Saturday, 30 August 2014

I'm convinced I have two brains

... perhaps I should elaborate. I'm convinced that I have two brains, or at least two separately functioning parts of my conscious brain, only one of which is under my control.  The larger, consciously-controlled brain - for the sake of the argument let's assume there are two - is a polite (mostly), intelligent (arguably), caring thoughtful sort of brain that knows about things like professional demeanour, and logical thought, and verbal restraint. And then there's the other one. The one that's funny but more often than not gets me into trouble with things like shlong-handled squeegees and snails (more about that later). 

As my last post probably more than illustrated, I'm somewhat prone to those moments. You know... those moments. The ones where my mouth wrenches itself free of any remaining vestiges of neural control and just freewheels to the point when my own eyes, in desperate defiance of anatomy and, indeed, the basic premises of both time and space, point themselves down through my nostrils to stare directly at my mouth and go "what the fuck are you DOING, dude?!"  THOSE moments.

I had one yesterday.

Took my cat to the vet, regular checkup, nothing out of the ordinary. Vet waiting room setup is fairly standard - semi-circular desk immediately opposite door, plastic chairs lining front wall and right hand side, pet food and kittens for adoption on the far left. I'm sat at the far right corner, facing the desk and door. I've been there awhile and since daytime TV is boring as shite I'm amusing myself by idly people watching. To my left is a young guy with a puppy and we start sporadically chatting. People are coming in carrying crates with cats and rabbits and suchlike, or leading dogs on strings. There's not much conversation. Pretty much what you'd expect from a vet's waiting room. 

I'd been there maybe an hour when the door opened and in stepped a woman with her left arm extended out behind her. I'm sure I heard everyone in the room think "dog that doesn't wanna come in". It's what you'd expect, after all.

She takes a couple more steps in and we see that rather than a pet she's leading (dragging, really) a reluctant and recalcitrant toddler. 

Now, in my defence, my good brain immediately thought "oh she's obviously picking up a pet, or maybe buying medications, or pet food, or shampoo, or just booking an animal for surgery, or maybe she wants to adopt a cat..." 

Somewhat unfortunately perhaps, while my good brain was busily thinking this, the bad brain was clearly off picking flowers and admiring the pretty scenery and it must have loosened its grip on the reins of my mouth, because I was suddenly aware of an all-too-familiar voice saying quite audibly to the waiting hush of the entire room:

"Surely a paediatrician would have been more appropriate?"

Cue 2 agonising seconds of slightly stunned silence then uproarious laughter while the mother looks around to see who'd said it. I'm sure that even if everyone else in the room weren't looking directly at me, the radioactive glow of my ears and face would have given her a clue. I was hoping the vet nurse would distract her but she was no help at all, she went poker-faced and escaped out into the back office. Didn't help because I could still hear her snorting with stifled giggles.

Whatever gods may be were (belatedly) smiling on me though because the lady clearly had a sense of humour and laughed along with everyone, although I'll be honest I totally expected to go outside to the car park and find my tyres let down and her waiting with a Tickle-Me-Elmo baseball bat and a snarl.

It's so disheartening because the larger of my brains really DOES try but that other one? *sigh* ... political correctness really is just a random collection of syllables...

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Why Am I Even Allowed In Public Without A Ball Gag

The thing about me (she says, breezily refusing to acknowledge almost a year of inactivity) is that my embarrassing moments are usually staggeringly public. I never seem to have the good grace to humiliate myself in the privacy of my own home with a few close, compassionate and understanding friends.

And the people who know me know this and are gently sympathetic when it happens and are, it must be said, remarkably tolerant of my many bad habits (I suspect because the entertainment gained from my hilarious cockups far outweighs them). These people are my friends.

And then there’s a select few - and they know who they are - who appear to feel it their bound duty to not only laugh hysterically 3 inches from my face when these little moments occur, but to REMIND me of it later with monotonous regularity and reinforce what a colossal dickhead I really am, deep down and also not really so deep at all.  These people are my best friends and I love them even though sometimes they make me wonder - what’s a little vagina punch between friends, really?

This story takes place at an anonymous large warehouse/showroom type store that sells some sort of Scandinavian modular furniture, let’s call them "Blikea". I’m wandering around in pursuit of bedroom furniture (as one does). Pondering the difference between black and beech. Taking measurements. Assessing the durability of shelves by applying them to the faces of the screaming kids running around the aisl... no wait sorry I think that bit was just a lovely dream. I get further through to near the kitchen section and I see a big cubic crate of squeegees.

Now, it’s winter here. I leave for work early in the morning and so far my method of getting the condensation off my car has consisted of “drive really fast and see if you can outrun it” (not so much). So I think “a squeegee! That’s what I want!” and I go over to them.

They’re all short-handled ones. I kinda want a long one so I don’t get my clothes soaked wiping the water off my windscreen. So I’m thinking about this.

(... It’s worth noting at this point that the peanut that I call a brain isn’t very good at handling multiple things at the same time. I might appear to be doing one thing and talking about another and that much I can handle but as soon as you throw thinking about a third thing into the mix it’s a slippery slut... sorry slope into a world of inadvertent double entendres and Freudian sluts. Slips!)

So this is what’s going through my mind when the middle-aged Blikea saleslady starts heading toward me to see if I need any help:
“Short-handled squeegees! But I want a long-handled one. Maybe there will be some long-handled ones in this crate. Hmmm no, I think they’re all short. Would a short do? I don’t wanna get my clothes wet, probably a long one is better. But then long are harder to handle. Short would be easier to store in my car seat pockets. But I really did want long. Short. Long. Long. Short. Short long long short.”

I vaguely notice her presence short long but I’m carrying like eight things in one arm because I didn’t get a basket (one thing, fine) and still sifting short short short LONG! Damn, short through the squeegees with the other hand (2 things, ok) so I don’t really react until she speaks. shortlonglongshortshortlongshortshortlongshortlong (3 things - DISASTER.)

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she says.

Shortlongshortlongshortshort “I need a shlong-handled one.”

My brain belatedly registers what I’ve said and I freeze. I’m sure the sound of all the blood I’ve ever made in the lifespan of my spleen rushing hell-for-leather to my face briefly overpowered the tinny elevator music coming through the ceiling speakers throughout the entire store.

I glance at her.
She knows what I’ve just said.
She knows that I know what I've just said.

To her enormous credit she doesn’t laugh in my face as she struggles to conceal the smirk.

I give up and own it. “Okay! NOT what I meant. I need a LONG-handled one.”
She says “Right. We don’t have any.” (Still smirking.)
“OK THAT’S FINE I’M JUST GONNA GO THEN OK THANKS VERY MUCH SEE YOU LATER BYE.” *cue whooshing sound as I hightail it outta there to the sound of her almost imploding in the distance.*

Honestly, my fucking brain...


Tuesday, 6 August 2013

This is a thank you to my friends….and Hubert.

I openly and happily admit to being a creep. I’m not ashamed of being totally weird and highly inappropriate at the best of times. I have little to no filter and I’ve always pictured my inner policeman as being on a rather long vacation reading a rather large book, however I fear that Charlie's recent description of “your inner policeman is dead”, may be far more accurate. 

Small child: Mum, whatever happened to Uncle Terry, the policeman? 
Mother: Hush child, you know we don’t speak of that. 
Small child: But Mum, I miss his funny moustache and blue hat. 
Mother: Enough now. Go and colour in... 
Small Child: Mum how come he hasn’t come over in forever and why is Aunty Mertle always crying? 
Mother: *silence* 
Small Child: Mum why are you quiet? Why do you look like Aunty Mertle does when someone asks about milk? 
Mother: *tic* 
Small child: Mum?....Mum….Mu-uhmmmmmmm 
Small child: *blinks* I wonder if elephants can wear pants?

I pretty much wear all of my weird on my sleeve for the world to see and am damned proud to have friends around me who not only accept this weird but complement it so well; kind of like how gasoline complements fire or how sudden shocks complement a heart condition. 

With all of that said, knowing me or being a friend of mine will eventually mean that you become privy (whether you want to be or not) to the random thoughts I’m having like “Do you think sexual misadventure is covered under a life insurance policy?” or “Does blue have a taste?” and “Do you think the size of someone’s nostrils is directly proportionate to the size of their lungs?”. I have questions and those questions need answers people. 

I like to know things. So when I send you shit like this because I’m having a bath and have just finished Hubert’s naming ceremony… 

And all I receive back by way of response is: 

Charlie: *has heart attack* That was incredible
Charlie: This 
Charlie: This is why we’re friends

It makes me happy to know that I’ve got friends who get me. 

So if you find other people who are just as bat-shit as you, or at the very least understand that your strange and their strange is complementary, then keep them. Collect them like the colourful and mental butterflies that they are. Catch them in a giant net made of candy and caviar and lobsters, and also probably some net, and keep them. Don’t keep them in jars though, that’s less good, unless there are lots of air holes and a little twig for them to stand on and some grass so it feels a bit homier and some water for when they’re thirsty, then that should be totally fine, but most importantly make them friends for life! Because life is exactly what we’d all get if we didn’t have our crazy friends around.

Friday, 28 June 2013

Grease me up, I've got a word baby to deliver.

So, for those of you who actually read this blog, you may have noticed that posts from old Facey have been few and far between lately. I've been suffering with the worst case of word constipation ever. No, I'm not going to use the phrase “writers block” because well for one thing I don’t think that “block” gives quite a vivid enough mental image for you. Yep, I’d rather you be thinking that I’m sitting here with a really sore creative gland because it’s busting at the seams with shit, clearly because I've eaten far too much word fibre, and now I’m kilning the literary equivalent of my own house brick.  

You’re welcome.

I've found myself in a particularly strange head-space of late that hasn't really been an environment conducive to producing Because Carrots blog post material. I've had lots of thoughts, lots of ideas and lots of things to say but none that really fit comfortably in the vein of the material that you see gracing the pages here. I’m sure ‘gracing’ is the correct term to use anyhow.

So in lieu of a usual post from myself, and no this absolutely doesn't count as a “normal post” because so far at least I've only sworn once, you get to play an active part in helping me apply my mental enema. So thanks, thanks for allowing me to have a place to push firmly but gently onward whilst spreading my brain cheeks for me.

And if this doesn't work I’m going to find me some fucking glitter to write with.

Thursday, 27 June 2013

Shave the Whales...

So I’ve got this thing, right where when my friends are leaving my house and it’s night, I ask them to text me when they get home to let me know they’re home safe. It’s a thing. And sometimes I ask for it in the form of a limerick, or a haiku, or a joke, or whatever. Just to keep things interesting, you know? So this evening I asked Rapunzel to text me a joke when she got home and she asked if it could be an interesting fact instead, which was acceptable.

Half an hour later I received this:

When I replied that I was glad she said estimated because wouldn’t that be the most shit job in the world? Her reply was as follows:

So now all I can think of is a group of marine biologists standing around on a deck discussing the logistics of this:

Marine Biologist 1: Morning lads!
Marine Biologist 2 & 3: Morning.
Marine Biologist 4: Have you had a look at today’s schedule then?
Marine Biologist 1: Not yet, why?
(Marine Biologist 4 silently passes a piece of paper over)
Marine Biologist 1: ... they can’t be serious.
MB4: Oh yes.
MB2: “Whaling for research” again?
MB3: You knew this was a risk when the company was bought by the Japanese.
Marine Biologist 1: Well yes but I never thought it would come to this. What, are they just making up shit for us to do to justify the “research” part of it? So then they can kill them?
MB2: Basically, uh... yes.
Marine Biologist 1: Well I’m not having it! I never became a marine biologist to have any part in killing sea creatures! I quit! (storms off)
(The three remaining biologists look at each other)
MB2:  Well that tears it – he was the only one who knew how to drive the submarine.
MB3: I don’t suppose...
MB4: What?
MB3: We got any scuba suits?
MB2: If you try to make me do this I’m quitting as well.
MB3: Relax, I wasn’t thinking of you.
(Marine Biologist 3 looks over at the deck where a work experience kid is mooching about, looking extraordinarily like a young Ricky Gervais)
(All three of them grin wickedly)
MB3: Hey kid!
Work Experience Kid: Yeah? Hi! Have you got something for me to do?
MB3: You want to be a Marine Biologist, is that right?
Work Experience Kid: Oh yeah absolutely, life’s dream and all that. What’s going on?
MB2: Well you know it’s not all swimming with dolphins and getting world cup tips from an octopus...
MB4: There’s a lot of dirty work involved as well
Work Experience Kid: I know I know... I’m, you know, prepared to do my share. Chip in. Get my hands dirty.
MB3: We’re glad to hear you say that, we really are. We’ve got something that is big and important and you know, we thought we’d give you a chance.
MB2: You look like an intelligent kid, we wanna see what you’ve got.
Work Experience Kid: Fantastic! What do you want me to do?
MB4: You fancy working with whales?
Work Experience Kid: Oh brilliant! Yes!
MB2: Come on let’s get you kitted up...

(Fifteen minutes later)
MB4: OK you’ve got your scuba kit and gear, and there’s a microphone in your helmet so you can talk to us back on the boat and tell us what’s going on.
Work Experience Kid: Great! I’m so excited about this.
MB3: Righto, you’re all gassed up and ready to get in the net with the whale.
Work Experience Kid: ...I’m sorry?
MB2: Oh don’t worry it’s been sedated...
Work Experience Kid: Oh ok... so what am I doing?
MB3: We need to study the whale reproductive system, you see.
Work Experience Kid: Yep, right...
MB4: We need to measure how much volume the whale ejaculates...
Work Experience Kid: Ok, yep... what?
MB4: We need YOU to measure...
Work Experience Kid: .... you’re not serious!
MB3: It’s for science!
Work Experience Kid: But I don’t want to wank off a whale!
(All three Marine Biologists share a glance)
MB2: ... what?
Work Experience Kid: That’s disgusting! And probably illegal!
MB4: ...I guess you’re not serious about this as a career choice then.
MB2: I really thought this one had the right stuff... (shakes his head sadly)
MB3: OK well get out of the suit then... I’m sure we can contact the uni and get another student flown out... one that’s a bit more committed to the cause...
Work Experience Kid: (hesitates) No, alright, I’ll do it... (squares his chin bravely) I'll do it for Science!

(Ten minutes later)
Work Experience Kid: OK I’m in the water with the whale! His... thing is enormous! I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this?
MB3: This is a world first, kid! You’re a research pioneer! However you decide to do it is going to be how people will test this in decades to come!
Work Experience Kid: ... don’t say “come”!
MB2: Just keep us in the loop, don’t forget to relate every single step you’re taking there, we’re taking notes, this is for posterity!
Work Experience Kid: Alright... I’m swimming underneath and up to the top of his massive knob and I’m hanging onto the sides of the net... I think if I kick my flippers against his helmet that’ll do the trick... I’m kicking... I’m kicking AND OH GOD IT’S GETTING BIGGER!!
MB4: Just keep going lad! You’re doing great!
MB3: Just keep on it lad!

MB4: You’ve done great lad, that’s brilliant! We’re hauling you up now, don’t worry, everything will be fine, you’re a hero! (flips off microphone)

MB2: Do you think we should have told him we just needed him to measure it’s balls?
MB4: Nah fuck that. This shit's going on YouTube.

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

It would appear I've been desserted...

Yes, I know that's the incorrect spelling but to be fair, you've no idea what I am about to say. I could well have been desserted. You never know. Don't judge me!

Returning to at least the approximate vicinity of my intended topic... I feel I have been abandoned to rot in sugary solitude by my inspiration. My counterpart Facey McBones may well be suffering from the same thing. Winter is upon us, friends, and the plummeting temperatures are sapping the creativity from my bones.

... You know what though I'm liking that metaphor more and more. In my day I have supped upon the dry and tasteless scone of writer's block and plunged face-first into the warm, gooey, chocolatey pudding of inspiration. On occasion I have even been attacked by the ballistic cupcakes of self-realisation.  Once when I was drunk I threw up the overly rich shortbread of shame and regret. But that's another story.

If perhaps actual desserts were involved I'd be happier. Each emotion or scenario should come with its own dessert. And why not? People tend to cry when cutting onions... so it can therefore be assumed (shut the fuck up, Science) that onions are the direct cause of sadness. And if onions then why not other foods? Conversely, if this is true - and I'm assuming it is - then we could potentially avoid certain scenarios by the avoidance of the associated dessert! (Science, I told you to shut up.)

The heartbroken could dry their eyes and go on their merry way if they simply avoided icecream.  Imagine how much happier we'd all be if once a month women left the chocolate in the cupboard and forgot their PMR (Pre-Menstrual Rage)? Victims would be totally fine after car accidents and suchlike if so-called-helpful people would stop giving them hot sweet tea for shock! WINTER WOULD CEASE TO BE COLD IF YOU BASTARDS JUST STOPPED MAKING NOURISHING STEWS!!!

... OK that's it Science, I'm getting the bat.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

She's Bulgaria and owls need skincare products too

Ok, so I'll be the first to say it. I don't get technology. I'm not ashamed. And yes I'm not unaware of the irony in posting this on a blog on the interbuttz but you know what, I don't get the internet sometimes either. I don't understand the procedure for booking flights on the internet and how that's supposedly faster than using a cave wall and a charred stick. I don't - and I'm saying this in full acknowledgement of the far-too-much-money I spend on inappropriate items I don't need on eBay - I don't get online shopping. I don't really understand how Facebook is supposed to be some sort of tool for keeping in touch with the people in your life that are supposed to be important enough for you to make some sort of fucking effort to get off your arse and call them once in a while. 

Most of all I don't get my phone. I accept that the phone has evolved. I have made peace with the concept that they can now perform multiple tasks. I took to text messaging initially like a duck to astrophysics but I'm ok with it now. I have come to terms with the fact that a telephone can now quite conceivably be lost in your pocket, whereas less than my lifetime ago it could quite conceivably be used to beat a shark to death. That is if you were to have one with you whilst out swimming, which would never happen because they were anchored to the wall by a cord. BY A CORD, MOTHERFUCKERS.

I understand and live with the idea that you can now use a telephone for texting, calling, videocalling morse code cameras torchesgamescalculatorsinternetfacebookmusicplayers etc.


Because it's all kinds of fucked up! It makes sentences that should not be! And the manufacturers and programmers keep telling me that it's getting more intuitive but you know what it's not. It's getting more arbitrary. It's getting hypocritical. It's like having a retarded nanny that's telling you that smoking is inappropriate whilst it's fisting a Canadian goose wearing fishnets.

And some are relatively harmless and slightly amusing, I'll grant you. I was talking to a friend about Facey and apparently instead of being hilarious she's been promoted to being Bulgaria. Not sure if the phone meant the country or the Womble but either way I don't think it was a compliment.  During a conversation about skincare products the other day it was decided (by my phone) that the "sensitive STIFF is marketed to OWLS with skin conditions". Whilst the mental imagery conjured up was entertaining - REALLY?! I'm unconvinced I need to know about a world where scabby leprous owls are being treated with sensitive stiffs... O_o

And it's not just me. I've been called a B*Tchaikovsky by Facey. Other friends have fallen prey to it. I've been told that someone can't text me for a bit because the boss has just gotten back from lynch (may or may not have been a typo). In a forum where the phone makes you tap out the letters of a profanity one by one almost every damn time because it refuses to recognise such vulgarities, I have sent MY MOTHER a message informing her that my recently-delivered sister was not up to visitors to see her and the new baby because they were removing her epidural and she was then going to have her first SHIT. I thought she was having her first SHOWER but apparently my phone knew better.

But auto core cats stew. You cache annoys them. Even if t your hardest is going to taken. And Swype doesn't help mates. It enables airboats and fair eggnog too.  Technology doesn't have a vats intestacy in improving out luau skills as a culture. As a whole we're moving away from the weekend word. Video calling and text soak is neutering the langue.  And lolcats have add lid to August fork.  How do we stop this Shiplake bastard is Aston of our mother tongue? Is theft any hope? Or attach we slowly devolving to Cavendish low grunts and chat timings over a blazibg mammoth carcass in the living ruin?

... for duck's sake. You know wet I mean.