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Archive for the ‘Rabid Monkey Rants’ Category

I’ve had enough, people.

The things I’ve had enough of are numerous and complicated but, for some reason, instead of dealing with the real problems in my life, I’ve decided to focus on mouse mats and jeggings (leggings that look like jeans). Let’s just say my mind works in mysterious ways.

But listen… In these heady days of track-pads, tell me: who actually uses mouse mats? And shouldn’t the plural of mouse mat actually be mice mats? Those personalised ones with pictures of pets are the worst. If someone gives you one, how long do you have to keep it until you can throw it away? Do you have to wait until the pet dies so that the personalised mouse mat can be buried with the pet??

Ooh, they make me angry, those mouse-mice-mats.

As for jeggings, I actually spent about an hour in the middle of the night thinking about them and how much I’d had enough of them. Wear skinny jeans, by all means, or leggings. But leggings made to look like skinny jeans? Puh-lease. It’s like wearing an apron with plastic breasts attached, but less classy.

I thought of other legging variations that I could hate with an equal passion and came up with this list:

eggings: yolk-coloured leggings

dreggings: leggings that are stretched to buggery and quite frankly have seen better days but are the last clean thing in the drawer to wear.

preggings: leggings worn by themselves that make you look pregnant when you’re not.

pleggings: pleated leggings. No, don’t ask me how that works.

renegings: leggings you put on and then take off again immediately, quite possibly because they are preggings or dreggings.

ginger-meggings: based on the popular 1920s Australian comic strip ‘Ginger Meggs‘, these leggings are hand-knitted using the hair from small red-headed knockabout larrakins.

Anyway, to cut a long rant short, when I talked to my husband about these things, he told me he was TOTALLY going to buy me some jeggings and a mouse mat for my birthday this year. In fact, he was going to have the mouse mat personalised so that it was a photo of an actual mouse, using a computer mouse on a mouse mat, while wearing ginger-meggings made from my husband’s own red hair. And here’s the really neat thing: the mouse’s mouse mat will be personalised with a photo of that same mouse wearing ginger-meggings using a mouse on a personalised mouse mat. And so on.

Which sounds kind of cool, if you think about it.

Maybe I haven’t had enough of jeggings and mouse mats after all.

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This blog post started off  with the title ‘An Open Letter To My Cold Sore’ but honestly, that fucker doesn’t deserve its own open letter.

It’s been the Worst House Guest Ever. It arrived unannounced, trashed my face (and my reputation as a Great Beauty – yeah, yeah, don’t laugh) and it then proceeded to overstay its welcome by, like, FOREVER.

For a while there, my only hope was that it would eventually grow so large it would become the size of a small African nation and proclaim its independence from me.

As it was, it quite possibly became the first human lesion visible from outer space. Most certainly, it arrived in a room a good thirty seconds before the rest of my body did. Small children would burst into tears when I – or rather ‘it’ – approached them. Some adults thought I was an extra from the film ‘Alien’ being attacked by a face-hugger. And I thoroughly expected Wes Craven to contact me in the hope my cold sore could be the New Face of Freddy Kruger.

I found myself having to warn friends in advance of meeting them.

“I have a cold sore,” I told them. “Do not talk about the cold sore, do not look at the cold sore and, most certainly, do not address the cold sore directly.”

I was worried that if they gave the cold sore too much attention, it would develop a human-like personality and end up with its own reality TV show by the end of the week. Like the Kardashians.

And every time it looked like it was on the mend, it would make a sudden comeback. Like Aussie Rocker Legend™ Johnny Farnham (although nowhere near as embarrassing).

And when it finally DID  start to go away, it felt like the boyfriend that nobody ever liked but never told you they didn’t like him until after you’d broken up. Everyone who’d said things like ‘Oh, you can hardly see it!’ or “What cold sore?” at the height of my cold sore’s power, finally admitted, once it had slowly diminished into the west like some Elvin Queen on a boat, “Yeah, that was a big one” or “Man, that shit was like Cold Sore-zilla!”.

Listen, there is one good thing you can say about my cold sore and that is this:   it made me come in from the cold and write this blog post. Even if it was kinda hard to see past the cold sore while I wrote it.

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Pass me the Zovirax, please.

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Forgive me if I seem a little edgy today. I’m still getting over the Thomas Take-Along “Thomas and Percy’s Carnival Adventure” set that I recently got at my friend MGK’s garage sale. 

“What’s to get over?” those people uninitiated in All Things Thomas might ask. 

“What’s not to get over,” would be my immediate response. After all, anyone who read my previous Thomas The Tank Engine rant “Tanks for Nothing” may recall that I have a few “issues” with the underlying messages of the Rev. Awdry’s classic children’s books. 

And yet, this time my beef was with something much more specific. Some might suspect it was with the half an hour I spent trying to put the Carnival Adventure together before discovering the instructions. Or with the fact that every second piece I laid out was instantly removed and hidden by small hands. Or even that I’d had Dora The Explorer’s “We did it! We did it! We did it! Yeah!” song on permanent loop in my head for the entire time (I’ll save my Dora rant for another day). 

But no, it was my discovery that there were New Generation Tracks in the Thomas Take-Along series which were completely incompatible with the old-style Take-Along tracks, of which we already have ample sufficiency, thank you kind sir. And it would appear that the only thing that might join the New with the Old was this small, unassuming and imminently losable connector piece:

gauge_thomas

And the more I looked at that piece, the more that I realised I should just Throw It Away Now and pretend that the Carnival Adventure was part of a “different” Thomas set altogether rather than waste the rest of my freakin’ life looking everywhere for it while small people looked on with Great Expectations. 

“Now, what’s all this about ‘different’ Thomas sets, NDM?” those same people from before are probably asking now, making me realise how truly blessed these people’s lives must be to not already know the depressing answer to this question. 

Why, they’re probably thinking it would be enough for the Estate of Rev. J. Awdry to whore the rights to the Thomas franchise to one toy manufacturing company. After all, there are well over 50 different engines to collect, not to mention Special Edition engines, such as “Thomas covered in paint” and “9 1/2 Weeks Percy dipped in chocolate” (there really is a chocolate covered Percy – I don’t make this shit up, you know).

But no, there are at least five different varieties of Thomas engines and tracks on the market: “Thomas Motor’n’Rail”, “Thomas Take-Along”, “Thomas Wooden Railway”, “Thomas Lego” and the “Thomas Electric Trainset” … and ne’er the twain shall meet.

So if you thought you could bung a Take-Along Annabel to a Wooden Railway Gordon, you would be wrong. Or that a Lego James might be able to go for a wee spin on the Motor’n’Rail tracks – but no. And you might even toy with the idea of putting an Electric Train Edward in a Take-Along roundhouse but THINK AGAIN, BUB.

But try explain that to an angry two year old boy who is at the throwing-die-cast-tender-engines-at-his-mother’s-head stage of frustration. “Sorry, darling. Skarloey won’t fit in the Sodor Saw Mill because there are GREEDY EVIL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO HATE ME AND WISH TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL.”

It’s a wonder that I haven’t banned Thomas outright from this household, like I did “Barney & Friends” where just the words “Super Dee Dooper!” can send me into a muderous rage. Super Dee Dooper? Why, I’ll Super Dee Dooper your purple padded arse…

And yes, I think I’ll take myself off for a little lie-down right now…

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