See, see the busy sky
Marvel at its big turquoise depths.
Tell me, Graculus do you
Wonder why the hairless cat ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel reluctant.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your Spreckles facial growth
That looks like
A goat's cheese.
What's more, it knows
Your ***** potting shed
Smells of pistacchio nut.
Everything under the big busy sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm Macdonalds burgers.
Except the BBC Starred out my pussy.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Vogon Poetry

See, see the Clean freak sky
Marvel at its big Orange depths.
Tell me, Daniel do you
Wonder why the bald dog ignores you?
Why its foobly staremakes you feel Dark.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your sluttony facial growth
That looks like
A mould. What's more, it knows
Your High visibility vest potting shed
Smells of Cacti.
Everything under the big Clean freak sky
Asks why,
why do you even bother?
You only charm The lovely reps.--
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Stolen partly from Skier BC magazine.
The best of 100 great things about the ski season (with translations for non-skiers)
The regulars: Beer, Powder snow, Tunes, Big scary naked mountains, the word “Woo!”
The singles lane – where individual skiers make up the gooseberry on a chair lift, making faster progress down the lift line than nimpys who only want to ride the lift with their partner / buddy / foxy instructor.
Free Tissues at the lift line – A toadally Canadian phenomenon
The Under-Rater – The member of any possee who inspires the others to scare the living shit out of themselves. (You know who you are).
Flapping jackets – Forget your fancy heart rate monitor and altimeter, this is the undeniable indicator of how much it’s gonna hurt when you wipe out.
Tree skiing – shelter from the weather and the hoards, a natural line of gates, great crashes, impressive injuries.
#44 is Europe. Leading me to dream of a resort Shangri-La where the mountains are massive and European and the culture is… well, you know… but the lifties are all Canadian and Australian or at least have Canadian and Australian guest-service skills. Of course, all my friends would be able to get there easily too. Heaven. Sigh.
Ski Patrol – Ski, uniform, life-saver. What more can you ask for in a man?
Threadbare piste maps – 6’ Tall boards with trail maps on. They tend to get worn by people pointing with the tip of their ski pole. Who needs a “You are here” sticker?
Spring skiing – Nothing says “party” like it.
Corduroy runs – Where the piste groomer has prepped the snow surface leaving long downhill ridges in the snow about 1” deep. No matter how crap you are at skiing, corduroy runs are like speaking French after half a bottle of wine. Instant expertise.
Racoon tan – The facial version of tan-lines. Incurred by wearing ski goggles on a sunny day. In Europe it’s known as Panda-eyes because you don’t have racoons.
Ibuprofen
Good goggles – oh the envy of being the only person in a group who can see.
Coffee shop staff who see you’re still in your ski boots and ask how your day was. This only happens in Canada because we generally don’t live in the ski resort and because in Europe they just wouldn’t ask.
Friends who scout landings for you – avoids hospital time. Cuzzes take note.
#72 was GIRLS
Roofs – for jumping off.
Hot springs. Hot tubs
Packet food – for when there’s no muscles left to keep you standing in the kitchen.
Vistas – 360 degree views that remind you why you’ve not slit your wrists yet.
Spread eagles – star-jumps on skis. Because nothing says, “I’m here, I’m in the air and I’m invincible!” like a spread-eagle. (you know who you are)
Scratching your head after taking your hat off. mMmmmMMmmmm.
New socks.
Camper trucks and sleeping bags.
Summer – makes it worth the wait. Because nothing makes you appreciate -40 like +40.
#96 was BC. What more can I say?
There was a letter in the magazine from a girlie who last year wrapped herself around a tree. Her friends (who had goaded her into running this particular line) waited patiently by her side, telling her not to move as she waited for the ski patrol to come and peel her off the snow and take her safely to hospital. She drifted in and out of conciousness with concussion. Finally, a smiling ski patroller she’d been talking to in the bar the night before looked into her eyes and said, “Hi sweetie, do you know your name?”.
She smiled back at him and said, “No, but I know yours”.
Respec! Nearly dead, but still flirtin’.
The regulars: Beer, Powder snow, Tunes, Big scary naked mountains, the word “Woo!”
The singles lane – where individual skiers make up the gooseberry on a chair lift, making faster progress down the lift line than nimpys who only want to ride the lift with their partner / buddy / foxy instructor.
Free Tissues at the lift line – A toadally Canadian phenomenon
The Under-Rater – The member of any possee who inspires the others to scare the living shit out of themselves. (You know who you are).
Flapping jackets – Forget your fancy heart rate monitor and altimeter, this is the undeniable indicator of how much it’s gonna hurt when you wipe out.
Tree skiing – shelter from the weather and the hoards, a natural line of gates, great crashes, impressive injuries.
#44 is Europe. Leading me to dream of a resort Shangri-La where the mountains are massive and European and the culture is… well, you know… but the lifties are all Canadian and Australian or at least have Canadian and Australian guest-service skills. Of course, all my friends would be able to get there easily too. Heaven. Sigh.
Ski Patrol – Ski, uniform, life-saver. What more can you ask for in a man?
Threadbare piste maps – 6’ Tall boards with trail maps on. They tend to get worn by people pointing with the tip of their ski pole. Who needs a “You are here” sticker?
Spring skiing – Nothing says “party” like it.
Corduroy runs – Where the piste groomer has prepped the snow surface leaving long downhill ridges in the snow about 1” deep. No matter how crap you are at skiing, corduroy runs are like speaking French after half a bottle of wine. Instant expertise.
Racoon tan – The facial version of tan-lines. Incurred by wearing ski goggles on a sunny day. In Europe it’s known as Panda-eyes because you don’t have racoons.
Ibuprofen
Good goggles – oh the envy of being the only person in a group who can see.
Coffee shop staff who see you’re still in your ski boots and ask how your day was. This only happens in Canada because we generally don’t live in the ski resort and because in Europe they just wouldn’t ask.
Friends who scout landings for you – avoids hospital time. Cuzzes take note.
#72 was GIRLS
Roofs – for jumping off.
Hot springs. Hot tubs
Packet food – for when there’s no muscles left to keep you standing in the kitchen.
Vistas – 360 degree views that remind you why you’ve not slit your wrists yet.
Spread eagles – star-jumps on skis. Because nothing says, “I’m here, I’m in the air and I’m invincible!” like a spread-eagle. (you know who you are)
Scratching your head after taking your hat off. mMmmmMMmmmm.
New socks.
Camper trucks and sleeping bags.
Summer – makes it worth the wait. Because nothing makes you appreciate -40 like +40.
#96 was BC. What more can I say?
There was a letter in the magazine from a girlie who last year wrapped herself around a tree. Her friends (who had goaded her into running this particular line) waited patiently by her side, telling her not to move as she waited for the ski patrol to come and peel her off the snow and take her safely to hospital. She drifted in and out of conciousness with concussion. Finally, a smiling ski patroller she’d been talking to in the bar the night before looked into her eyes and said, “Hi sweetie, do you know your name?”.
She smiled back at him and said, “No, but I know yours”.
Respec! Nearly dead, but still flirtin’.
On last night's news.
Sheena Richardson of Arkensaw appeared on TV last night for the first time since her 3000m fall from an aeroplane. Sheena was doing her first solo skydive when both her chutes failed to open properly and she plunged at terminal velocity into an ashphalt parking lot and survived. Not so terminal then. In her words, “I just sat up, spat my teeth out and asked if I was still alive”. Video footage from her instructor was the worst, with him screaming in desperation to her as she spiralled downwards faster and faster on the end of a piece of silk no bigger than a duvet cover. There was nothing he could do to help, his chute was open.
Sheena’s face was eggshelled – her words again – and her pelvis broken. The most remarkable thing? She didn’t know it at the time but she was pregnant – and the baby seems to be fine! Now THERE’S one helluva, “When you were little we dropped you on your head” story.
In related news: The American ambassador to Canada is upset at the Liberals for slating George Bush as a tool in the election campaigns now underway. His words were somewhere along the lines of, “How would you feel if one of your closest friends and allies stood up and slated you on a public front for his own gains”? My response, “How would you feel if your friend taxed you every time you went out for a beer together.” This referring to George’s reluctance to listen to North American Free Trade Associations ruling that the softwood lumber duty imposed on Canadian Lumber entering the US is illegal. Ring any bells rest of the world?
How is this related to Sheena’s story? Well, I think you can figure that out for yourselves.
Sheena’s face was eggshelled – her words again – and her pelvis broken. The most remarkable thing? She didn’t know it at the time but she was pregnant – and the baby seems to be fine! Now THERE’S one helluva, “When you were little we dropped you on your head” story.
In related news: The American ambassador to Canada is upset at the Liberals for slating George Bush as a tool in the election campaigns now underway. His words were somewhere along the lines of, “How would you feel if one of your closest friends and allies stood up and slated you on a public front for his own gains”? My response, “How would you feel if your friend taxed you every time you went out for a beer together.” This referring to George’s reluctance to listen to North American Free Trade Associations ruling that the softwood lumber duty imposed on Canadian Lumber entering the US is illegal. Ring any bells rest of the world?
How is this related to Sheena’s story? Well, I think you can figure that out for yourselves.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Got the planks wet at the weekend
I forgot to take my damn camera.
I skied like a demon, including the slalom gates.
I wiped out twice - once doing drills, once attempting to ski paralell backwards. Hubby took air mid-turn and, needless to say, wiped out. I laughed because he thought he was passing me but actually, I slowed up for the jump I saw coming at us.
Today I hurt big time. Tomorrow I will go to the gym. I have something to train for.
I skied like a demon, including the slalom gates.
I wiped out twice - once doing drills, once attempting to ski paralell backwards. Hubby took air mid-turn and, needless to say, wiped out. I laughed because he thought he was passing me but actually, I slowed up for the jump I saw coming at us.
Today I hurt big time. Tomorrow I will go to the gym. I have something to train for.
The perfect frock
It was 5 quid from the Oxfam on West Street, Sheffield in 1996. I bought it for Lucy's birthday party. It's was originally cheap before I paid 5 quid for it because it's from Topshop. When I put it on it feels all weird, like the seam is different from one side to the other.
When I put it on, it looks FANTASTIC.
It shows off my legs. The hem line flirts when I walk. I don't GIVE a damn if it's 10-below.
I WORE MY DRESS.
When I put it on, it looks FANTASTIC.
It shows off my legs. The hem line flirts when I walk. I don't GIVE a damn if it's 10-below.
I WORE MY DRESS.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Power to the people.
When I started this job and moved into this office, there were a certain number of pin-up ladies on the wall next door. I am not offended by these ladies. They are all very pretty. They are all wearing clothes – not very many – but their dignity is preserved to a certain extent. The fact that they are holding chainsaws between their legs just makes me laugh. Poor ladies must be cold out there in the forest with so little clothing on and need to be careful they don’t nick their nice shiny legs with that big piece of machinery. I’m a little jealous that they look way better in a hard hat than I do, though if I wore make-up to work I might look that nice too.
Yesterday I went to heat up my lunch in the microwave and to my dismay, I found the collection had been added to. Some girls who had no right to be here. For a start they weren’t carrying any forest industry equipment and they definitely weren’t here to work. Nor were they here to encourage my employees to work. Later, there was a crescendo of voracious laughter and what can only be described as leering, though that’s not a strong enough word. I can’t think of one.
I am not a shrinking violet. I am not normally one to be intimidated, no matter how burly a cretin I am squaring off to. Problem is: the man I expected to be responsible for the increased sluttony was off sick. I had no-one left to gripe at and suspect that the men left in my department were probably as embarrassed by the combination of pornography and intelligent stroppy but sensitive female boss as I was, but were succumbing royally to pack-behaviour peer pressure alpha male type under-evolution. I really can’t imagine that the grandad in our midst approved of the pictures being around whilst someone his daughter’s age was in the room.
It took me 24 hours of deliberation to decide what to do. I ran through many scenarios and even ran some of them by the respected company accountant. Should I rant and rave? Should I accuse them of being disrespectful and inconsiderate? “Should I pin pictures of erect penises all over my office walls?” she suggested. No, it would only encourage them. Should I take a black marker pen and draw panties on them? The accountant suggested I black in their teeth and draw glasses on them. “You think they’re smiling?” I ask. “You think I can see their faces?” I ask, thinking of the picture that reminds me of my least favourite view of the cat.
At 4pm last night, I decide that if I am going to have this discussion with any of the men, I’m going to have it once, with the man responsible. So I steal his porn when they’ve all gone home and stick it in a file in my drawer. A woman who looks like she’s fresh from the 80s with afro frizz and golden eyeshaddow and a name that looks like Sharron keeps staring at me with her big brown nipples. I put an upside down file over her head. Poor Sharron, she should’ve finished high-school.
This morning no-one has had the balls to come and ask me for their pornography back. They must know it was me that took it, as we have no cleaning ladies to be offended. Just Stan, and though he has long hair, he’s not a lady. SO why leave something lying around for me to see, that you’re too embarrassed to fight for?
I think he was looking for a reaction, a good fight. There’s little friction down in this department anymore. I believe in quiet oversight, not confrontational management and it’s left them feeling duty-bound to do a good job and get along. In that relationship there’s no space for smoking dope at lunchtime, being late, rebelling and having a good fight. They’re frustrated, bored and getting far too much achieved. They wanted to tip the scales and piss me off. I’m glad I didn’t rise to it.
I am just enjoying my new-found superiority when the phone rings. It’s the BFOB*. He wants me to sell his Rotary club raffle tickets in the plant. He wants me to go around asking men who earn less money than me (and way less money than him) to donate to a society largely consisting of other BFOBs who need to be in a club to find friends to eat lunch with on a Friday afternoon whilst the rest of us work on. A club that makes them feel better about themselves because they otherwise struggle with the concept of compassion and giving, unless it’s organised and handed down to them on a plate and they can bully people with their power into giving money.
Why did I just say yes? Because I felt bullied into it. I go to get my coffee. I slam down my cup onto the table. It isn’t in my upbringing to go around begging from people (especially those less fortunate). I’ve done, like, one sponsored run, ever. I go to the washroom and throw my radio and coat on to the countertop. I don’t even believe in the rotary club. I slam my hard hat down on the toilet roll box and sit down. “Fuck” I shout, fast, deep, vicious, so no-one will know it was me. I am not a tin-rattler. Did I mention I am having anger management issues right now?
I go to see little boss who I like. Wassup? BFOB wants me to sell his Rotary raffle tickets and I don’t want to, I don’t believe in it. I am ranting.
I don’t blame you.
He stops me. OK. It’s not just me being unsociable. I don’t want to come over all un-Canadian at Christmas time. All I have to do now is figure out how to tell BFOB.
I ask my friend Duanne. How do you tell BFOB No?
Duanne draws himself up and says, “Like this”… he gets uncomfortably close, puts the lip of his hard hat to mine and shouts, “NO!”. He suggests I go tell him to tread sand. I tell my office-mate I might be back in a while, to pack up my things at my desk.
I go into BFOB’s office, a thing I try to avoid doing more than once a week. “I’m afraid it’s not in my nature to solicit money from people,” I say, “I’m going to have to say No”. He’s shocked, I’ve sent him sideways, he’s talking in a high pitch but he can’t argue the case because I’ve stated my point. He’s part way through telling me to take them to little boss when little boss appears and says, “No way, it’s not in my job description”.
Er Errrrr. XXX. Pass me the red rag, the bull is in the room.
BFOB starts to reach for the Job descriptions file where the last line of every page basically says, “Do anything you’re goddamn asked to do”.
I’m going out the door, I’m saying “I’m hanging up now…” It’s his favourite line at the end of an uncomfortable phone conversation, the type where you’re trying to make the point you’ve done everything you were goddamn asked to do.
I walk down the road laughing. I can say no to the fat man but I feel bad that little boss has a handful of raffle tickets. He obviously doesn’t feel quite so strongly as I do.
The prize was crap. I didn’t buy one.
*Big, fat, obnoxious boss.
Having read everyone's Miss World blogs for today, I'd just like to point out I'm not a party pooper, I like looking at beautiful women as much as the next person, there's just parts of them they should keep to themselves when I'm around. What I'm trying to say is, "my asshole's probably just as pretty as yours dear, put it away".
Yesterday I went to heat up my lunch in the microwave and to my dismay, I found the collection had been added to. Some girls who had no right to be here. For a start they weren’t carrying any forest industry equipment and they definitely weren’t here to work. Nor were they here to encourage my employees to work. Later, there was a crescendo of voracious laughter and what can only be described as leering, though that’s not a strong enough word. I can’t think of one.
I am not a shrinking violet. I am not normally one to be intimidated, no matter how burly a cretin I am squaring off to. Problem is: the man I expected to be responsible for the increased sluttony was off sick. I had no-one left to gripe at and suspect that the men left in my department were probably as embarrassed by the combination of pornography and intelligent stroppy but sensitive female boss as I was, but were succumbing royally to pack-behaviour peer pressure alpha male type under-evolution. I really can’t imagine that the grandad in our midst approved of the pictures being around whilst someone his daughter’s age was in the room.
It took me 24 hours of deliberation to decide what to do. I ran through many scenarios and even ran some of them by the respected company accountant. Should I rant and rave? Should I accuse them of being disrespectful and inconsiderate? “Should I pin pictures of erect penises all over my office walls?” she suggested. No, it would only encourage them. Should I take a black marker pen and draw panties on them? The accountant suggested I black in their teeth and draw glasses on them. “You think they’re smiling?” I ask. “You think I can see their faces?” I ask, thinking of the picture that reminds me of my least favourite view of the cat.
At 4pm last night, I decide that if I am going to have this discussion with any of the men, I’m going to have it once, with the man responsible. So I steal his porn when they’ve all gone home and stick it in a file in my drawer. A woman who looks like she’s fresh from the 80s with afro frizz and golden eyeshaddow and a name that looks like Sharron keeps staring at me with her big brown nipples. I put an upside down file over her head. Poor Sharron, she should’ve finished high-school.
This morning no-one has had the balls to come and ask me for their pornography back. They must know it was me that took it, as we have no cleaning ladies to be offended. Just Stan, and though he has long hair, he’s not a lady. SO why leave something lying around for me to see, that you’re too embarrassed to fight for?
I think he was looking for a reaction, a good fight. There’s little friction down in this department anymore. I believe in quiet oversight, not confrontational management and it’s left them feeling duty-bound to do a good job and get along. In that relationship there’s no space for smoking dope at lunchtime, being late, rebelling and having a good fight. They’re frustrated, bored and getting far too much achieved. They wanted to tip the scales and piss me off. I’m glad I didn’t rise to it.
I am just enjoying my new-found superiority when the phone rings. It’s the BFOB*. He wants me to sell his Rotary club raffle tickets in the plant. He wants me to go around asking men who earn less money than me (and way less money than him) to donate to a society largely consisting of other BFOBs who need to be in a club to find friends to eat lunch with on a Friday afternoon whilst the rest of us work on. A club that makes them feel better about themselves because they otherwise struggle with the concept of compassion and giving, unless it’s organised and handed down to them on a plate and they can bully people with their power into giving money.
Why did I just say yes? Because I felt bullied into it. I go to get my coffee. I slam down my cup onto the table. It isn’t in my upbringing to go around begging from people (especially those less fortunate). I’ve done, like, one sponsored run, ever. I go to the washroom and throw my radio and coat on to the countertop. I don’t even believe in the rotary club. I slam my hard hat down on the toilet roll box and sit down. “Fuck” I shout, fast, deep, vicious, so no-one will know it was me. I am not a tin-rattler. Did I mention I am having anger management issues right now?
I go to see little boss who I like. Wassup? BFOB wants me to sell his Rotary raffle tickets and I don’t want to, I don’t believe in it. I am ranting.
I don’t blame you.
He stops me. OK. It’s not just me being unsociable. I don’t want to come over all un-Canadian at Christmas time. All I have to do now is figure out how to tell BFOB.
I ask my friend Duanne. How do you tell BFOB No?
Duanne draws himself up and says, “Like this”… he gets uncomfortably close, puts the lip of his hard hat to mine and shouts, “NO!”. He suggests I go tell him to tread sand. I tell my office-mate I might be back in a while, to pack up my things at my desk.
I go into BFOB’s office, a thing I try to avoid doing more than once a week. “I’m afraid it’s not in my nature to solicit money from people,” I say, “I’m going to have to say No”. He’s shocked, I’ve sent him sideways, he’s talking in a high pitch but he can’t argue the case because I’ve stated my point. He’s part way through telling me to take them to little boss when little boss appears and says, “No way, it’s not in my job description”.
Er Errrrr. XXX. Pass me the red rag, the bull is in the room.
BFOB starts to reach for the Job descriptions file where the last line of every page basically says, “Do anything you’re goddamn asked to do”.
I’m going out the door, I’m saying “I’m hanging up now…” It’s his favourite line at the end of an uncomfortable phone conversation, the type where you’re trying to make the point you’ve done everything you were goddamn asked to do.
I walk down the road laughing. I can say no to the fat man but I feel bad that little boss has a handful of raffle tickets. He obviously doesn’t feel quite so strongly as I do.
The prize was crap. I didn’t buy one.
*Big, fat, obnoxious boss.
Having read everyone's Miss World blogs for today, I'd just like to point out I'm not a party pooper, I like looking at beautiful women as much as the next person, there's just parts of them they should keep to themselves when I'm around. What I'm trying to say is, "my asshole's probably just as pretty as yours dear, put it away".
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