I've been living on Mount Tamborine for the last few months. For those of you unfamiliar with the place, think 'Garden of Eden' meets a tomb-less cemetery. That's to say, it's peaceful. Excruciatingly peaceful. Don't get me wrong (or get me wrong, what are you gonna do about it?), it's a wonderful, beautiful place. But if God had a library for deaf mute pensioners, this place is even quieter!
This complete lack of disturbance has unveiled an unwanted ability of mine. The ability to sleep. I sleep so much I feel like it's closer to staggered hibernation. Bon Jovi echoes my thoughts, well I guess I probably echo his when I think, "I've gotta live a lot of life, I can sleep when I'm dead". Teased hair AND a philosopher. A combination that shouldn't go together, like pork flavoured ice cream. But you'll try it. You'll try it.
So this gave rise to ponderings on what the world would be like if the body actually didn't need sleep. First of all, that ginger bearded actor who appears in those Captain Snooze advertisements would most likely be unemployed. Would there be such a thing as a prime time tv slot? The very idea of 9-5 could quite possibly be up heaved. Decorative throw pillows that serve absolutely no purpose at all other than to decorate (arguably) beds would finally be in their deserved place in non-existence.
How could one possibly make crucial decisions such as buying a sports car if one can't 'sleep on it'. Hangovers would be unbearable as you'd have to sweat it out wide awake. The alarm clock character in Disney's animated motion picture, Beauty and the Beast, would be utterly ridiculous and confusing. Bon Jovi would have one less hit song.
I don't want to go on. A sleepless world is no world I'd want to be a part of.
Friday, May 30, 2008
I'm scared of babies...
Greetings,
Being the easily influenced man-lemming that I have become, I've jumped on, (perhaps logged on), to the blogger.com blog wagon. For those of you who are familiar with my ramblings, you've either got great patience and time for reading this self confessed dribble or you're my parents. For those of you who don't know me but for some reason continue to read, most likely because I've strapped you to a chair in front of this blog and stuck your eyelids open with surgical tape, you'll find my opinions aren't educated, researched or factual in any way.
An unnecessary bullet point list:
I've recently quit 11 years of working in a sickly string of soul destroying offices. If only I had today's clarity and perspective when I got the first office job 4015 days ago. I would've told Vicki the call centre manager to cram it with walnuts and cartwheeled right the fuck out of there!
For the last eighteen days, I've been a bartender at an Irish bar in Surfers Paradise. Ah yes, Surfers Paradise, home to brightly coloured tube tops, platinum hair and the never say die theory that image is everything. Don't worry if you're not actually happy, just make sure everyone else thinks you are and I mean EVERYONE else. Your hairdresser, the postman, pedestrians, motorists, it all contributes to the popularity contest in your mind. Your poor deluded, ruski addled mind.
Cosmetic surgery and convertible Saabs aside, I do love this place and the plethora of preposterous people that inhabit it. As a bartender, I see all walks of life including some I'm surprised have the brain power and/or motor skills to actually walk at all. I love Americans, I really do. But the next one to come into my Irish bar and complain that we don't stock Budweiser will receive the right to have my bare arms smash them in the face followed by a keg of Guinness straight up the clacker!
Stay tuned for more nonsense as soon as said nonsense makes itself known. Nudity, there will definitely be full frontal nudity in the next episode.
Cheers!
(for some real blogging, check this bloke out:http://www.sitdownforthis.blogspot.com/)
Being the easily influenced man-lemming that I have become, I've jumped on, (perhaps logged on), to the blogger.com blog wagon. For those of you who are familiar with my ramblings, you've either got great patience and time for reading this self confessed dribble or you're my parents. For those of you who don't know me but for some reason continue to read, most likely because I've strapped you to a chair in front of this blog and stuck your eyelids open with surgical tape, you'll find my opinions aren't educated, researched or factual in any way.
An unnecessary bullet point list:
- I have blonde hair and a ginger beard
- I'm sustained by orphan tears and clubbed seal meat
- I often lie about what sustains me
- I am NOT a sophisticated sex robot
- Yo no puedo hablar español
- I'm scared of babies... that have an adult laugh
- And I’m 6’7” which I’m totally fine with, though my patience does wear thin when every pint swilling, slack jawed mooncalf with the intellectual ability to rival that of a chamber pot takes it upon themselves to remind me of my height with such observational gems as “You’re a monster aren’t ya!” and “please don’t eat my children!”
I've recently quit 11 years of working in a sickly string of soul destroying offices. If only I had today's clarity and perspective when I got the first office job 4015 days ago. I would've told Vicki the call centre manager to cram it with walnuts and cartwheeled right the fuck out of there!
For the last eighteen days, I've been a bartender at an Irish bar in Surfers Paradise. Ah yes, Surfers Paradise, home to brightly coloured tube tops, platinum hair and the never say die theory that image is everything. Don't worry if you're not actually happy, just make sure everyone else thinks you are and I mean EVERYONE else. Your hairdresser, the postman, pedestrians, motorists, it all contributes to the popularity contest in your mind. Your poor deluded, ruski addled mind.
Cosmetic surgery and convertible Saabs aside, I do love this place and the plethora of preposterous people that inhabit it. As a bartender, I see all walks of life including some I'm surprised have the brain power and/or motor skills to actually walk at all. I love Americans, I really do. But the next one to come into my Irish bar and complain that we don't stock Budweiser will receive the right to have my bare arms smash them in the face followed by a keg of Guinness straight up the clacker!
Stay tuned for more nonsense as soon as said nonsense makes itself known. Nudity, there will definitely be full frontal nudity in the next episode.
Cheers!
(for some real blogging, check this bloke out:http://www.sitdownforthis.blogspot.com/)
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