A Big Toothy Grin from Ear to Ear...

The Missus is a Blues supporter. Ever since the team for the second game was announced she's been a little morose, but today that feeling was replaced by puzzlement and rage. All of this was brought about by Timana Tahu's shock exit from the Blues training camp. All of this madness can be traced back to Andrew 'Joey' Johns.

Apparently Joey launched into some weird racial tirade that caused Tahu to give the Blues the proverbial middle finger and flee. The Missus is not impressed. "I just can't believe it," she moaned. "The Blues are their own worst enemy."

Which is true enough. The Blues have made some baffling moves for the second game - a deciding game no less. First of all they named a twenty-one (21) man squad - a first - and then whittled that down to the conventional seventeen (17). They're captain, the confused man-child, Kurt Gidley, is starting off the bench. The Blues have also decided to drop one of their most effective players from Game One, Jamal Idris. Instead they have recruited Trent Barret and Paul Gallen, obviously a couple of blunt instruments intended to inflict some sort of under-handed damage to the Maroons.

Bizarre choices for a desperate team that seems to be imploding. And so, The Missus is stunned by the absolute recklessness of the dim-wits pulling the strings of the Blues. But as a Maroons lad through and through, all I can do is sport a big toothy grin from ear to ear...

They Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time...

Cars. I'm sure they seemed like a good idea at the time. But did Karl Benz or Henry Ford ever have to sell one of the bastards and then buy another? I'm sure if they did have to endure the absolute pain and humiliation of buying and selling a second hand car they might thought twice about unleashing the automobile plague upon the world.

We've spent the last two weeks wheeling and dealing. Selling the ute privately was a nightmare that not even Freddy Krueger would inflict upon some promiscuous teen. We had to run from one end of the city to the other for meetings, inspections, mechanics and all manner of legal paperwork. In the end we settled on a price out of exhaustion and frustration.

It was a hideous experience but there were still perrils to be dealt with: Used Car Dealers. After trudging through half a dozen car lots I learnt one phrase: money talks, bullshit walks. I still can't tell whether I was the money or bullshit.

The Used Car Salesmen Caricatures that we encountered lived up to their stereotype. They were crooked as a pit of snakes and about as easy to nail down. After finally romping through the savages and sorting the duds from from those kept together by gaffer tape and bubble gum, we settled on a car.

It was green, but I was determined not to hold that fact against it. The thing didn't rattle, smoke, squeak or crumble. There was no rust, dents or corrosion. It seemed to work. Just to rattle the dealer I popped the hood and 'Ummed' and 'Ahhed'. We had this bloke where we wanted him: in retreat on the price.

It worked. We put the screws in him and were sitting pretty. We had managed to come out of the entire experience generally depleted but unscathed. Now we have a car to put the Little Miss in when she's born, which is another story altogether...

A Peculiar Contradiction...

The days are slow, hobbling along like a three-legged dog with lupus. Everything is happening, but nothing is happening at the same time; a peculiar contradiction. These are strange times, that's for sure. It's four (4) days out from the due date for Little Miss and I feel no fear or trepidation, only an all consuming anxiety deep in my marrow.

Charlie's room is decked out: lock, stock, the fucking lot. There is a sickening amount of pink and most of the furniture came with obscure instructions, or none at all.

Hopefully the next time I have something to gibber on about I'll be a Daddy. I've never been a patient man and I don't think I ever will be.

The Butt Plug of Australian Journalism...

It was a sad and enfuriating day for me today. At university I studied journalism with great fervour, picturing myself as an Aussie, yobbo Hunter S. Thompson. In my studies I developed a keen respect for the ethics of journalism: what made a good story. How to follow up a lead. The legal in's and out's.

Ever since those heady days of amatuer journalism I've noticed the shocking truth of news reporting in this country. Putrid shows like A Current Affair and Today/Tonight aim for the cretinous and gullible, while the 'reporters' have the audacity to claim that their work is 'Hard Hitting Investigative Journalism'. The fact of the matter is that these hacks are the used-car sales men (and women) of the news world. They are buffoons, getting stories via email from ignorant victims.

These shows have no sense of originality either. It seems as though every month we are confronted by what we're really being served in meat pies. How our shonky butcher is selling us mutton dressed as lamb.

Usually I can let these shows float in their own flotsom, because only the stupid or bored would watch them. But lately the same sorts of shoddy reporting preactices have beeen worming their way into the general media. This is typified by Channel 7 airing pictures of MP David Campbell emerging from a gay sauna club. The fact that Channel 7 stalked him to get the pictures and then actually put them to air, despite ANY political relevance whatsoever is quite simply pathetic. Whoever gave the green light for this story should be tied to the back of a Channel 7 news truck by their annkles and driven around Sydney at 45 km/h.

I feel for David Campbell. There was no validity to that story at all, it would seem Channel 7 set out on a campaign to ruin him. We should now stalk and film the executives of Channel 7 and find the skeletons in their closets. I'm sure there would be revelations of raging drunkards, snorting massive lines of cocaine off the bare arses of ten year old Asian boys.

So until I see the big-wigs of Channel 7 with their pants around their ankles, baring a butt plug, I shake my head at the state of Australian journalism. The news is dead.

NSW must Have the Blues...

I woke to find it splashed all over the news. NSW had finally settled on a team. A team they presumeably thought could halt the raging Maroon juggernaut. I, however, am less optimistic. Which is a good thing really, because I am a Queenslander born and bred.

The Missus, on the other hand, is a NSW supporter and she was absolutely ropeable when she read the NSW line-up. "It's a disgrace," she cried. "I thought we were trying to STOP Queensland from winning five in a row, not hand it to them on a silver fucking platter!"

She was right. We both knew it. How could NSW hope to win when they're being skippered by a no-hoper like Gidley and ordered around the field by a geriatric like Kimmorley? It just made no sense at all. There were some bright points for NSW though. Jamal Idris, Michael Ennis and Brett Morris will surely prove troublesome for the QLD deffenders.

With such a bizarre team set to take to the grass, one can't help but wonder if NSW has an ace or two up its preverbial sleeve. The only fathomable way NSW can walk away with a win is if they boast two extra players out on the field. Two extra players wearing pink. Those swine. The refs.

Time will only tell who will stagger out of this series with a win. But on paper, QLD looks to have it in the bag already. Thank Christ I am not a NSW supporter, because if I were, I too would surely have the blues...

Pineapples...

Well, it's official: The Missus is fed up with this whole pregnancy caper. That's right, she has had enough, she's sick of it. Mood swings, frequent urination, a lack of energy and low libido are just some of the things about pregnancy I find objectionable, so I can only imagine what The Missus hates about it.

After coming home from work yesterday, I found The Missus curled up in the foetal position on the couch. She mumbled that she would have sex with me, if only she wasn't so tired. I told her I appreciated the thought. "It's got nothing to do with you," she said. "They say there's some chemical in the semen that can induce labour." I felt loved, I must say. But to the best of my knowledge, it was my semen that got us into this mess, I would have never guessed the same semen could get us out of the same mess early too.

Apparently, while I was at work, The Missus was at home researching The Internet for natural ways to induce pregnancy. The solutions ranged from the absurd (sex) to the bizarre (eating seven pineapples) to the erotic (massaging the nipples) and the unthinkable (eating spicy food, which The Missus despises). In the end she settled on one scientifically unproven theory: taking bumpy car rides.

I sat, smoking for the next hour and a half as The Missus sped up and down our unpaved driveway. After ninety (90) minutes, she staggered out cursing up a foul storm. I was stunned that the scientifically unproven theory had failed. I was stunned and The Missus was dirty.

Now we have to rely on Nature, of all things, to get this thing done.

Past use by Date Prescription Pills...

For years now I've openly mocked people and their terror tales of wisdom teeth. There were stories of teeth being chiseled out of jaws, drunk surgeons removing the wrong teeth, two sets of wisdom teeth growing through, causing the jaw to dislocate. Real scary shit. But I always laughed and made snide comments, because it wasn't happening to me. But now the winds of Karma have changed direction and blown back in my face. It all began three days ago when I rolled out of bed, cringing in agony. Pain was radiating from my jaw, blurring my sight.

I staggered into the bathroom, clutching my jaw. I was clueless. I had no formal training in dentistry. First I needed a visual of where the pain was coming from. Had I chipped a tooth or had a spider crawled into my mouth while I was asleep and bitten my gum? I just didn't know.

It was tricky to get a visual on the source of my pain, due to the fact it was in the dark recesses of my mouth. Armed with a steak knife and a torch I finally caught a glimpse of a sorry excuse of a tooth, flanked by flaps of skin, that had never been there before.

Now I have joined that exclusive clique of people whinging about their wisdom teeth. But ever since opening up about this painful little problem, people have been throwing all sorts of multi-coloured, past use by date pain meds my way, leaving me in a perpetual prescription drug haze.

It will be a couple of weeks before I'll be able to hunt down a qualified dentist to knock me out and go to town on my mouth with a set of Black&Decker power tools, so until then I'll amble around, clouded by strangers' left over drugs.