Damn you, Wikipedia

They announced the Eurovision winner in the recent news on the entry page and I saw it.

Nuts!

Naturally I had to text my Wiki-using Eurovision potentially watching peeps and let them know to go dark on expanding their mind through wiki this day.

For shame, Wikipedia. For shame.

A day in the life of a Sunday

I like Sundays but it has that slight taint of knowing you have to go back to work the next day. And as it happened I worked anyway as a bunch of stuff landed while I was off sick and I needed to clear some of it away.

There's this seeming trend of first-time published authors bragging in their dust jackets about how they now get to wear pyjamas to work. Since I was working at home then I did the same! And they're right, it is as awesome as they said it would be. Jammy, talented cock-spanks.

As I worked I could hear the rest of the family having a normal Sunday. Craft, running around, pottering. Still as far as working went it was pretty sweet to be in max. comfort with a heater going and decorative cats lolling in the Autumnal sun.

Later theBoy had a play date with a friend from day care. They ran back-and-forth between the lounge room and the bedroom, starting numerous activities and indulging in a number of costume changes. At one point a mini-Spiderman and a like-sized Batman could be seen playing together by the light blue play table that sits over the coffee table liberated from uni all those years ago.

I finished work in time to have a slow-mo light sabre fight with the boys in our narrow corridor, complete with impersonations of the crackle of clashing "blades". They had Chinglish 'fighting glowsticks' from Go-Lo. I had a cardboard tube. They won.

Also I set myself a mission. It took three sessions in total but all up I did an hour on the TPC, the death-dealing Octonaut (1) on loan from CERN; the organisation currently headed by the mysterious yet brainy beauty Dr. Cassovitch whose bewitching presence has set many a nerd heart a flutter. As a result of my hour-in-totes on the TPC my arse and thighs are pleasantly achey. I try and cycle more on weekend days to make up for half-hearted rides during the working week. That and as far as exercise goes, like working at home was, it's pretty sweet. I had the heater on in the shed as I rode and all the while I was riding I was watching Real Time on my tablet. There are worse ways to get fitter.

So I did some work and some play and now I'm blogging from the couch bed.

I'm a fucking mars bar (drops mic.)

Some lesser notes...

theBoy came into my just after seven am. I didn't have the heart to turn him away. So he snuggled in next to me and we told stories. If you're going to be woken early on a Sunday that's a nice thing to wake up for.

I've been taking bacteria capsules to help my motility. They've increased frequency and power of my solid-state emissions. Only when I do go it's fucking painful just before and well after. Today's was ... excessive and despite its volume did not grant me the sought-after PAG. I was on session one on the TPC by 9.30 am because of it as riding the bike seems to help dial back post-poo pain.

(1) Okay, it's an exercise bike. I just wanted the chance to write death-dealing Octonaut. Speaking of which, why is the octonaut with the Panzer tank commander's hat the only one wearing a full set of fucking clothes?! His fully clothed body implies the others are tackle or fish box out... (1a)

(1a) I have no idea if the lady-equiv. of tackle is a fish box but you have to admit fish box is both insulting and funny.

High praise from theWife

'You know one day you could be the friend of someone famous...'

Sunny times down the end room

I forget where I heard George Harrison say it but he said 'Here comes the sun' came about one day when it was Winter and he was hiding from some accountants. He just started plinking away and out it came. 

The end room gets morning sun. I nice fat sun beam sweeps across the carpet by the bay windows. So on Saturday mornings I spread the paper out on the couch bed and stick my ampleness up to catch some bathing rays. It's most excellent. 

theBoy wanted to hang with me. He turned up, his folded-up red Thomas emblazoned camp chair in hand. He then set it up in the sun where the beam was cast over his body but not his eyes. 

'Let's do Humpty and Stumpty,' he said (1).

Fuck that's funny. 

Earlier he was hiding behind the couch so just his eyes and above could be seen. He then did Alexi Sayle Dr Marten's Boots head pop ups (see from 1.28). Oh Gods how I laughed.

Last night when saying good night we did a riff on the Little Britain Goodnight sketch. 

Me—'I love you more than cancer!'

theBoy—'I love you more than biting!'

I reminded him about it this morning but before I did I asked if he could remember what he said. 

'I love you more than poo?' he guessed. 

Funny, funny stuff.

(1) In the Humpty and Stumpty. The boys plus theBoy were hiding under the doonah away from Rat, as Rat was hunting them for their eating his socks (story to come). Stumpty had to do a fart. I decided to make fart noises for as long as I could before theBoy interrupted me. I went for a minute then my lips went numb. I panted for breath. He started to speak and I recovered and did it some more then petered out, panting heavily. theBoy yelled 'pew' and started waving his hand under his nose. 'Get out Humpty!' he yelled, blaming the wrong brother which he always, always does. So, so funny.

A Eurovision drinking game

Take a sip each time an even smaller Babushka granny falls out of the last one (1).

(1) Yes, I am aware they're actually matryoshka dolls but for the purposes of the bit I've taken licence. Don't be all 'Disney's head be burnt not frozen' on me.

Fat Troller taunts theBoy

I fully admit I like to try and do voices whenever I can. I'm not awesome at it but nor do I bloweth the chunk. So when at play with theBoy I'm always using voices, accents, and other silly stuff. It helps in storyverse to do so because otherwise the dozens of characters that appear would all sound the same.

There's a kids' show on ABC3 called Mr Moon. It's Canadian (1).

I do not care for it. Nor does theBoy.

Sometimes when theBoy has a bath I put his toy plastic Fat Controller figure from the Thomas series on the lip of the sink. I then leave out the sliding door.

It's then the Fat Controller (as imitated by me), whom theBoy calls Fat Troller, taunts theBoy over theBoy's apparent love of Mr Moon—'You love Mister Moon! You love it! You want to make moon babies and cuddle with it!'  

I then peer around the door and see theBoy grinning at the Fat Controller.

'Excuse me, can you pass me Fat Troller?' he typically says. I of course hand it over, all the while yelling in the Troller voice 'No, he's a monster, he's going to drown me! Do not give me to him! He's a monster!'

And theBoy then drowns Fat Troller in his elephant mug and leaves his body bobbing there feet-side up.

theWife recently put a learning to read app on her iPhone. It lets the user trace the outline of a letter and, when they succeed, it bleats out a phrase of encouragement—'Well done! That's super!' However theWife found she could record over the top of the default phrases and set to work putting her own in. She invited theBoy to put a couple in too. For one of them—in a Fat Troller voice, no less—he shouted 'theBoy loves making moon babies!'

Yes ... he'd insulted himself through the medium of an iPhone kids' app.

What a Chooky!

(1) Eh?

Now that's a lunch and Mikey can't dress himself properly yet

We had a big morning tea today and there was a lot of leftovers. So at lunchtime I went grazing. 

I came back to my desk with a jam donut, a slice of cake and a small brown cupcake. I'd stacked them on the plate, largest to smallest; a pre-Turduckan conglomeration of desserts!

Aww yeah.

Later, when we were home, theWife asked how I'd gone with my choice of pants. I hadn't any of the proper pants to hand this morning so I 'd worn an admittedly thin-weave pair of black tracksuit pants.

It was an odd question. I responded with a wary 'fine ... why?'

It was then she revealed the pants in question, which she'd purchased for me, were not in fact tracksuit pants.

They were girls' pyjama pants.

Dressing fail.

I haz stylus and fare thee well, Kristen Wiig

I know it's prob lame to lolcat-speak by now but I still haz love for it.

theWife got me a stylus for my pad work. It's super YumYum. I don't like the way touch screens feel and this way I can avoid finger-on-glass. Plus the stylus end is all sproingy.

Also Kristen Wiig left SNL. Her work there was joy.

Collateral damage

theBoy was being cheeky and avoiding his just-before-bed wee. theWife was remonstrating.

I walked between them as she took it up to 11 on the annoyance indicating she was gifting the boy.

As I crossed in front of her I fully copped a spittle-laced mum blast right to the head.

Then I came and blogged this.

Blogging rulez. You kids ... and your Facebook. 

Earlier, we were doing a storyverse session. theBoy was in a house surrounded by a mix of pirates and animated skeletons. Various bony arms were prying their way in through nailed up boards across windows in an effort to get in. In the end theBoy, Humpty and Stumpty escaped up the chimney and got sky-hooked to rescue by an incoming plane. theBoy got the plane to circle over the now empty pirate ship—since they were still back at the house—and to drop him on the ship so he could put a hole in it. Then he fucked off with a jet pack. 

As the story kicked off, the pirates swarming as a great mob across the open grass towards the house, I cranked up the War of the Worlds theme. 

It was fully awesome. 'And then a pirate skeleton explodes in a cloud of bone splinters! Leaving just a claw...' ♪♫ DUNT DUNT DAH! ♪♫ '...a claw which is crawling across the wooden floor...' ♪♫ DUNT DUNT DAH ♪♫

Only now of course I wish I'd sung ♪♫ 'The chances of pirates crossing the lawn, are a million to one they said. The chances of pirates crossing the lawn, are a million to one ... but still they come!' ♪♫.

The seemingly innocuous section

I once saw an interview with Terry Gilliam talking about the Monty Python days. He said he loved the idea of looking at a great piece of art and then drilling his focus down onto a single seemingly innocuous section of it, like a subject's feet. He'd then take that innocuous section and animate it, creating scenes like a pair of beautifully drawn snapped off feet stomping off screen all to the sound of muddled harrumphs. Great stuff. 

Recently I read a Salon interview with a writer deciding to make a knife. In it I came across my own seemingly innocuous section.

Awesome indeed.

My mother, before she lost her mind to a tangled swirl, would have been instantly dismissive of such silliness. 'Little things please little minds' (1) was one of her parental oft-chants.

Which is somewhat ironic given her condition. 

I like to think though, deep down, she appreciated a nob joke as much as the rest of us.

(1) 'Great things come in small packages' was another. She'd say that to me because she was worried I was worried about being short. In truth being short has never been that much of an issue for me. I've never been bitter about it, though I do find it a hilarious that my brothers and my father are nearly a foot taller than me (one doctor said I was a cro-mag throwback). I was short. That's all there was to it. Couldn't change it, I just accepted it (1a). It was unfortunate, however, that I got the weight retention gene combined with a fucked-up body. Speaking of weight, I read this excellent (sourced via Longform.org) article about a one-time world's heaviest man and the fact that the man behind that weight was a sweet, smart guy who used his affliction to earn money as a sideshow attraction. The article also had some kewl factoids laced throughout. I loved this one: College students rate fat people last as potential marriage partners, behind embezzlers, cocaine users, shoplifters, and blind people. I wonder though if you combined afflictions what combos it would take for us meek hefty types start lookin' good. I suspect I'd win over a blind shoplifter but that I'd lose to a cocaine-using embezzler.

(1a) Actually my parents did consider trying to change it. A doctor had told them I'd likely top out at five feet (I'm actually midway between five and six) so they got worried about my future quality of life. They nearly enrolled me in an experimental program in the '80s that used growth hormones. They only didn't because I defied the shorty short prognosis and was on track to end up normal short. Lucky they didn't enrol me. Those hormones came from cadavers and apparently years later they found out one of the corpses harvested had CJD. Mikey dodges a bullet! 

Some scribbles during the tute

It's nearly Winter and the chill is setting in. The TPC (1)—an exercise bike on loan from the Arch Bishop of Cassentry—is in the shed. There's an old radiator bar-style heater in there too but it takes about half a ride for the cold to shed from the air ... in the shed. It's somewhat frosty in there. Nearly see-your-breath frosty (2). I shiver to think what true Winter will bring. I have visions of me in Gnome-mode rigged to the nines with a barely a Ninja-slit sliver of me left in view. I'll probably have to bring the bike into the house. I guess that makes the shed the TPC's summer pasture.

The heater on my nearly-dead car has died. I think the vehicle is now worth negative money. I have to shroud the car at night if there's a frost lest I end up having to scrape the entirety of the ice from the windows in the morning. I have no idea if the car will even be able to be driven without a working heater once the ice is scraped off. I guess it's off to the auto-mechanic!

My disabled parking permit for the recovery post the TFCWM (3) recently expired. For the most part we used the permit in the spirit to which it was intended; for example, only taking a spot if we absolutely had to. But it was a total bonus that it meant you didn't have to pay for pay-and-display parking. Though I may have to re-up to da sticker if my assorted muscular-skeletal crap keeps firing up the googlies. I'll see how my knees go and consider then.

Many years ago I fancied myself as a writin' type I did some courses and learned some  practice techniques. Yes, I know, writing in itself is both practice and performance. But there's exercises you can do as well. One such exercise is to write character sketches; what people are wearing, how they look, how they sound. I've been meaning to do this one for ages so here it goes. This is to the best of my recollection...

It was in a shopping centre when I saw them. A man and a young woman. He was older, perhaps in his forties, with a shallow, bearded face. Beneath a widows peak was an eye-patch. The proper kind, the kind a man missing an eye wears as opposed to one simply healing. He looked like a game hunter just out from hospital, still recovering from being gored in the face then left without help for a week; found prostrate and skinny as his body ate itself to survive. He wore a collarless t-shirt neatly tucked into belted jeans. In a hand was a briefcase. She was a pretty thing, dusky and plump with red hair flowing either side of her face. She was dressed in black shorts worn over black tights. Her shirt was blue, a superman symbol prominent below her ample chest. The man and woman stood there in silence, looking around. Eventually they walked into the newsagent's. 

I remember I was watching them for the longest time and right up until they walked out of sight. It was just such an incongruous pairing. I think what made the scene for me was in fact the briefcase. Sure, an eye-patch (4), I can see that (5) as being awesome, but to pair that goodness with a briefcase? And then combine all that with a pleasing looking plumpish ginge wearing a Superman shirt? That's not awesome. That's super awesome.  

(1) As a kid, at the bus stop, did you ever admire your breath on a frosty morning as it puffed out of reddened cheeks? I did. I'd augment the moment with an effete twig as a pretend cig. I know, classy. 

(2) Hi there. New to HM? Then let's peel back the vinyl on the TPC. TPC stands for The Purgatory Cart. This was the second name I'd given the exercise bike on loan from the glorious Casso. The bike's original name was The Hell Wagon because it was hellishly hard to ride. Why? Because the setting mechanism hadn't been set up properly. theWife found it was so, fixed it, and viola! Easier to ride. Thus the new name. Yes, I know The TPC is technically the The Purgatory Cart but when TPC is used it sounds weird without a the in front of it.  

(3) TFCWM equals The Fucking Catalina Wine Mixer, the name we gave my hip operation when I discovered one was needed. As taken from Step Brothers. It of course has the same problem of the doubled up the but again I tell you it needs it!  
(4) My favourite eye-patch story is the man in the Hathaway Shirt. 
(5) Pun!

Zoo Weekly's zero credibility now less than zero

Zoo Weekly, a stick mag for lads too scared to buy Penthouse, has its latest issue on sale for only $1.95! I know, I suspect newsagents will be calling up for more stock when otherwise fiscally strapped men decide to splurge on some Zoo Weekly action.

Anyway I couldn't but help notice the sub-headers on the cover.

My favourite sub-header was for Scrabble Babes. Women who are allegedly, and I base this solely on the sub-header, into Scrabble but who are also physically attractive.

As you can see the clever lads down at the Zoo art section decided to deck the header out in Scrabble tiles.

Oh dear ... they got the point value wrong for the S. 

I suspect the Scrabble Babes will be reconsidering their future participation in Zoo Weekly celebrations of Scrabble.

UPDATE: They also had an incorrect value for the C. 

Move over, Victor

We were playing shops. theBoy sold a wall to a knight. The knight used it to protect himself against a rampaging giant lizard (1).

The giant lizard then bought a catapult from theBoy ... and fired itself over the wall with it so it could gobble the knight.

Yes, that's right, theBoy sold arms to both sides of a conflict. 

He's a Lad Lord of War! A mini-Merchant of Death!

He's a capitalist being a capitalist at its most pure; the only moral concern is the shareholders' fiscal interest.

All hail parasitic cephalopods!

Later, when we replayed the game with a new knight, theBoy refused to sell the catapult to the giant lizard. So a dinosaur came forward and bought the catapult instead ... only to then promptly on-sell it to the giant lizard. 

And that's how theBoy found out about how middle parties can break the sacred trust of their end user certificate.

(1) A gift to theBoy from one of theWife's friends who was giving away her collected desk tat over the years as she's in the final stages of a terminal disease. I love that the lizard has a fresh life of play thanks to the kind gift of a woman coping far too early with her way-out-the-door.

Did you know there's a Red Hulk?

He's also called Rulk. 

True story.

I made that!

It's always a little disconcerting when your body produces something that is seemingly unnatural. Then you can't help but look at your bodily produced horror with sick fascination and wonder just how it was it came to be.

Or maybe it's just me?