Posts Tagged ‘Rabid Monkey Rants’

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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I have a problem with the concept of ‘Opposite Day’ – as championed by primary school-aged children the world over –  and I’m not afraid who knows it.

I mean, for one thing, how do we ever really know if it’s Opposite Day or not? Let us consider, for a moment, the following two scenarios:

SCENARIO ONE: It is Opposite Day.

PERSON A: Is it Opposite Day today?

SCENARIO TWO: It isn’t Opposite Day

PERSON A: Is it Opposite Day today?

I guess another question could be used as a litmus test, such as pointing at a cat and asking “Is this a cat?”. If the other person said “No, it isn’t a cat”, one might then assume that it is Opposite Day. However, there’s always the chance that this person doesn’t know what a cat is, the standard of education being what it is. Also, if you’re pointing at a cat like Genghis Cat, for example, they might just be implying “That’s no cat, lady. That there’s a monster…”. And they’d be right.

But wait! There’s more to my Opposite Day rant! Of course there is.

If someone proclaims it as Opposite Day, does that make it Opposite Day for everybody in the whole world or just the people in the same time zone? Does it apply to actions and emotions as well as words?  And does anyone ever see Opposite Day right through to its completion, saying and doing nothing but the very opposite from the moment the day is declared right up til the moment they stand under their bed fully dressed shouting “Bad Morning” at night?

People just don’t think these things through. It really shouldn’t be called Opposite Day at all. It should just be called “Localised Verbal Opposite Moment”. That would be way more accurate, if slightly less catchy.

Let’s face facts here: Opposite Day is mostly invoked because someone has said something they regret – whether it be factually incorrect, disingenuous or hurtful – or because they’re forced to say something they don’t want to say. Or, moreover, they want to make fun of something someone else has just said by turning it on its head with a flick of an Opposite Day switch. It is the tool of liars and scoundrels, people. Liars and scoundrels!

And for those of you who might think it might be a nifty way of getting out of a sticky legal situation (“Sorry I’m over the limit, officer, but I kept drinking because someone told me it was Opposite Day and that only people under the limit would be arrested…” or “We were never legally married because our wedding day was negated by a seven year old guest declaring Opposite Day on his sister!”), think again. For all the reasons stated above, the concept of Opposite Day is never going to hold water in a court of law. Never! Not as long as I live and breathe and can write angry letters to the local newspaper, that is. That’s how I show the colour of my rage.

Of course, when I just showed this post to my husband, asking him “Should I publish this or is it all too stupid?, his reply was: “Yes… you should definitely publish it.”

Stupid Opposite Day.

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Apparently the Australian government has categorised my family, with its grand total of three children, as “large”. The reason I know this is because it awards us a special “Large Family Supplement” every fortnight, amounting to the princely sum of $9.65. Yes, that’s almost Ten. Whole. Dollars. And if that’s not the Australian government saying “Go have yourself some fun!”, I don’t know what is. 

I personally don’t consider our family to be large. Sure, it’s larger than those families which have just one or two kids. It certainly appears larger than other families that might have more kids but where those kids that are just better behaved. And shit, some days, my family most definitely feels far too large for me to handle. The empty wine bottles are a testament to that.

Still, with my recent acquisition of two children three days a week on an occasional basis (see “And Then There Were Five“), I have been given a small taste of what an actual large family must be like. And, of course, I’ve been filled with renewed admiration for those friends of mine who have large families full-time and aren’t just a part-time tragic try-hard like myself. Specifically: one of my bestest-friends from school – Ay-Kay – and her husband, who have four kids. And my very first boyfriend (and, coincidentally, my very first Twitter follower – more the fool him) and his wife, who have five kids, four of them boys. I’ve heard tell that they have a walk-in fridge…

And then I think of the Brangelinas, the most famous and most glamourous large family of all, and my admiration turns to seething rage. You see, rumour has it that they have at least six nannies – one per child – that travel the globe over with them, seeing to the children’s every need (and some of Brad’s too, if you believe what the tabloids say). And yet, all the interviews I’ve ever read  (mostly in Who Weekly, admittedly while attempting to hide in the toilet from the kids) ask them how they cope with such a big family and if they have any secrets to getting the kids to bed on time, (etc etc), as if they do it all themselves and still make the red carpet in time looking sexy, fabulous and not in the slightest bit unhinged. Quite frankly, it makes me want to do a Type 5 Vomit over the page. 

When I mentioned all this to my mother, she defended them by saying: “They both work! Of course they need some kind of childcare arrangement!” Point taken. And actually, I don’t care that they employ nannies per se – it’s the lack of transparency in all this that gets me all rabid-monkey-ranting. 

You never ever see paparazzi pics of the nanny brigade helping them wrangle the kids off those long-haul flights. Instead, we see Brad and Angelina, carrying three kids apiece, all breezy and cool, without a single hair out of place. And of course the nannies must travel with them because if they didn’t, I can tell you now that Brad would be doing that crazy-eyes/crazy-hands acting he does in Twelve Monkeys but For Real. And Angelina would be looking like she was about to be handed the Biggest Late Pass In The World, still wearing her airplane slippers, her hair distinctly unbrushed and screaming “Where the fuck are your shoes, Maddox??”. And before you tell me she’s an actress, and actresses of her ilk are able to pull it together for the cameras, let me tell you this: no amount of acting can hide the stain on the crotch of your white linen trousers made by a child trying to open one of those airline orange juice containers. I rest my case. 

So come on, Brangelina, give us all a break. Say it’s hard, say it’s joyful, say you never get as much sleep as you like, say you’d like to thank the Academy (etc etc), but at least acknowledge the help you get. Especially since I suspect the US government is giving you at least $9.65 to help you with those efforts. Sheesh.

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It’s been said that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Especially when it is sprung upon you by small children holding a “Dora The Explorer’s Christmas” DVD in their little hands saying “Pleeeeeassse can we borrow this? Please please please please pleeeeeeaassssse????“. 

Amidst the ensuing surge of outrage that such a DVD could a) exist; b) be on the shelves of my local library; and c) be in the hands of my precious children, I kind of lost control of the situation and found myself saying “Okay”. And once that’s out there, there’s no taking it back…

As I handed our selections over to the librarian, I remarked: “I’m not a friend of Dora’s. Nor am I a fan of watching Christmas-themed episodes in July. But a combination of the two? Well, that could take a grown woman into a very dark place indeed…”

It was at this point that the librarian laughed nervously and took a little step back. So I did the decent thing and finished my little rant in my head. It went something like this:

Stupid Christmas Dora. Who comes up with this shit? It’s enough to push an NDM over the edge. 

But sheesh, if I’m already close that edge, Dora’s even closer. She delivers every line at fever pitch, like she’s about to have a breakdown at any moment. Who can blame her when she’s never able to look at The Map herself, she has to rely on a bunch of three year olds to look at it for her every single time. 

And that Swiper The Fox, boy has he got a problem. Not only is he a kleptomaniac, but he’s a piss-poor kleptomaniac who is sprung-bad by a bunch of three year olds Every Single Time. 

And the Back Pack? He must be pissed off that Dora won’t ever speak to him personally. Instead she gets her three year old minions to do all the negotiations, and yet he still delivers exactly what she needs to complete her mission Every. Single. Time.

And those songs? They slip into my head like tanbark in my goddamn shoes at the park and stick there for days like a cooked rice underfoot. EVERY… SINGLE…TIME…

As you can imagine, this inner rant continued on and on until suddenly I realised that the librarian had laughed nervously because he knows that valuable tax payers’ money has been used to purchase the Dora’s Christmas DVD for his library’s collection. He knows What Evil he unleashes on the community whenever that DVD is loaned out. He knows and yet… he does nothing. 

My prediction is that one day, in the not too distant future, he’ll be set upon by a whole gaggle of NDMs who have said “Back Pack!” one too many times and they’ll stand in front of him and shout “Say ‘Map’! SAY ‘MAP’!!!” again, and again, and again. Until finally, his spirit will break clean in two and he’ll put that Dora Christmas DVD in the bin where it belongs.

Now say ‘Bin’.




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To be quite honest with you, there have been times where if someone came up to me at the local McDonalds and asked if I’d rather eat my own hand than sit there another five minutes while my children went up and down the McSlide, I’d be slathering my hand in whipped butter and McSyrup in readiness. And yes, I really do believe there are people who wander the globe presenting unsuspecting others with this particular proposition all the time, actually. 

The other day, however, I had the pleasure of KT’s company as we oversaw the playground antics of the six children that happened to be in our care that happy happy day. And so involved were they in those antics, KT and I actually had an opportunity to have a Real Conversation, perhaps even talk about “thrush”, “penis size” and “grey areas in the definition in Tier-1 capital ratios in Australia’s banking system” like men think we do when they’re not around. Except we went and threw it all away on a vent about McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. 

In truth, there’s not much that’s happy about a Happy Meal. Just ask the woman sitting behind us who exclaimed loudly “Aw, the stupid bitch didn’t give us any fries with the fucking happy meal.” Not happy, people. NOT. HAPPY.

But at least the kids are happy, I always say. Happy at least until the over-processed sugar, fat and salt content kicks in and they turn completely utterly McFeral. Which is why there legally has to be an enclosed playground on site to let them sweat it out of their system. Consider it a kind of kiddy rehab. 

Even as I write this thing, I can hear the loud tutting of certain readers above my keyboard strokes. “We’re so disappointed in you, NDM! We thought you were a better parent than that. Fancy feeding your children junk food.”

But listen up, people: this blog post isn’t about my failings as a parent (for once). It’s about the failings of the Happy Meal Toy. So stop your tutting and let me get on with my rabid-monkey rant.  

I mean, there in front of KT and I was an Ice Age 3 toy with components that were so ill-fitting that even I, with my Advanced Diploma at Toy Assemblage, was struggling to see how it was supposed to click together without requiring round-the-clock parental assistance to hold it in place. 

“Look at this!” I said, angrily. “This is stupid. It’s almost as bad as the Monsters vs. Aliens toy which had three separate bits which, as you tried to click them into place, would send the other bits  flying like a ballistic missile across the restaurant into somebody’s Cadbury Dairy Milk Deluxe McFlurry.”

And we began to list other Happy Meal toys that have ruined our lives:

Like the ones that don’t have an ON-OFF button and mysteriously go off all poltergeist-like in the night.

And the ones that do have an ON-OFF button but one that’s designed to be operated by someone with Barbie-sized fingers and not an NDM having a Godzilla-sized temper tantrum.  

And the ones that say stuff that you can’t even understand. There was an A Night At The Museum toy that appeared to say “You give me cum, cum. You will run, run!” and actually caused me to lose sleep.

And the ones that actually don’t do ANYTHING, but are just Stupid Stuffed Toys. As if we don’t have enough of those already, mister. 

And the worst thing about all: they all come as part of a set along with the invitation to “Collect them all!” which the kids seem to regard as a Direct Order from Ronald McDonald Himself.

Ah, Happy Meal Toys. Yes, they initially buy me fifteen minutes happiness, but after that…

One thing is for certain: if you were to place every single McDonalds’ Happy Meal Toy one on top of another, you’d have a ready-made pathway to another planet not already being ruined by such a frivolous use of non-recyclable plastics.

And the charity shops would have no toys to sell.

And my house would be remarkably clutter-free.

And I’d have to go back to bitching about Thomas toys.

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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:


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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