it. Shortly after, I was comparing her nocturnal activities with a gentleman to what he does at the gym….and the fact he probably thinks she is a protein shake.

And you know, you take your time with a protein shake. Too fast and you will probably end up constipated. Nobody wants that. I get accused of being full of sh*t frequently enough as it is.

OK, I am not saying that him spending all night at it with her will make him constipated, you read that the wrong way. But you don’t buy a gobstopper because you want to eat a quick snack.

She mentioned that her question is “Why do men think it’s hot to go all night, surely just going with the flow is best? Going with the moment”

I’ll be honest, if I went with the moment too often I would be arrested. Probably divorced too. What if I saw a garden gate and thought “Hey baybeeee…” and got all carpe diem about it. I would guess she maybe meant something other than inanimate objects and likely didn’t really consider the bounds of decency while asking that question.

But I had to wonder…what is an acceptable amount of time that a man must make uncomfortable grunting noises, flex his proverbial muscle and be all caveman about it? And I don’t mean smack her on the head and drag her to the bedroom…trust me…that does NOT go down as well as you may think. Suuuure….you think it is funny and she will see the funny side when she comes around, but my wife was LIVID. I think mostly because had I said “Me. You. Squidgy squidgy time?” she was likely to say yes. But instead I decided I knew best and she now she has a fat sweaty man on her…and a headache. And a phone number of a divorce lawyer.

Back to the conversation on the FB comment thread though. A few comments later I managed to compare her nightly sessions to gardening. She was talking about how it is not right for a man to be all King Kong and climb a building. OK, she wasn’t…but…same thing. Climbing a building takes time and if you wanna take a girl to the heavens…it takes time apparently. I wouldn’t know. I got my wife to the 2nd floor once, but I wont lie, I had to use an escalator.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that gardening is like sex. I spent some time in the garden this summer. Not a lot. Enough that I thought “Yeah, wifey will think that it is an acceptable amount of time and now I can go back inside and have a nap saying that all the being in the sun wore me out”. Except that her comment about time to completed workload comparison went more like “You could have done this and that and this….but decided to come in too early and now you are napping”. But if I had gone out there, smashed a few bits around and then came back in saying “That’ll do! Maybe I will do more later!” she would give me grief saying “What were you doing? Why did you bother? Later? I will do it myself now instead.”

So what is an acceptable amount of time that I should spend in the garden? I don’t understand. The female brain is too confusing. Us menfolk need a friggin clock or something that the woman can set an alarm on so we know when whatever task we are doing has been done for an appropriate amount of time. And we cant snooze.

But I never complain if my wife decides to take all day to clean the entire house or only a few minutes. I am good like that.

So. Women. Remember, the next time a man takes “too long” in the garden, be happy. He could arrange a couple of pot plants a little differently and then bugger off to watch the footie on the telly leaving you thoroughly unsatisfied with the state of the garden.

SyHamster050375