I had little reason to think of such things until I had a most vivid dream. A dream that I had gone to a party at Pet0r and Eh!Steeeve!‘s place which Scam (and perhaps Ferrero/The Old Italian Grandmother) had attended. I got drunk, crawled into the neighbours’ apartment and fell asleep. I then awoke and had to carefully sneak out of the Italian-style multilevel apartment with its lofty sun-soaked patio and trendy 20-something flatmates (a la The Secret Life of Pus). When I got back to their place, it seems they were watching the 90210-style comidramedy College Badass: 100% All-American Gay! Featuring this hot, ravishing young thing:

I was feeling, in this dream, quite sick of being single and I verbally assaulted my poor friends with pointed questions.

Me: Why haven’t you found me a girlfriend? What kind of gay men are you anyway?
Scam: We don’t know any lesbians!
Pet0r: Weren’t you dating some guy all of 2 months ago? [NB: UNTRUE– in real life, it was more like a WHOLE YEAR AGO!]
Me: Oh. Oh yeah…

I had failed at lesbianism.

It turned out that the episode of COLLEGE BADASS: 100% All-American Gay was in fact this one:

College Badass: the BICURIOUS episode!

What show is complete without a BICURIOUS episode, usually the ultimate in Failing at Lesbianism 101, but this time a true failure at almost the opposite. Though it tried to show an ingenue attempting a risque liaison full of innuendo with un peu of a frisson of excitement, the resulting date between College Badass and Clarissa ended thus:

College Badass: The date with Clarissa

Clarissa is only there to attract the lesbian viewers. Which is yet another fail at lesbianism.

As was said after I posted such vivid depictions straight from my sleeping brain onto the Book of Faces:

Chris Medicine: Considering it’s 100% All-American gay, I’m a bit disturbed his partner looks like the Republican transsexual version of Tony Abbott

Eh!Steeeve!: Yuck– her breasts are all lopsided and she looks like Courtney Love!

It’s true, young viewers, the producers did in fact spend all their money on hiring male porn stars as the main characters and so they could only afford a 50 year old crack-whore for Clarissa’s part. The personality of course was a perfect fit for the character!

NB: Clarissa is not to be confused with that other soap opera star, Charissa.

Flashback

Ways that I had failed at lesbianism:

1. Having the following pick-up line used on me (by girls): “Are you planning to become a gynaecologist? You should be my gynaecologist”
2. Having that pick-up line work on me
3. Having it work on me more than once
4. Then going on to fail my obstetrics & gynaecology exam
5. Dating men
6. Planning to become a urologist

Ways I’d heard that another medical student failed at lesbianism:

1. Being unable to reach the cervix (during a ‘female’ examination)
2. Being unable to find the cervix (during a pap smear)
3. Dating men

Sigh. Bicuriousness (bicuriosity?) gets the better of us all.

Conclusion

Lesbianism is just hard. Wait, did I just say hard? Did I fail again?

Heh. hehehehe. *snork*

Evidently it is a game where the only option is to lose.

It was surprisingly difficult to access bum pus, an intersphincteric abscess, a pelvic abscess even, high up in the recesses of this poor man’s bum.

Finally the horrid smelling pus started pouring out of its crevice next to the anus.

“I feel like clapping!” said I, delighted at the result.

“You feel like crapping?” said the surgeon, who guffawed heartily.

As I was in fact retracting the muscular buttocks for some time, not long after I made the following pronouncement:

“I need a stool.”

The dénouement of course was a jet of bum pus under pressure that hit me square in the neck. After such a release, I did indeed require a long shower.

Is it any wonder that if one moves the space, “bum pus” becomes “bump us”- the usual response of the anaesthetists to us excitable surgical types who have booked the case!

Related articles

• More on clinical diagnosis of abscess (medrants.com)
• Relapse or ReInfection (boards.medscape.com)
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It’s not that love is not important. It is. It’s the fetishisation that occurs in the media surrounding weddings and babies and big houses and SUVs.

Fuck where can I start. Weddings and wedding photos. What a fucking waste of good money. Honestly what everyone wants from a wedding is a good time and a quick ceremony and a few photos. Not this travesty that a wedding has become where people one up each other about how much money they wasted on the fucking thing while parading their engagement, pre-engagement, pre-wedding, wedding, post wedding, honeymoon, 1st anniversary, 2nd anniversary, 7th anniversary photos. Well, if they ever get to the 7th one that is.

I can only imagine how unenjoyable and boring and tedious their wedding day actually was. Do these people even have sex? I doubt it. In fact most of these loud fuckers don’t even love the person they’re with. They’re just scared of being alone and don’t want to admit to themselves that the reason they are marrying is because they can’t find anyone better and this person seems vaguely suitable to their parents. So they go on and on about how happy they are as some kind of delusion that they want to be constantly congratulated on.

I have no desire to congratulate them on their impending unhappiness.

But their delusion has arms that stretch far beyond themselves. They then decide everyone else who is not like them must be unhappy!

Next let’s go on to the idea that a baby will make everyone happy and fix everything and make you feel loved. Here’s news– that feeling of emptiness is NOT going to be solved by having a child. In fact that’s an easy recipe for post natal depression. And your relationship? If it’s crappy already, it’s going to get way crappier once you have a child. Having a child is stressful, difficult and hard work. It is truly rewarding if you accept this truth and are prepared for it but otherwise, you’re kidding yourself.

Ooh, how about the “stay at home mum” racket? Apparently you are going to give up everything including your intellectual pursuits in order to be a permanent child rearer. What happens after the kids go to school? Oh well, I guess that’s what soaps, knitting classes and SUV road rage are for.

Big houses and SUVs are firstly environmentally irresponsible (oh but it’s only affecting people who live on small islands and we don’t believe in science anyway), secondly expensive and thirdly irritating. People can’t afford the lifestyles that they lead despite making a lot of money and then whinge in the media about how they want their child care benefits.

And what about the underlying idea behind this? That you can treat important things as possessions and that material possessions are going to make you happy? Acquiring a spouse and a child is not the same as acquiring a new car. It’s a relationship, not a possession. It requires work and love and strength. You can’t just chuck it in the shed or sell it when you’re sick of it.

This would all be sort of ok if it was primarily an upper middle class problem. But it’s not. This is something that deeply affects poor people who aspire to the above. No-one places value on education any more. All that is important is a ring on your finger from someone and a baby and a house. But these things aren’t going to make you happier or richer or feel better. They are going to make you poorer and if done for the wrong reasons, deeply unhappy. In fact they may even rob you of your ability to better yourself if you’re not in a position to afford them.

We all wonder why we’re feeling unhappy and empty and lonely even though we’re surrounded by “love” of the “all you need is love” sense. Maybe it’s because no actual love went into the decision. Not even self love. And perhaps love isn’t the only thing? Perhaps contentment and peace and exercise and intellectual engagement are just as important.

It really drives me mad, reading those magazines that perpetrate this vicious cycle of social deprivation via “love” and “success” in ways that really have nothing to do with either love or success.

If and when I have a waiting room, all this shit is going straight into the recycling bin.

Amma: No, I don’t like Serbs.

Me: Why not?

Amma: Because they are racist!

KermitTheFrog: It’s the same reason she doesn’t like Israel

Related articles

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Q: What do you call a combination of cats?

A: A purr-mew-tation!

I next learnt, either via a translation party or perhaps AnnieCat, of the fact that “Mao” (猫) in Mandarin in fact means “cat”, when it is not implying the communism part of “communal cat colony” by being  Chairman 毛. I then discovered another Chairman Mao for your viewing pleasure via the lovely Kcarruthers. Must we in fact infer that the Chinese equivalent of a lolcat is in fact a roflmao? Should I register rofl 猫.com?

Let me not get started on the economic differences between Mao Cat and Rao Cat!

Cattastic!

Related articles

• Lesson #1169 — Crazy Cat Ladies (survivingtheworld.net)
• #775; The Information Superhighway &c. (wondermark.com)
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• Obey the Purebreed! Dog Breed t-shirts (obeythepurebreed.com)

Now we’re getting closer.

“BUT I’M JUST TELLING IT HOW IT IS! YOU ARE THE PC POLICE BRIGADE, HOW DARE YOU DISAGREE WITH MY VIEWS” say the bigots. And to be honest, it is it the obsessive compulsive in me that reacts! They are not in fact “telling it how it is” but rather “lying for their own convenience”. And that annoys me as much as the use of “aggravate” to mean “irritate” (often used by such people).

My aim is to put the “correct” in “political correctness”. There is nothing that I love more than, well, being right. And baiting bigots who think I am going to be on my side.

Bigoted Doctor: That doctor can’t even speak ENGLISH! I hate overseas doctors!
Me: My mum is an overseas doctor…
Awkward  silence ensues

Australian Bigot:  Aboriginal people are just drunks
Me: Actually the rate of drinking in the Aboriginal population is the same as in the general population– 15%. Which means Australians are drunks!
Australian Bigot: I DON’T BELIEVE YOU
Me: Check the Australian Bureau of Stastics website and get back to me

Male Acquaintance: Apparently if you want to date a female doctor you have to be prepared to be a house husband
Me: You know, my dad is married to a female doctor, and he’s definitely not a house husband, working 50 hours a week or so.
Me: And the person he’s married to would be… my mum!

Bigot: Muslims are so backwards! Just look at Iran and the way they treat their women!
Me: 70% of the engineering students in Iran are women. How many are there in Australia again?

Random bogan trying to be nice: You speak very good English
Me: I should hope so, it’s my first language

Idiot: That fridge is like, so gay.
Me: It’s… sexually attracted to… other fridges?
Idiot: You know what I meant!
Me: That it’s sexually attracted to other fridges?
Me: I think there’s porn of that out there!

Male Doctor: You know doing surgery and being female means you probably won’t be able to have or raise kids
Me: See, that’s why I plan on the other uterus carrying the child
Awkward pause
Male Doctor: Ohhh, I get it. Yeah I guess that’d work!

And finally, the ultimate comeback:

Drunk bogan riding in a taxi (in fake Indian Accent): I am Sachin Tendulkar I give you $10 to suck me off you whore
Me: I speak better English than you!

Related articles

• #249 — Pauline Hanson (thingsboganslike.com)
• #233 — Schadenfreude (thingsboganslike.com)
• #248 — Bashing Hippie Skulls (thingsboganslike.com)

Me: Achebook is like Failwood?

Me: hahaha Failwood

Me: That is like if Oglaf goes down

Me: hahahahaha goes down

Thread: you enjoying yourself there?

Me: My sense of humour could be considered self abuse!

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Ffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuuuu

The prequel is the sequel; the end is the beginning is the end.

I have this memory from when I was a little girl, from before the End of the World. I am 5 years old and it is the last week of my first grade. We are playing games about fairytales. Here is the game about the Princess and the Handsome Knight. No-one will play with me, so I play with myself. And instead of being the Princess, I decide that I am the Handsome Knight, and I am going to be the one to save my imaginary Princess. This suits me just fine.

I do not know if this is a memory or a dream.

These days I dream I am being chased. Pursued by a tall, thundering Macbeth through a forest-like garden surrounding an abandoned castle. Or I am searching through the garden for the entry of this castle, for a lost Princess. Or the Princess is the one pursuing me, with a kitchen knife in her hand.

Sometimes I dream I am not me; I am the thundering Macbeth. Except it is another time and another place.

I am tall, handsome. Hair gelled back, wearing a black suit. My world is a bright, wealthy city that was never destroyed. A world of excess. And my internal, horrible woe is my emptiness… and a princess…

My home has been defiled. Torn apart. The meat shredded and devoured, the stench of stale urine. Someone has made their mark on my territory. I suspect the stray dogs that loiter around the city, or even– and the hair raises on the back of my neck– the wolf who I can hear howling in the depths of the night. But I cannot find pawprints. I cannot even see where my house has been entered. Could it even be an unknown human assailant? But who? Who would do this not once, not twice, but thrice?

A deep fear sinks into my heart.

When I sleep that night, I dream a dream of fight, flight, of less than trivial pursuits.

Yours,
Deutschy.