Monday, September 25, 2006

Propaganda, Because you were meant to believe it.

Did you know; Red Meat - we were meant to eat it?

It’s true, it’s a scientific fact, I know it is Sam Neill told me so. He should know he was a doctor in Jurassic Park.

Eating red meat will increase your intelligence, it’s true, anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t eat enough red meat and has a small brain.

Still don’t believe it? Well Sam was good enough to provide this chart detailing all the inventions we were able to come up with after we started eating red meat.

It also provides other such useful bits of trivia as - Finding Nemo was invented approximately 2 million years after the telephone.

















I do hope you will all listen to Sam's advice and start eating more red meat, perhaps then with our throbbing gargantuan brains we may all cease to be so easily fooled and robot assassins from the future would have a harder time getting into politics.

Who knows maybe then we can turn our collective brain power to some of mankind's real issues like getting Keanu Reeves’ personality back out of that darn matrix.

Honestly with the world in the state it is today I almost wish an action hero like Bruce Willis would show up, to beat the bad guys and save the day.

But he won’t. I know he won’t, because I’ve seen the sixth sense and I know Bruce Willis is dead.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

English as she is spoke

I recently came across this poem and liked it so much that I thought I'd share it here for all you word nerds, you know who you are.

THE ENGLISH LESSON

We'll begin with box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox should be oxen, not oxes.
Then one fowl is goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a whole lot of mice,
But the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be pen?
The cow in the plural may be cows or kine,
But the plural of vow is vows, not vine.
And I speak of a foot, and you show me your feet,
But I give a boot... would a pair be beet?
If one is a tooth, and a whole set is teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be beeth?

If the singular is this, and the plural is these,
Why shouldn't the plural of kiss be kese?
Then one may be that, and three be those
,Yet the plural of hat would never be hose.
We speak of a brother, and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.

The masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine she, shis, and shim.
So our English, I think you will agree,
Is the trickiest language you ever did see.

I take it you already know
of tough, and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble, but not you
on hiccough, through, slough and though.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps
To learn of less familiar traps?
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead; it's said like bed, not bead!
For goodness sake, don't call it deed!

Watch out for meat and great and threat,
(They rhyme with suite and straight and debt)
A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother.
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's dose and rose and lose –
Just look them up – and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward
And font and front and word and sword.

And do and go, then thwart and cart.
Come, come, I've hardly made a start.
A dreadful language: Why, man alive,
I'd learned to talk when I was five.
And yet to write it, the more I tried,
I hadn't learned it at fifty-five.

Not forgotten

Two months have passed by now since I last posted. Melbourne has gone on, leaving behind new days which I am determined not to let become forgotten. But as I’m unlikely to get around to the many half finished posts which lay idle in my draft folder, I have decided instead to post a blog (or blog a post?) summarising the things I've been meaning to write about but have not had the time.

Public Transport

It occurred to me one morning aboard the 703, as one street after another rushed from my sight, that I must have made this same trip well over a hundred times this year. And yet despite the familiarity of the journey I could not recall a single detail of what things had been like a month, a week or even the day before. The only markers of time I could seem to find were the occasional oddities that disrupt the daily ebb and flow that is commuting to uni. Some of which I will record here.

Every now and again there is a most impatient woman who within a minute or so of boarding and apparently under the impression that the bus driver has forgotten to drive, takes it upon herself to remind him, loudly grunting by way of exclamation and indicating her wristwatch.

Without fail the bus will remain firmly in place as the last of the commuters coming from the station board the bus. Baffled by this disregard of her instructions she resigns herself to, what I can only assume is muttering about the inefficiency and disrespect of public transport employees. Because you see, she does this all of this in sign language.

A high school boy bearing an uncanny resemblance to the fat guy from 'LOST' paced back and forth in front of the pay-phones beside the bus stop. I had only noticed him because of his screamingly unsuccessful attempt at appearing inconspicuous.

Eventually the reason for his discomfort became apparent, a man looking to be about forty appeared and handed the boy a fifty the boy then produced a presumably stolen mobile phone from his jacket and handed it over whilst avoiding eye contact with the man, he may as well have been wearing dark glasses, a trench coat and carrying a bag with a dollar sign on for all the good it did him. The man shaking his head in amusement as he casually walked away leaving the boy looking somewhat whiter then he had before. So I guess the moral here is; if you look like the fat guy from lost don't sell stolen phones at the station or bored science students may write blogs about you.

Just Like Your Capacity for Irony

This was written one morning on the 'daily message board' of the burwood heights uniting church and kept me amused for quite some time.
"Our capacity for self deception is awesome."

Thanks for that organized-religion!

Cubicle Culture

Public toilets have always been a medium for communication between people from all walks, where the paper is not read but the walls themselves. Of course there is traditional "for a good time call.." And even the occasional "I fucked your mum" followed by "dad, you're drunk, go home", but as I have found university toilets are of a much higher literary standard.

The development of culture in these toilets is aided by the more regular (no pun intended) clientele that frequent them, allowing for the establishment of more complex social interactions such as extended topic discussions. Also the overall standard is higher here owing to the more educated patrons of university toilets who are more inclined towards correcting the bad grammar of others and adding a cerebral twist to the usual literary fare such as;

"Schrodinger may have been here"

"There once was a woman from bright
who could travel faster that light
She set out one day in a relative way
and returned the previous night"

Or simpler jokes such as the toilet paper dispensers bearing the instruction "pull for arts degree".