Time wasters that are worth the time wasted.

This one isn't for kids. It suits the darker side of my humour. Actually when you think about it, it's freaking insane. That's another reason to like it. Be warned it contains violence and horror themes. Death art animation.

Pixar. Who doesn't love everything they do? Kid friendly here.

This computer animated film is so beautifully done. I've watched it several times. There's not a word spoken. End of the world with rag-doll heroes.

If you've seen WALL-E and laughed, try this one, BURN-E. Having real trouble keeping a link on this so if its broken it's worth doing a search on it.

I keep changing stuff around here as links break so check back sometime for new finds.

Mental the cat

(Skip to – Flying)

At home by myself one day I heard a strange sound from the unit’s courtyard. It was annoying. Sounded like a baby crying. I went out to hit it with a stick, (only a small one), to make it stop. After a bit of searching I found the source of the noise. A kitten, stuck between the shed and the fence. A 50mm gap. Somehow I dragged it out without breaking its neck. Just a small ball of fluff, black as sin, barely weaned.

I figured someone had thrown their cat’s unwanted litter over fences around the neighbourhood. I don't know if that’s easier than taking them to the pound but weirdo’s aren’t known for their intelligence. I gave the kitten some milk and waited for the wife to get home thinking it would freak her out. Big mistake.

You know how women love cute stuff. She goes all ga-ga over it. Belatedly I wished I’d told her it was a present. We play with it for a while then it pisses on my Street Machine magazine. Glossy cover so it runs off onto the carpet. Typical female. I assume we aren’t keeping it and ask the wife to take her to the pound tomorrow. Yeah, yeah, no problem.

I get home to find the kitten still in residence. She’s also accumulated a bowl and has cat food in the cupboard and sleeps on the bed with us. Who’d have thought a kitten could take up so much room. I now have a handkerchief sized space to lay on.

A few days later we find out our cockhead neighbours are looking for a black female kitten. We give her back to them. Fair’s fair, they paid for her.

The damn thing comes back again the next day. This time its whiskers and some of the fur on its face had been burned off. I think they used a cigarette lighter. (I used to smoke in those days and the cat freaked whenever I flicked the lighter on for a while.)

We didn’t give her back this time. Fuck them. (Burning the hair off whoever did this crossed my mind. Then I took a moment to think about it. They’d only run around like spastics and set everything else on fire. That would’ve been OK if their unit didn’t join onto ours. The flames might have damaged some of our stuff. Karma will get them.)

So we had a free cat. She loved the wife but didn’t take to anyone else, like me for instance. The damn thing would go crazy for no reason, patting her was a gamble. It’s like putting your hand in a blender with a lunatic hovering over the switch; you never knew what condition you’d get your hand back. We accepted a few behavioural problems seeing as she’d been mistreated by psychos that owned it.

The wife named her Mental. I wanted to call it Satan.

(Like it? See – How to write)

Cognac

The family decided to buy a bottle of Cognac for a 40^th birthday.

A special 15 year old Cognac with a pedigree going back several hundred years seemed apt. Only one place in Australia had a website that stocked it. The wife bought it online using her name as the purchaser and her brother’s name as the receiver. Easy. Done deal.

We got a return email. ‘Private sales attract a 20% charge.’

OK, charge us. We want it.

Couldn’t get the website to understand that we wanted an invoice. I tried the old standby. The phone. Nobody answers. I break a cardinal rule and leave my name and explain I want to pay for an item my wife had ordered online. When they finally got back to me the lady’s all confused.

I’m leaving out her side of the conversation.

“Yes, my wife, (with a different last name), has already made an order online.” Look it up. Tap some fricken keys for crying out loud.

“Yes, her brother, the person it is addressed to, has the same surname. He is not her husband. That would be me.” OK. I can see where you might go wrong there.

“Yes, I live at the same address as her and my surname is different.” Do I sense disapproval? I sense withered, old, moralistic, opinionated hag.

“My wife’s brother’s wife also has a different last name. She lives at the same address and will be the contact to receive the parcel.” Do I sense more disapproval? Maybe you can shove your Cognac.

“Yes, the billing address and the receiving address are in different states. We’ll pay for it but the invoice should go with the parcel to the receiver.” Her opinion of my dirty commoner money seemed less disapproving.

I do understand a person who speaks English as their second language may have trouble with this. I got two call backs to decipher if this was indeed what I wanted. I refuse to believe I’m the retard here.

As complicated, (or not), as this might sound, all this info was already clearly set out in the online ordering form we'd filled in earlier. The only reason it got all fucked up was their inability to sell to the public through their website because their web designer is a wanker.

Gifts will consist of off the shelf items from now on and I’m not speaking to anyone on the phone for a week.

(Like it? See - The whole world is against me)

The toilet switch

I swear the new toilet we installed has a switch that activates the phone. As soon as my arse touches the seat the phone rings. Sometimes there is a short delay to lull me into a false sense of security.

The sensor must know when someone else is in the house as it deactivates and makes my accusations seem paranoid.

Normally I’ll ignore the phone. The fact that it knows what I’m doing is creepy and annoying though.

Much worse are the times I’m waiting for a call-back. Do I snap it off and run, or bang my head on my knees and worry the neighbours with yells of frustration.

I’ve tried to use the toilet switch to my advantage. I thought I could force people to call me back by going in for a sit. Those experiments have revealed the following exceptions to the rule.

• It doesn’t work if you take the phone into the toilet (and that’s not very professional behaviour either).

• The phone never rings if I’m expecting a positive result from the call.

• If I cave in and run for the phone it’s always a telemarketer and never the Lotto man.

It must be a wireless system. I’ve checked to see if it’s hooked up to the mains. Maybe it’s heat sensitive?

There’s a pressure pad in the garage too. It only activates the phone when I’m carrying something heavy.

(Like it? See - Recliner lounges)

The cult of Amway

(Skip to - The toilet switch)

We’ve all heard of Amway and the cult following it appears to enjoy. They have a very, very effective marketing strategy that has influenced a fair percentage of the western world’s population to join and ensnare their friends and family.

Twenty years ago I briefly fell into Amway’s tricky clutches. A friend I hadn’t seen since leaving school the year before suddenly appeared out of the blue and convinced me he was about to become a millionaire.

I liked the guy and I listened to him describe a way to make shit-loads of money without doing a lot for it. I’m all for easy money. There was no mention of Amway. He called it ‘Network Marketing’ and explained its methodology well enough for me to believe we could both be millionaires.

He offered to take me to see ‘the plan’ at a big meeting. I later found out this practice is recommended to ensure new recruits got to the meeting and that they had to stay until the end. The ‘up-line’ leaders were on hand the give the hard sell at that time.

We got to the meeting and I’m impressed by all the people in suits and ties and evening dresses. I felt a bit under-dressed in shorts, shirt and sneakers. A large screen fronts about a hundred and fifty chairs, most of them filling up fast. I had no idea what this is all about. We took a seat and the doors closed. The projector started up. Huge pictures of cars, boats and holiday destinations flashed across the screen. People around me jump out of their chairs and cheer. I didn’t get it. Was this some sort of religious ceremony? Had they won something? Should I jump up and yell too?

I actually felt slightly afraid. Being a virgin and locked in an enclosed space with some mighty strange people who might just participate in human sacrifice will do that. (I’m told I have an over-active imagination.) Carefully I check out a path to the exit, a bunch of suits standing around the doors blocked them. They were jumping up and down and cheering too. I was trapped.

The fear was real but the utter strangeness of the whole experience was exhilarating. At first I didn’t get it, but after some research I realised the effectiveness of deliberately provoking people to behave like this. It's a controlling method used to make individuals feel that they belong to a group.

Being surrounded by unnaturally happy zealots, worshipping everyday objects, had a negative effect on me. I’d read about this sort of thing and could distance myself enough that the psychology they use didn't work as well as it might. I'm not saying I had a higher intelligence, it's just that they approached me the wrong way.

I need pampering and a slow, steady build up from someone to properly take advantage of me.

They were a bit heavy handed from the start. They fed off each other’s outlandish behaviour until they’d whipped up a common state of euphoria. I’d heard of brainwashing, group hypnosis, mental manipulation, disassociation and affiliation and now I was seeing and hearing it for real. This stuff was gold to my writers mind.

So they wouldn’t pick me out as a non-believer I offered up a few ‘Hoorays’ hoping that would be the extent of their expectations. If they’d shown pictures of V8 Torana’s I’d be able to express myself more convincingly.

The funniest thing happened at the overbearing meet and greet afterward. My good friend diverted me from a sprint to the door, so I had to meet his ‘up-line’ mentor. Supposedly I’d be his underling when I signed up. He was friendly and attentive to everything I said. Like any good used-car salesman, he knew how to listen. An important skill for manipulating people.

I saw some Amway pamphlets lying around and said “Oh, you’re selling Amway?” The Triple-Plated Platinum leader, or whatever title he’d been awarded with, was shocked. “No, absolutely not. Amway is just a vehicle, what we’re doing is Network Marketing, nothing to do with Amway. When you get your friends to come to the next meeting don't mention Amway. It’s Network Marketing” (Read, Pyramid Selling).

I thought long and hard about the highly optimistic projections of what I’d be earning. I asked him, “If I have to convince 10 people to be under me and they convince 10 people and so on you’re going to run out of people pretty quick, aren’t you?” Even a 17 year old can see market saturation comes about fairly quickly at this rate. He didn’t like my questions and fobbed me off.

I accepted what they were saying so I could go home with my free literature and starter pack. (That ‘free’ pack would be recovered from your earnings without your knowledge later.)

Dubious, if somewhat intrigued, I went to several more less formal meetings. I wanted to ensure my cynicism wasn't screwing up a sure-fire way to make money. They must have gotten to me a little bit.

Unfortunately for my up-line, each meeting convinced me less and less that the concept could work. A large percentage of the town's population had already been approached and either wanted nothing to do with it or had joined and dropped out when they’d failed to make any money. It became obvious the people at the bottom of the pyramid turned over at a massive rate to keep the people at the top fed. Achieving enough points to make even a minimum wage was restricted to those already high up the pyramid.

After several more meetings I’d had enough. High pressure sales and brainwashing meetings couldn't compete with a youthful desire to go out and drink piss with my mates.

I told my up-line I wanted to quit. That’s when they really started on me. For several hours they forced motivational tapes on me. I said I couldn't afford it so they drew up a budget for me. They concluded I was bankrupt and only by listening to their tapes and attending meeting could I dig myself out of debt. (I spent what I earned, so what? Their answer to my bankruptcy made no sense either. How can I afford to buy their tapes if I have no money?) One bloke even told me he'd ring me up in the near future when he was rich to tell me how much of a loser I was for dropping out. Why? If you’re rich, surely you’d have better things to do than ringing people who failed to make it.

That ‘intervention’ was the last straw. I broke free of these scam artists and made it my calling for a while to badmouth Amway. I'd explain exactly how the scheme works and warn people off.

I’m glad dropped out. I was pressured to shun my friends and family and to only concentrate on showing ‘the plan’, watching other people showing ‘the plan’ and buying motivational tapes.

As good as Amway products are, their marketing is immoral. I'd never buy that brand on that principle.

(Like it? See - Employing children in the wrong industries)

Recliner lounges

The wife and I bought a set of leather recliner lounges not too long ago. You really know you’ve made it when you have a recliner. You can sit back, yank out that footrest and relaaaax. There’s something really special about the way they fold back with little effort on your part and cradle a work sore body. Fantastic.

We got the huge, heavy bastards set up in front of the TV. One of us had already decided which person would sit where and, for better or worse, that recliner became ‘theirs’. (This is the same person who has to sleep on a certain side of the bed no matter where we go too.)

We get comfy and are admiring the way they feel when I accidentally scratched the arm of the wife’s chair with my fingernail. She’s so annoyed by this I have to file that action in my brain under ‘things to annoy the wife with’. As I’m laughing and twisting around to prevent being slapped a ‘sproing’ sound comes from ‘mine’.

I stopped laughing.

Surely I couldn’t have broken it that fast. I’m no lightweight but I don't need to visit Abdul the Tentmaker to get my clothes made yet. I tried to find this irritating fault but the difficulty of replicating sitting on it while checking out the underside at the same time defeated me. The wife laughed cruelly at my misfortune.

I was disappointed. It wasn't fair. Once again karma unfairly targets me with bad luck even though I’d done nothing wrong. I craftily thought about swapping my chair with hers. I would have too but she said, “Don't try swapping chairs,” which kind of buggered that idea. I think I’ll just stick something lumpy into her lumbar support cushion.

(Like it? See - Changing Internet providers)

Flying

I don't like flying. I’ve never added the total time I’ve spent in the air but it must number in many hundreds of hours. Possibly I have more air miles than some junior pilots. Most of my travelling occurred in the 1990’s to a remote mine site in the Tanami Desert. The mining company maintained a minimal presence after closing the mine and I was one of about 10 men who worked out there on a six week on two week off roster. We flew out in five-seater Cessna’s and other tiny single engine aircraft.

One of these tacked together shit-heaps took about 4 hours to get there and we had to fly low so we wouldn’t suffocate. If it happened to be the wet season build-up we were sure to suffer the bumpiest scariest trip known to man. Flying towards looming black thunderheads with headwinds that slowed us to a standstill then seeing lightning shrieking past the window close enough to touch were common experiences.

Our pilots were kids. The small fly-by-night (hahahaha) airlines our mining company used snapped up all the inexperienced pilots while they were trying to get their air hours up to fly for the big airlines. We got different pilots regularly as they were sacked or promoted.

We got lost a lot. One of my workmates would never sleep on the plane. Not that sleeping was an easy pastime on the bucking bronco ride. He’d watch the ground for tell-tale roads and communities then let the pilot know how far off course he was. We watched the pilot a lot too as they turned their maps around and around trying to make sense of where they were in the featureless desert. They’d tap their gauges like I used to in my Torana. If I ran out of fuel in my Torana I coasted to a stop. I wasn’t as confident we could do that from several thousand feet up. And run out of fuel they did.

I do remember one time a pilot forgot to change tanks over and next thing we know the engine’s coughing and his panic-stricken hands are everywhere. We got going again and, when politely asked, the red-faced pilot mumbled something about not opening a valve.

One flight almost ended in disaster when the pilot landed on the old airstrip at the mine. Trouble was, months before it had been ripped from end to end with a bulldozer for revegetation. Imagine a ploughed field. He actually landed the plane on it. I think he should have had his wings taken off him for the screw up then given back again for pulling it off without killing everyone. I wasn’t on that flight, maybe that’s why I can afford to be magnanimous.

So there are several good reasons why I shouldn’t enjoy flying right there. These days all my flights are on commercial airlines and I still hate every part of it. The not-knowing if your ticket is valid until you get there, the overblown security that forces people to strip every tiny metal particle from their bodies or suffer humiliating searches, the waiting, the crushing in of as many people into the tiniest space possible, the lost baggage and screwed up connections. It all stresses me out. I keep it inside of course. Wouldn’t like to make an embarrassing scene now, would I?

I’m usually tightly wound by the time we land. The wrong person bumping into me or coughing in my face better watch out for the windmill fists of death. Then I usually have to face a nice long drive through heavy rush hour traffic in strange cities. It’s merely another of life’s tortures. There’s little wonder I am known to lose my cool at times. Unlike the plane, at least I am in control of the vehicle which helps a bit. That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it Mum?

Apologies to the wife for shouting but, READ THE MAP, DAMMIT, and don't add ‘maybe’ every time you give me directions. And don't tell me ‘that’s it!’ as the only exit for the next twenty kays tears past on the opposite side of a four lane highway. I’ve gotta have reaction times like Garth Tander while driving a poxy four cylinder hire car with less engine capacity than a carton of milk.

Robin and I have similar opinions about flying. Our solution, which we worked out on the Vanuatu trip, would be to knock us the hell out as we enter the airport and reawaken us at the other end. Damn straight. (Note: We prefer pharmaceuticals but if required we will accept a punch in the head.)

(Like it? See - Toyota Prius)

Insurance quote

I rang our insurance company to get a quote on insuring the Monaro. Got that done and they offered to give me a quote for our house contents insurance as well.

It went like this:

Insurance company: “We can insure your contents for $426.32 ($200 excess with $10,000 FREE enthusiast cover).”

Me: “No thanks, we’re paying $315.00 with $100.00 excess. Your FREE cover costs too much.”

Insurance company: “I’m sorry sir, I don't think you understood. There is no charge for the enthusiast cover. It’s FREE.”

Me: “No, it isn’t. You’re charging an extra $100 dollars for it.”

Silence.

Me: “You know what I’m saying; you’re just not allowed to agree with me.”

Insurance company: “So, you’ll just be insuring the Monaro then?”

Me: “Yes thanks."

(Like it? See - Buying a new car)

The oldest can of peas and carrots in the world

The wife and I were standing in the canned goods aisle of IGA doing the shopping when I said loudly, “who the hell buys all this canned food?” An older bloke shuffles by me with his head down and grabs a few tins. That’s why you should think before you speak isn’t it?

So I trundled the trolley away to make unnecessary judgments on other customers in another part of the shop when I said to the wife, “We should use up that can of peas and carrots in the pantry.”

“What can of peas and carrots?”

“You know, that can we’ve had for years, probably part of our hopelessly inadequate cyclone preparedness stock.”

Blank look. Never mind. We get home and forget all about it. Later that week I was rooting around in the pantry for something and remembered the fabled can. It was pushed right to the back under a can of coconut milk and a tin of apricots almost as though we were ashamed of it and had hidden it away. Like you would do to an ugly child. (Well I would anyway). I pulled it out and noticed the rust covering the joins and the ominous way the top and bottom bulged. It was sort of like holding an old hand grenade. I turned the tin over, (and shook it a bit, thinking how cool it would be if it did explode), and deciphered the date on the bottom. 12/03/98. Man, that’s an old tin of veggies.

I kept it to show the wife. She didn’t see its historical value. We must have moved that tin to six different houses in three states in the last 10 years starting in Kalgoorlie. It was almost a family heirloom. I threatened to put it in the stew and insisted she’d never notice but the look I got probably made this course of action unwise.

It’s in the bin now and I regret it’s wasted life.

(Like it? See - Coffee).