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Friday, 7 October 2011


Henry Miller said,
Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.

Unless your destiny is to be a serial killer. Or a paedophile. Then you should balk and fight it. I shouldn't have to spell that out, people.

Thursday, 6 October 2011


I'm a bit of an addict of the show COPS - it's on TV here at least 7 times per week, and I DVR it. A lot of what I like about the show is watching cops deal with irritating, drunk, stupid or insane people; what I don't like is the 18-patrol-cars-to-arrest-3-guys thing, and the (to my non-American eyes) somewhat excessive levels of force used.

Tonight's episode was in Tennessee, from about 1996, and the hilarious hairstyles alone made it worth watching.

There was a callout to a "stolen animal" call, and 2 police cars show up at a trailer park to find Male 1 (thoroughly inebriated) accusing Male 2 of stealing his cat. They're the same breed, but the markings are clearly different. There is a definitive answer, though.

Policeman 1 & 2 talk to them:

M1: M2 is holdin' mah cat hostage!
M2: this cat is female.
P1: sir, is your cat male?
M1: nossir, he's bin noodered.
P1: *sigh* but it's a male?
M1: 's name's Buddy Holly! Wouldn't'a called him that f' four years 'f 't was no girl!
P2: OK, that cat? (points to M2's trailer) is a female.
-- pause --
M1, slyly: how long's he had that cat?
P1: not long enough to get it a sex change op. G'night, sir.

Made me laugh.

you're old enough to be my dad

I was at a Sleep Clinic the other day, buying a new CPAP machine. Have you seen anyone wearing the CPAP mask? Mmmm, sexxy time... think "rebreathing equipment".

So I'm sitting in the waiting area (along with several other morbidly obese heffalumps & the oddly mortified skinny people wearing that I-genuinely-have-a-medical-condition-called-sleep-apnoea-that-I-did-NOT-bring-upon-myself look) and this old guy starts chatting me up. Even though I'm reading a book, because *obviously* people only read if they have no one to talk to. I'm being polite because I think he's nervous or chatty or impaired in some way... until he puts his hand on my knee.

Um. Are you SERIOUS? You're my DAD's age, you are NOT George Clooney, and ... oh, thank God, I hear my name! So sorry, gotta run.

He's still there when I head to reception to settle up. He sidles up, and hands me a piece of paper. Written on it is a phone number, a landline, & instructions to "ask for Sandy, the nurses know who I am". Oh. Good. He waves hopefully at me as I leave, and I throw away the paper as soon as I'm out of sight.