Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Leavin' on a jet plane

So I came home from work this evening to a message saying that our 8am flight was cancelled. Rob called up and spoke to an airline customer service rep who tried to put us on another flight tomorrow (since we have non-freakin'-refundable hotel reservations). Turns out the only available flight to Las Vegas tomorrow is at 5.30 in the morning. Five-fucking-thirty. And considering we have to be there an hour and a half beforehand, I don't think I'll even bother to go to sleep. But it's all in the name of seeing NIN, so I'll stop complaining.

Anyway. I'll be gone until Monday; try not to miss me too much. I'll bring you back a crappy t-shirt that says, "Pie went to Vegas and all I got was this crappy t-shirt".

.:4 comments | baked by pie at 6.31 PM | permalink:.



Monday, March 27, 2006

Thwap! Bzzzzzzt! Kapow!

I love forklift training days. They make my forays outside to smoke that much more entertaining. See, the building in which I work is a converted house, but we're surrounded mainly by car dealerships, strip malls and industrial buildings. Directly behind us is what appears to be some sort of factory/warehouse, and occasionally they hire a new guy that needs to be trained in forklift use and safety, which they always do out in the parking lot.

Personally, I enjoy a bit of forklift idiocy and incompetence (not that I could do better, you understand). Watching the new guy back up into a semi, drive erratically over and around the lawn of the business next door (and very nearly run down an innocently bystanding German Shepherd, I might add), ram full-speed into a dumpster and almost tip the entire forklift over backwards - that's good stuff. Makes me wish I had a video camera. And watching from my office window is even better; I can almost hear the Benny Hill theme song. All they need is cartoon sound effects.

Actually, I bet if real life had cartoon sound effects we'd have a lot less wars.

.:4 comments | baked by pie at 3.55 PM | permalink:.



Saturday, March 25, 2006

They confiscated my tomatoes at the door

Anyone else watch movie trailers peppered with positive comments from reviewers and wonder how the comments have been taken out of context to appear positive? I saw an ad for a film tonight which shall remain unnamed, and the 'rave review' shoved down my throat consisted of the phrases "explosive", "dynamite" and "pin you to your seat". So of course I end up taking these snippets and writing a mini-review in my head. Something along the lines of: "less exciting than if the movie-goer seated next to you has explosive gas", "you'll be thinking about blowing yourself up with dynamite in order to escape", and "the only way you'd watch this film to the end is if the director came out to physically pin you to your seat".

It can't just be me that does this. Can it?

.:4 comments | baked by pie at 12.12 AM | permalink:.



Thursday, March 23, 2006

Today's Seminar is hosted by Guru Pie

This is Part V in my wonderfully useful "how to" series - or in this case "how not to".

How Not To Be a Shmuck

1) Don't be a shmuck.

Hopefully that wasn't too technical for all the shmucks in the audience. Thanks for coming and don't forget to pick up the audio tape of this seminar on your way out.

.:4 comments | baked by pie at 9.30 AM | permalink:.



Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I'd like to teach the world to sing

If I overlook the chronic pain thing, I realised that I've got a great few months coming up. Next week, we fly to Vegas to see NIN. Early May, we're going to London to visit family and celebrate our 11th anniversary (eep!). At the end of May, we're seeing NIN again (in WA this time), and the Buzzcocks will be touring the US throughout June & July, so I'll be getting tickets to their closest shows. Whew. That's just way too much good stuff in such a short span of time.

And because I believe that everyone needs a little Buzzcocks in their lives (and they don't get nearly the recognition they deserve, if you ask me), I'm going to trust you all enough to save these MP3s to your own computer rather than streaming them from my server, so I don't get hosed on bandwidth. You'll all behave, right? Okay then. Here is a small selection of some of my favourite Buzzcocks songs:
fast cars [album - another music in a different kitchen - 1978]
orgasm addict [album - same as above]
And from the album that just came out: I don't exist [album - flat-pack philosophy - 2006]

Buy it. It's really good.

Edit: It really shouldn't need to be said, but I like to err on the side of caution. The song 'Orgasm Addict' is not safe for work. Unless your work approves of lyrics like "it's a labour of love fucking yourself to death".

.:5 comments | baked by pie at 5.07 PM | permalink:.



Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Hurts so good

These past few weeks have been busy and stressful for me, and working full-time (against doctor's orders, I might add) is starting to take its toll on me in the form of constant, unrelenting, unremitting (and apparently redundant) pain - and me having run out of painkillers until next Tuesday. Hence why I've been posting less lately - I'm just not feeling very amusing. And I hate to use my blog as a place to complain about my health, so until I'm feeling more myself, here's some random fluffiness for you:



.:4 comments | baked by pie at 7.33 AM | permalink:.



Monday, March 20, 2006

Please just kill me now

Thank Velveeta for coffee. That is all.

.:1 comment | baked by pie at 10.24 AM | permalink:.



Friday, March 17, 2006

Where to squat, and where to lean

I'm a bit late this week, but trust me, this squatter is worth the wait. Please say hello to Gary from But I Digress..., this week's denizen of my sidebar. Gary's blog is well-written, entertaining and hilarious; he's got a real flair for comedic writing. He tackles such subjects as whether Hurley is eating the missing survivors on Lost, and whether the First Amendment guarantees your right to own a pet. This was also one of the first blogs to rent space to me, and he gave me the best write-up ever. If I ever take my cult global, I want him doing my PR work.

So take your feet off my coffee table, and head on over to Gary's place to track mud all over his floors for a change. Go on. Get. Do I really have to say "or else the dog gets it"?



.:1 comment | baked by pie at 9.34 PM | permalink:.




The lights are on but no one's home

I've discovered a great new way to get market researchers to quit bugging me while I'm working at home. See, when I telecommute, I have to answer the phone in case it's my boss or a coworker (we don't have all the kinks out of our VOIP yet), but 10 times out of 10 it's a telemarketer or a market researcher. I say 10 out of 10 because my boss hasn't actually ever called me at home. But the possibility is there that he may one day call, so I have to keep dealing with these shmucks.

I understand that it's no one's goal to be a telemarketer. I think I can safely say no kid has ever written an essay titled "My Dream Job as a Phone Salesman" in the fourth grade. It's not glamourous, it's not fun, and it pays less than prostitution. Anyway, I have some sympathy for these people, because I have worked as a telemarketer myself. Granted, it was only for a few months, but it was one of my worst jobs; worse than my job working as a Tarot reader, almost as bad as the summer I was a nanny. So I usually take pity on the poor shmoes who call, and gently tell them I'm busy or not interested.

Even so, it's irritating (to say the least) to be brought out of my code trance to have to deal with these calls - which I guess is why normal people have caller ID. Anyway. The other day I answered a call from a market researcher, and as I was distracted I wasn't able to immediately get rid of her. Here is a rough recreation of our ensuing conversation.

Researcher: May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Pie, please?
Me: This is Mrs. Pie.
Researcher: Blah blah blah. Answer a few questions. Blah blah blah. Are you between the ages of 18 and 24?
Me: No, I'm not.
Researcher: Is there anyone in your household aged between 17 and 24?
Me: No.
Researcher: What about between 24 and 35?
Me: No.
Researcher: Between 36 and 50?
Me: No.
Researcher: Between 51 and 65?
Me: No.
Researcher: [sounding a bit flustered] Over 65?
Me: No.
Researcher: [definitely a little confused] Under 17?
Me: No.
Researcher: So... there is no one... of any age... living at your residence.
Me: Nope.
Researcher: ... Okay then... Have a... uh... nice day...
Me: Sure. You too. [hanging up]

Please note that there will not be a caption contest this week. But if you come back this evening, I will have a review of my new blog squatter and a new pooch-in-peril photo.

.:7 comments | baked by pie at 12.37 PM | permalink:.



Thursday, March 16, 2006

And she says, "That idiot's been peeing in the refrigerator!"

You know what herpes medication advertisements need? A little realism. They should show us the real reaction one has when faced with a new partner with herpes.

Picture it:
A man and a woman meet in a bar. It's dark, it's crowded, and they're both completely rat-arsed. The man invites the woman back to his place, and she readily agrees.

Fast forward to the couple in bed, engaged in a passionate embrace under the covers, the moonlight streaming beautifully through the window. Suddenly, the woman shrieks, sits up and turns on the bedside lamp.

"What is that?!" she asks.

"Oh, I'm just having an 'outbreak'. It's nothing to worry about. I even went parasailing yesterday."

The woman gets up and starts getting dressed, and as she's leaving she comments snidely, "Just so you know, genital warts do not count as 'ribbed for her pleasure'."

Announcer voice: Use HerpHalt to stop those pesky outbreaks, so your next one-night-stand will stay at least until you're resting comfortably in a post-sex coma. [Medication may cause leprosy, explosive gas, runny nose, brain tumours, stubbed toes, jaundice and hysterical pregnancy.]

.:1 comment | baked by pie at 2.17 PM | permalink:.



Tuesday, March 14, 2006

I have a lab in my basement...







.:9 comments | baked by pie at 3.09 PM | permalink:.



Monday, March 13, 2006

Caption contest winner

And the winner is [drumroll] Cindi with her caption "Damn, a simple no would have been good enough, you didn't have to make fun of my shorts, they're part of the uniform". I don't know why, but for some reason that just tickled my funny bone. Thanks to the rest of you for playing, and don't forget to try again next time.

.:2 comments | baked by pie at 6.29 PM | permalink:.




Overheard at work

[Sound of a baby crying lustily from elsewhere in the building]
Peon: Sounds like the new intern is here.

.:2 comments | baked by pie at 3.42 PM | permalink:.




How to tell if you've been visited by aliens
Part IV in my vastly helpful (but rarely updated) "how to" series.

1) Your jammies have a trap-door where once there was just fabric.
2) You feel as though you've given birth to a watermelon through your backside recently.
3) You suddenly understand the lyrics to any Black Eyed Peas song.
4) When you touch the toaster and the microwave at the same time, you can build up a static charge strong enough to singe the neighbours' cat from twenty feet.
5) You lure friends over, incapacitate them with chloroform and perform medical experiments on them. And you never used to keep chloroform in the house.
6) You have a new tattoo that reads: "I [heart] Zork 4Ever".
7) All your mousetraps are still set, but the cheese is gone. Aliens adore cheese. I know; I was surprised, too.
8) The old lady next door keeps flashing the evil eye at you.
9) All of your hangers are gone.
10) Your cows look somehow... smarter.

If you answered 'yes' to 5 or more of the above questions, you may want to look into getting some better locks.

The caption contest winner will be announced when I get home from work, so don't forget to check back.

.:2 comments | baked by pie at 2.25 PM | permalink:.



Saturday, March 11, 2006

I can call you Betty, and... you can call me Al

Well, it's official: Rob and I have swapped gender roles. He actually said to me today, "it's not what you said, it's how you said it."

I mean, let's look at this for a minute. I always need to have control of the remote. I'm the one that acts like an overgrown child. I don't like to talk about my feelings, not that I actually have any; I'm the breadwinner (well, I make marginally more than he does, anyway); I have a very logical mind and work in what is still considered a male industry. I'm not a huge fan of hugging, holding hands or really any physical contact with other people. Give me a penis, and I'm a guy.

Rob on the other hand is sensitive, tactile and in touch with his 'feminine side'. He's gentle and sweet (except when he's masquerading as his alter-ego Mr. Grouchy Pants), he loves to talk on the phone, and he's an incurable flirt. In defense of his manhood, he does swivel his head so quickly when a hot chick walks by that I'm surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash. He doesn't listen to a word I say if there's an attractive girl on telly (or anything he finds even remotely interesting). And although he's well-trained in helping out around the house he, like nearly every other male on the planet, can't use his brain for more than one thing at a time.

In closing: I don't want to know what you're thinking about. I don't care where this relationship is going. And no, I don't want to cuddle.

.:6 comments | baked by pie at 5.15 PM | permalink:.



Friday, March 10, 2006

Caption this [insert rude gesture here]

Caption Contest:
Anyway, now that I've put you all to sleep, it's time for you to take a big ol' swig of espresso and put on your caption caps. This week's winner wins the prize I was going to give last week's winner (I offered him something I thought he'd make better use of - a six-month membership to TotalFark), so it's all still up for grabs. Have at it - I could use a good laugh this week. That and a few hours of sleep. I don't ask for much.

Click on image for larger version [pops]. Contest ends Sunday whenever I get around to feeling judgmental.

.:12 comments | baked by pie at 7.36 AM | permalink:.



Thursday, March 09, 2006

You are here x

It's that time again. Time to turn off the electricity and plumbing, let the roaches run free, and tell the cops the place is being used as a crack-den. Yes, I have a new squatter. Please let me introduce you to Blogs are for Wimps. This is a group blog with contributions from Frodo Corleone (apparently the Mobbit), Homofictus and some other people who don't seem to post very often.

I've actually had this lot on my blogroll for quite awhile, but since I know no one ever actually checks out other people's blogrolls, I thought I'd let 'em loiter on my sidebar for a week. Their topics run the gamut from a warning about the dangers of masturbation to current events, S&M to getting boned in the butt. And I particularly liked Arroz con pollo's list featuring Perks of Being in Your 30's or Older.

So what are you waiting for? Offensive and hilarious entertainment awaits you. Visit Blogs are for Wimps right now or the pooch gets it. And I know you don't want that on your conscience. Look at that bravely dignified face. He's counting on you.


Please note: I did try to get a photo of Nugget this week, just to keep Ollie from getting paranoid, but Ollie apparently really wanted to be in the photo and Nugget just wasn't having it.

.:3 comments | baked by pie at 7.50 PM | permalink:.




Charm school

What the hell happened to manners? It seems like people no longer say 'thank you', 'please', 'excuse me', or make any other polite noises. They'll belch directly in your face and not even have the sense to look ashamed; they'll push you off the pavement with their ginormous arse and not display the slightest glimmer of remorse.

Granted, I was raised in a more polite time (I'm old and crotchety, remember). Back when I was a lass, when I walked ten miles to school, uphill both ways in fifteen feet of snow, without even the benefit of a second-hand tin-foil hat to keep the commies out of my brain, I still somehow managed to send thank you notes whenever I received a gift. I was taught to always say 'please' when I was asking for something. I was taught to say 'thank you' whenever I was given something. I was taught not to pick my nose at the dinner table. But these rules no longer apply, apparently. People are nose-picking at mealtimes all willy-nilly, farting in mixed company without even attempting to blame the dog, and when accidentally running over a neighbour, instead of offering assistance or even driving him to the hospital, the driver puts his car in reverse and backs over the neighbour for good measure.

The next person who doesn't say 'thank you' to me gets a pencil in the eye. You've been warned.

.:7 comments | baked by pie at 12.12 AM | permalink:.



Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Overheard

Her: I don't even know my blood type.
Him: Evil.
Her: Evil positive.
Him: No, you'd be Evil negative.

.:3 comments | baked by pie at 7.30 AM | permalink:.



Monday, March 06, 2006

How to get a nut out of a tree

Is your car covered in religious leaflets every time you turn your back? Do you hear nothing but "Have you accepted Jesus into your heart" from above every time you step outside your door? Does your cat leave the mangled remains of suits and briefcases on your back doorstep? You may be suffering from Feral Religious Operative (FRO) Infestation. These little buggers are extremely tenacious, and it requires a certain degree of finesse and skill to rid your property of them permanently. You will most often find that the FROs have settled in your trees; they seem to enjoy being above those they are trying to convert, so the first thing you will need to do is find the nest. Once you have located the nest, you will need to collect the following items: a fire hose, a roll of duct tape, a sign with large, clear letters reading "Solicitors will be eaten - knock at your own risk", a sack of rotten lemons, a bird bath full of holy water, and a cross with sharpened ends. Make sure you have an assistant, as this is really a two-person job.

Aim the fire hose up into the infected tree and turn it on full-blast. The FROs will start to drop onto your lawn. At this point, have your helper wrap the FROs in duct tape and set them aside. When all the FROs have been disabled, it's time for phase two - convincing them that it's in their best interests not to return. Keep the FROs you are not currently working with in a secure, fenced area or they may escape and attempt to return to the nest (or worse, hide until it's dark and then return to the nest, usually after completely saturating your property with leaflets containing information about how you'll be going straight to hell, you heathen).

In turn, tie each FRO to a tree and duct tape his or her eyelids open. At this point, you will defile the bird bath full of holy water (in any manner you choose - be creative; this can be fun!), and stab the FRO repeatedly with the sharpened cross while repeating, "stay off my property". They are fairly simple-minded, so this technique really drives home the point through repetition. Shove a mouldy lemon in the FRO's mouth, which you will then cover with duct tape (isn't duct tape useful?), untie the FRO and send him on his way. When you're finished with the whole FRO community, you should find that they will spread the word to other FRO families and your property should remain free of infestation for at least one full generation. If not, repeat the above instructions until they get the point. Some are 'slower' than others, and will require repeated aversion sessions.

Finally, don't forget to enjoy yourself - this is a fun activity for the whole family! You could even hold a neighbourhood party in which your entire block rids their gardens of FROs on one day, while you eat barbecue, play games and listen to devil-worshipping music. Have fun!

.:1 comment | baked by pie at 11.18 AM | permalink:.



Sunday, March 05, 2006

Toilets, drugs, incest and the caption contest winner

What is with the irrational, seemingly random censorship on television? I recently saw a show where someone was censored for saying "retarded". And yet, you can call someone a bitch or admire her ass, although an actual asshole is still apparently too vulgar for America's delicate sensibilities. Probably conjures up too many images of repugnant biological functions. It all started going downhill after Archie Bunker flushed that first televised toilet.

It all just seems a bit arbitrary to me. Some networks censor cartoon butt-cracks, others don't. Some censor ridiculously innocuous lines from 80s films like the scene from 16 Candles in which they're discussing what makes alien girls different from human girls: "they have three tits" becomes "they have three legs". How legs are specifically female, I don't know. Apparently we're not supposed to know that women have breasts, but it's perfectly fine to call them bitches. They even edited out the pot smoking scene from The Breakfast Club, which means most of the subsequent scenes no longer make any sense. And yet the incident in 16 Candles in which Sam's grandmother feels her up in the hallway is perfectly okay. To me, that's far more disturbing than watching a bunch of kids light up a doobie.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: the announcement of the caption contest winner. It was a very difficult decision, but I've finally chosen the winner. Please congratulate [flourish of trumpets, please] Kelly at Full Metal Attorney who won with the caption "Mmmmmmphhh, mmmmmppphhh!". So simple, yet so perfect (and it made me larf). And for the rest of you losers entrants, thanks for playing. Please give it a another shot next week.

.:3 comments | baked by pie at 10.40 PM | permalink:.



Friday, March 03, 2006

They taste like chicken, right?

Since I'm feelin' knackered and overworked, I'm going to make the rest of you do my blogging for me. It's caption time - the best caption wins a prize of my choosing (I promise it won't be anything painful or biological), as well as a smug sense of self satisfaction. So let's hear your witty comments. You have until Saturday at midnight, or until I get around to it.



I shall leave you with this: it is still possible to find phrases that Google hasn't indexed.
"Stephen Hawking was the best lover I ever had"
    - did not match any documents.
"Dick Cheney is my freakin' hero"
    - did not match any documents.
"you're dumber than Jessica Simpson"
    - did not match any documents.
"Dennis Rodman is my baby daddy"
    - did not match any documents.
"there is a small rodent in my pancreas"
    - did not match any documents.


Edit: apparently I need to work more on my powers of persuasion, so I'm again requesting that someone, anyone take a few seconds to add to my Johari and Nohari windows. Use a fake name, insult me all you like, just please give it a shot. I don't want to have to take a photo of Rob with a plastic laser gun pointed at his head just for this.

.:8 comments | baked by pie at 1.03 AM | permalink:.



Thursday, March 02, 2006

Confucius say: Do not shake hands with man who probes orifices for a living

I loathe going to the doctor. Actually "loathe" is probably not strong enough to describe my utter hatred of medical offices and personnel. I make an exception for my pain management doctor, because he's a loony who makes my feet do a little 'river dance' thing when he checks my ankle reflexes. But all other doctors could be scooped up and dumped in a landfill somewhere, and I wouldn't shed the tiniest of tears.

It's not just their need to get you nearly naked, or wanting to stick stuff in all your orifices, it's more the assumption that you're dirty and diseased simply by virtue of appearing in their waiting room. And if you know me at all, you know that I'm probably more sterile than... well, something very sterile. Just once I'd like to turn the tables and force my doctor to pee in a cup on demand, be used as a pin-cushion in the guise of sucking out two pints of blood for various tests, and have a speculum stuck where the sun don't shine. Oh yeah, that'd be sweet.

.:3 comments | baked by pie at 11.52 AM | permalink:.



Wednesday, March 01, 2006

A sporadic vixen and a hound in peril

For once, choosing a blog squatter was actually comparatively easy. As soon as I saw Occasional Bitch was a bidder, it was all over. I already love her blog (it's been on my blogroll for ages), and this gives me the chance to share it with any of you who haven't discovered her yet.

ocB is hilariously diverting, clever and always has some must-see video clip posted, not to mention that her pets seem to be adorable little pains in the ass, just like mine. I highly recommend checking our her archives and wallowing in a bit of nostalgia.

Anyway, you should know the drill by now. Oliver is back to his healthy, annoying, stinky self this week, so he's returned to his job as potential victim. So go on, get. Go visit ocB, or the hound gets it.



.:5 comments | baked by pie at 7.23 PM | permalink:.