Mellipop

MELLIPOP AND THE FAT TEMP

2007-03-03T15:12:00.001+09:00

Ok, so I had a wee run-in with one of the temps at work yesterday. Those who know me in real life will be fairly surprised by this, because although my Mellipop alter-ego indulges her shadow-side far too readily with it's penchant for insensitivity, scorn and mock outrage, her real-life flesh-and-blood vessel is a far more accommodating and polite creature. A fairly robust sense of humour accompanies my dealings with others and it takes a lot in other people to truly annoy me.

Though I tend to avoid conflict over petty trivialities (avoiding "negativity" for the sake of "negativity"), I will gladly and wholeheartedly step up to the plate if someone is being a truly obnoxious arsehole, or if my sense of injustice is aroused. Which isn't all that often, but is readily and easily dispensed with. I’m no wallflower.

It's all a hangover from my days working in the "woo woo" (aka New Age) industry. Four solid years of spirituality shop-talk and self-help ramblings absorbed by osmosis and doused in copious amounts of beer. I still quote Louise Hay. I still do angel card readings for myself every day. And I have a stash of affirmation cards at work which I inflict on my colleagues daily.

But this temp really pissed me off. Her only crimes? Being utterly humourless and attempting to patronise me. The only two qualities I absolutely cannot tolerate in other people.

So I was sharing lunch in the kitchen with three of my fellow colleagues. A round-table take-the-piss-fest, with ample doses of laughter and a complete deficit of seriousness. The temp was sitting alone at the table behind us.

Temps have it tough, at the best of times. The ephemeral nature of their employment essentially renders them entirely invisible to the rest of the full time staff. Most temps understand this, and tend to actively cultivate this air of invisibility almost as a kind of protective shield. It's a case of, "yes I am invisible and I just want you to know that this is also by my choice, hence I will not look at you or speak to you, and will ensure that you never hear my name mentioned in the office".

Just to clarify my personal stance on the temp issue: I myself don’t adhere to this particular modus operandi. I talk to temps. It's because I tend to talk to anyone and everyone in my immediate sphere. Why deliberately undercut your potential audience?

So I had already previously spoken to the temp at issue. I can't remember her name (though to be fair I also suspect the reciprocal is true), but at this point I need to set down a few identifying markers so I can stop using the phrases "the temp in question" and/or "the temp at issue". Far too clunky. Plus, I’m lazy.

Ok, so this temp has it a little rougher than other temps. She is fat and has a beard. Not just slightly overweight. MORBIDLY OBESE. Not just a few errant chin hairs. A full-on GOATEE. God was very unkind with that particular combination of genetic material, though it's nothing that diet, exercise and permanent laser hair removal can't fix. Hence I am entirely justified in lacking any sympathy for her physical misfortune.

So anyway, just to be all anti-PC about the proceedings (as if you would expect anything less), we'll call her the Fat Temp from here on in, shall we?

The first mistake the Fat Temp made was to interject in our inane conversation about fish oil capsules. Interjections into conversations I don’t mind. Exterminations of conversations I do.

So we’re piss-taking with a vegetarian colleague, telling her that she needs more protein in her diet and should eat fish (though what she really needs is a few hefty Quarter Pounders and a juicy rump steak or two). So with a cavalier jocularity we suggest she ingest fish oil capsules instead.

VEGGIE BEC: No, but the fish have to die so they can get the oil.

MELLIPOP: Maybe they MILK the fish, so they don’t die.

(thinks) Ha ha, yes I’m hilarious really….. Even though no-one else is laughing….

FAT TEMP: (interjecting) Fish aren’t mammals, so they don’t produce milk and you can't extract oil through the mammary glands anyway and blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (being a smartarse) Alright. What about WHALES!

(thinks) Oops – she’s fat. Better cover in case I offended her.

MELLIPOP: DOLPHINS!

FAT TEMP: (patronisingly) Yeah well whales and dolphins aren’t fish, they’re blah blah blah blah blah

MELLIPOP: (dismissively, as she gets up and walks over to the bin in disgust) Mate, I was being FACETIOUS.

(thinks) Jesus! Can the fucking wildlife lectures already….. Patronise ME! I just used the word “facetious”, bitch. Make no mistake, I might be blonde and cute, but I’m not fucking stupid.

Aaah, yes….arrogant indeed, but this was my honest knee-jerk reaction to the Fat Temp’s clumsy attempts to assert some sort of heavy-fisted intellectual dominance over me. I hate being patronised. She might be fat and smart (or so she invariably thinks) but I’m thin and smart. I win. With added bonus points for not having unsightly facial hair.

So my colleagues and I continued with our conversation, which somehow veered onto a bizarre tangent about being drugged up on the train. Even despite my casual dismissal, Fat Temp again decides that her earnest and humourless input to the conversation is both valid and appreciated.

FAT TEMP: (self-righteously) My flatmate has diabetes, and was injecting insulin into her stomach on the train once, and the guard came along and whacked the needle out of her hand and the needle broke off in her stomach.

MELLIPOP: (sarcastically) Yeah, well maybe she should have set her alarm clock a little earlier then.

FAT TEMP: No! You can’t just do that. When you need to inject insulin, you have to do it. You can’t just do it whenever you feel like it.

MELLIPOP: I dunno, I think maybe I’d be organising my train trips around my insulin shots, though.

FAT TEMP: (getting agitated and demagogic) Well you can’t. If you knew anything at all about living with diabetes, you’d know that you can’t just do that. If you need to inject insulin, you just have to do it. You can’t just organise your life around it. It’s impossible.

MELLIPOP: (sardonically) I was just joking.

(thinks) Should I ask whether her diabetic flatmate is also morbidly obese? Do I go down that road, as exquisitely tempting as it is? No. Keep your mouth shut….. End this now Melli….

FAT TEMP: (launching tiresome rant) Well I hate it when people who don’t understand just think that……

MELLIPOP: (interjecting) MATE, I was JOKING. It’s what I do. It’s called having a SENSE of HUMOUR…..

(thinks) For fuckssake woman….. Let it go!

FAT TEMP: Yeah but…..

MELLIPOP: (bristling) Jeee-sus Christ, I WAS JUST KIDDING FOR CHRISSAKE….. Have you got a bloody sense of humour or what???

(thinks) AVOID AT ALL COSTS THE TEMPTATION TO PUT A DEFINITIVE END TO ALL THIS WITH SMARTARSE COMMENTS ABOUT MORBID OBESITY AND ITS LINK WITH DIABETES…. NO MELLI, NO!!

MELLIPOP: (overtly disregards Fat Temp and takes control) Right. Let’s take the piss out of Veggie Bec again now. Much more fun….

So having been once more categorically alienated from the conversation, the deflated Fat Temp subsequently leaves the room.

Looks of eyebrow-raised astonishment are briefly exchanged amongst the remaining four colleagues until we start to take the piss out of Veggie Bec again, and all resumes as normal. A couple of minutes later, heads are shaken and comments of “What the fuck was that all about?” are offered rhetorically before the whole incident is entirely dismissed from our minds.

Now I make it a point to studiously ignore the humourless Fat Temp. Despite her considerable heft, she has now officially rendered herself invisible. Why should I concern myself with humorless bores when the alternative is so much more readily available? Surely that doesn’t make me a bitch? And if it does, I really don’t care. I'm here for a good time, not a long time.

MELLIPOP AND AISLE-SEAT ASSHOLES

2007-03-02T18:24:00.000+09:00

OK, so note to rail commuters on packed suburban peak hour services: MOVE THE FUCK OVER.

So I’ve been commuting to the city for work over the last couple of months and have noticed a dramatic upsurge in a somewhat bizarre seating phenomena that threatens to tear at the fragile fabric of our urban society like a burgeoning (and most unwelcome) subculture with it’s own inexplicable behavioural codes of conduct.

What’s with the fucking aisle-hogging?

Surely anyone who has had the misfortune to have hopped onboard one of City Rail’s finest in the last few years would have noticed this. An inexplicable stubbornness to move over in one’s seat to allow other commuters to slide their tired arse in effortlessly beside them. What the fuck is that all about?

This isn’t Greater Union or Qantas Economy. There are no snack bars or other “conveniences” we require facilitated access to. So why this insistence on clinging stubbornly to the aisle spot and making your fellow commuters squeeze themselves through the Kate Moss-like micro-gap between seats and knees to park their sad arses in the window seat (after first having parking them in your face to get there).

At the risk of sounding repetitive. And perplexed. Just move the fuck over.

I think about some things a lot (and some other things a lot less than I should), one of which happens to be the behaviour of my fellow human beings. At the risk of sounding both pompous and deluded, I also fancy myself to be a fairly perceptive and insightful lass. But for the life of me, I can’t work out this obsession with the goddamn aisle.

Sitting rigidly in the aisle seat = people shoving their arses in your face to get in and out. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Annoying. Inconvenient.

Moving over in your seat = a seamless seating arrangement assurring the maximum comfort of all passengers. Logical. Courteous. Fucking obvious. And very fucking simple.

So what up?

Ok, so I understand that there is a tangible dichotomy in seating arrangements on City Rail trains. We have the two-seaters and the three-seaters on either side of the carriage. The Commuters Apartheid.

And, to be fair, I can extend my fecund powers of behavioural analysis to understand the profound difference between the two modes of seating, vis a vis the lamentable aisle-hogging behaviours I’ve witnessed of late.

Admittedly, three-seaters pose their own unique challenges, not least of which is the “Stranger Sandwich” (insert the word “Sweaty” as required). I can acknowledge that there may be those amongst our kin who aren’t all that keen on extended periods of thigh-and-torso rubbing with two total strangers (also acknowledging that “strange” takes on new meaning when we’re dealing with the typical patrons of public transport).

However, this rampant aisle-hogging in the two-seaters leaves me profoundly bereft of insight. We’re talking about the window seat here. The fucking window seat! Don’t we usually fight for this on airplanes? Though as an irrelevant aside (are there any other kind?) – I have noticed an interesting trend with online airline bookings and the relatively new facility of choosing your possie from an online seating plan. If the jaw-dropping stupidity of humankind is recorded for all of posterity in no other way, surely the overwhelming tendency for the majority of seats at the BACK OF THE PLANE to be reserved first has to speak true to our woefully ignorant hearts and minds.

For God’s sake people! Take it from me. If the fucking airbus is going down, YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. The hapless travellers in seats three D and three E are just as likely to meet as fiery and pulverising an end as the even more hapless passengers in seats thirty fucking three D and E. This is not an episode of Lost. Just to clarify. You are going down from 40 000 feet. YOU’RE ALL FUCKED. In fact, the folk at the front are actually better off because they generally perish instantly on impact. By choosing the seats at the back, you’re only afforded the luxury of dying more slowly - in addition to the added luxury of getting to the bathrooms more quickly. Before you die. It’s a trade-off.

Anyway, so back to my spurious point about suburban rail commuters. As far as I can see, all you get in the aisle seat is elbows, handbags and other assorted bodily parts connecting painfully with your head as the rickety old train weaves and winds its way over the raggedy old patchwork of railway tracks constituting Sydney’s “complex” rail system (quoting official NSW Government PR material here).

The window seat is king. No accidental blows to the head. No uncomfortable squeezing in and out. No connection between your arse and some random stranger’s face. And – best of all - no connection between your face and some random stranger’s fat, sweaty arse.

Just move the fuck over for godssake.

(And this is Mellipop’s grand comeback? Two long-necks of Tooheys New and too many “fucks”. Bodes well.)

Editors note: Just to clarify for any bemused punters, the previous several posts are old material that I've recycled from the archives to disguise the fact that Mellipop was in the deep midst of a profound and protracted blogging rut (which she has hopefully now overcome). Hence all the quizzical chronological references to Perth and jobs I've long left behind. They are all posts most definitely past their use-by date. I just like them, is all.

MELLIPOP AND THE NON-SMOKER

2007-02-07T11:55:00.000+09:00

Ok, so where do you fucking self-righteous non-smokers get off lecturing me about my lifestyle choices?

So we had after-work drinks at the pub yesterday. Mistaking the informal gathering for an anti-smoking seminar, one of my colleagues took it upon himself to lecture me about my smoking. Guess what I learned? And I want to share this secret cabal of non-smokers wisdom with my fellow puffing pariahs, in the hope that I can save you from certain death too.

SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU.

SMOKING CAN KILL YOU.

SMOKING IS HARMFUL TO OTHERS.

Holy shit, it was all I could do to stop myself getting up and hurtling across the room to hurl my packet of cancer-sticks out the window and into the path of oncoming traffic. So I lit up another one instead.

My colleague then had the audacity to end his uninvited lecture by saying, "After all I've just said, how can you possibly light up another cigarette?".

Umm...let's see.

1. I think you're a pompous jerk and I have absolutely no respect for your otherwise enlightening tutorial
2. I quite enjoy smoking
3. I have a half-full glass of beer in my other hand
4. I am in a legally-sanctioned smoking area of the pub - these are as rare as non-lecturing non-smokers these days
5. I am hoping that if I ceaselessly chain-smoke in your presence, you might just drop dead on the spot from an acute case of saturation passive smoking
6. I feel that it is far more polite to utilise a cigarette to sublimate my otherwise impolite desire to spit in your self-righteous face

I then spent the rest of the evening deliberately segregated at the other end of the room, enaging in a mass-suicide pact with my fellow smokers. Which is otherwise known as having a couple of brews with a fag or two thrown into the mix. But without all the lectures. This is known as "Smoker's Apartheid". We simply don't want to mix with the likes of you, who get off on warning us about the certainty of our impending death. Like you fuckers are really gonna live forever.

I mean, I'm not here to defend smoking. Let me just inform my benevolently concerned non-smoking brothers and sisters that we do already know it's not the most healthy of lifestyle choices. What I am here to defend is the right to make that LEGAL lifestyle choice, without being constantly badgered by these self-appointed guardians of public health.

WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU PEOPLE GET OFF ANYWAY?

What the fuck does someone who has never smoked before, know about the reasons why people smoke? And the reasons why we find it difficult to quit smoking, if the notion ever enters our head to stop. Like their few words of smarmy, unsolicited advice - chosen carefully from the wide pool of anti-smoking propaganda - is going to make me stop all of a sudden and say,

"Hey, YOU'RE RIGHT you know! This IS a rather quite silly thing to do. Let's go jump in a dinghy and save the fucking whales or something. Oh, and please know that you have my undying gratitude for SAVING MY LIFE. You're a fucking HERO mate, that's what you are".

And reformed smokers are THE WORST. They are even more self-righteous than non-smokers. They masquerade their desperate desire to stick a bunger in their gob with this lofty air of moral superiority that pisses me the hell off. Go join your fellow non-smokers for a massive moral circle jerk and leave me to die with my ciggies in peace.

Fucking non-smokers. There should be a law against them.

MELLIPOP AND MR MUSHROOM HEAD

2007-02-07T11:53:00.000+09:00

Ok, so it’s 3:30 on a Monday afternoon and you’re tripping off your head on a combination of acid, mushrooms and alcohol.

Question: Who do you choose to sit next to on a busy commuter train?

Answer: Mellipop.

Yes, your resident “freak magnet” friend and narrator got herself a live one today on the way home just now.

So I’m sitting quietly on the train, reading my book (Marianne Faithfull’s autobiography, for the trainspotters amongst us) and am contentedly engrossed until a huge swaggering bear of a man staggers onto the train and falls into the seat next to me, leaving his screaming gal pal fumbling at the ticket machine on the platform as the train pulls away. The man reeks as though he has just recently bathed in a tub full of white spirits.

He is ranting incoherently, swaying into me and calling me a cunt. He is also pointing at the poor little Indian guy on the other side of him and is calling him a cunt too. I inwardly cringe while maintaining a neutral expression, my eyes fastened on my book. This is what I like to call my “Crazy Dog” technique. The hypothesis on which it is founded is that crazy people - like crazy dogs - are best neutralised by avoiding all eye contact and not making any sudden movements which might otherwise antagonise them. You do this until you determine the level of threat involved and then proceed to act accordingly.

My initial diagnosis was not a positive one. I naturally assumed from the guy’s stench that he was a raving mad drunk. Raving mad drunks are often only one small step away from being aggressive and violent. Especially ones that point at you and call you a cunt.

MR MUSHROOM: So he’s a cunt, and she’s a cunt and it’s like the male and the female, and the penis and the vagina. I’ll never understand these cunts. (pointing at me and the young Indian guy sitting on his opposite side)

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Oh dear. This guy is drunk off his nut and has just had a domestic with his woman. Only four more stops until North Fremantle.

MR MUSHROOM: Yeah so I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid man. I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid. I’m so fucking tripping. Perth has shit fucking drugs man. These fucking cunts are from Perth (pointing at me and the Indian guy again). I’ll never understand these cunts. I’m from Melbourne, man. Melbourne has the best fucking drugs. Coke, acid, fucking mushrooms, speed. Perth has SHIT drugs. Perth is fucked, man. They’re all cunts. Sydney has great fucking drugs.

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Phew!!! He’s only on acid. Thank God! He’s harmless.

(listens with more interest now that the imminent threat of violence has diminished)

So, it's quite ironic that as soon as I find out that he is on a “harmless” combination of illegal hallucinogenic drugs - and not alcohol - my fear of him completely diminishes, and I can begin to enjoy our little interlude as unexpected drive-time entertainment. What does that say about so-called “legal” drugs like alcohol?

Anyway, so at this point I think, what the hell, the guy’s talkative. And seemingly harmless. Might as well talk back to him. I mean, he had acknowledged me - even though he called me a cunt. It’s only polite to acknowledge him back. And I'm nothing if not polite.

MELLIPOP: So, where you from?

MR MUSHROOM: MELBOURNE, man!! This cunt here is from Perth (pointing to the Indian guy again, who still looks frozen with terror). And he still lives with his mother. And his mother is his fucking wife. His mother is his wife!

MELLIPOP: And I’m from Sydney.

MR MUSHROOM: You’re from Sydney? Where you from in Sydney?

MELLIPOP: Leichhardt, Newtown….

MR MUSHROOM: (eyes lighting up) Really? You got any coke?

MELLIPOP: Umm….no. I’m in Perth now man. The drugs are shit, remember.

MR MUSHROOM: YEAH!! They’re all cunts here. Perth is fucking shit!

So even drug-fucked Melbournites know the score. PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT. I’m totally straight, he’s totally fucked and yet two ex-pat East Coasters still managed to bond over the fact that PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT.

MELLIPOP: So what are you doing over here, if you hate it so much?

MR MUSHROOM: I’m importing, man. I’m setting up and importing.

MELLIPOP: (train pulls into North Fremantle) Yeah alright. Enjoy the rest of your trip, mate.

(thinks) Brilliant pun Mellipop! Shame the guy’s too fucked up to fully appreciate it.

And then I got off the train and walked home. Monday afternoons, huh? Crazy.

MELLIPOP HUMILIATES THE OLD AND BLIND

2007-01-12T15:23:00.000+09:00

Ok, so I have a chronic case of "foot in mouth" disease. See, my problem is - I know everything. And I have this compulsive need to tell everyone that I know everything. Plus, I have to be a freakin' smart-arse ALL THE TIME because I have been TOUCHED BY THE HAND OF GOD and I am PERFECT.

Supermarkets are full of easy targets for the insufferably sarcastic like me. The aged, infirm, infant, mentally disabled. No one escapes my razor-sharp wit.

Yeah, ok so I mortified myself the other day. Walking down the bread aisle at my local supermarket during our weekly shop, my attention was momentarily distracted by a shrinkwrappped tray of six freshly baked iced-donuts for only $1.99. I mean, Donut King sell piddly-sized donuts for $1.10 each. I was in the midst of a guilt-ridden internal dialogue regarding said tray of donuts when it hits me. Literally. A shopping trolley. Driven by what appears to be an intoxicated elderly woman.

She subsequently issues a belated apology and weaves her way down the rest of the aisle. Having been horsewhipped into politeness at all costs by my parents, I replied, "That's OK, mate". Now, that should have been the end of it. I should have went back to the donuts and forgotten all about the searing pain in my left hip.

But no, I take the opportunity to make wise about potential lawsuits and the supermarket's responsibility to breath test geriatric customers before granting them the use of a shopping trolley. Forcibly restraining my partner so that he could witness the woman's difficulties navigating the aisle and thus appreciate the the full extent of my mean-spirited sarcasm. And laughing. And feeling like, yeah, I really zinged her good!

So anyway, I turned my attention back to the shopping list. Whizzing through the rest of the aisles with the finish line in sight, my partner had his head stuck in one of the frozen food freezers and I turned around from the ice cream cabinet to see that our serial collider was back for a bit more biffo. Her and her trolley were headed straight for my partner's round peachy buttocks, still jutting out from the freezer. With a wry smile on my face, I pointedly called out for him to watch out and pulled him back to safety by the waistband of his jeans.

It was only then, as she passed under my wry gaze, that I got a chance to get a look at her face. My first "oh fuck" realisation came when I saw her unfocused, UNSEEING eyes. My second "oh fuck" realisation came when I realised that in addition to pushing her trolley (which is a difficult enough chore on its own), the lady in question was also using a white cane at the same time.

Look, not one of my finest moments, I'm the first to admit that. I still can't help but wonder how many of my snarky comments she actually heard. I'm so wretched....

MELLIPOP AND RETAIL TORTURE

2007-01-12T15:22:00.000+09:00

Ok, so am feeling fairly blank again this morning as I stare down the barrel of 9 hours at the record store. Which is fine. But this also means that I have to listen to the new Robbie Williams "Best Of" album for NINE HOURS STRAIGHT. Again.... Store policy. The alternative is to play the new Rod Stewart "Best Of" album over the same time period, which is just unnecessary cruelty.

The store is also located next to a couple of three-foot high Christmas snowmen that dance and sing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow" all freakin' day. And you get home and all you can do for the rest of the evening is walk around singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow", because the language centre in the frontal lobe of your brain has been temporarily colonised by a couple of Christmas decorations. Weird.

The retail environment: Perfecting the art of torture...

MELLIPOP AND THE MULLET

2007-01-12T15:21:00.000+09:00

Ok, so I was at the record store today and, like most days, managed to make a right dick of myself.

A few nights ago, the Channel 7 current affairs program broadcast a five minute feature on a competition run by one of the local radio stations. A “Best Mullet” contest. So Anton and I watched with avid glee this freakish parade of fat-woman mullets, long-term prisoner mullets, ADD-kid mullets and your garden-variety bogan mullet. I mean, mullets are a dime a dozen in Fremantle, anyway. No biggie.

So I was at work today and the guy from the loading dock brought up a few boxes of stock that had arrived for the store. As soon as I saw him I did the classic double-take. Where had I seen that mullet before?

As soon as the penny dropped I went bounding across the shop floor, squealing “I saw you on TV the other night!”, loud enough for half of Fremantle to hear. I got a kind of quizzical look from Mullet Guy, and yet pushed on regardless. “Yeah – I saw you on Channel Seven. You won the ‘Best Mullet in Perth’ competition. I SAW you!”

Mullet Guy gave me a priceless look of utter confusion and slowly shook his head in response to my enthusiastic assertions, not sure if he should laugh or be pissed off. And no doubt wondering, "Who the fuck is this sheila, anyway?". And I’m still there insisting that it was DEFINITELY him that I saw. Like he somehow forgot entering and winning a Mullet competition that was also filmed by a camera crew from Channel 7.

All the while my colleagues were just laughing hysterically, and staring at me with the kind of stunned, “Oh my God, Mel WHAT were you thinking” looks that I have seen innumerable times before in my life. And then Mullet Guy joined in and they all laughed at me, while I stood there sheepish and blushing like all buggery. Now Mullet Guy keeps winking at me whenever he walks past. We have a bond now, you see.

MELLIPOP GETS FUCH'D

2007-01-12T15:20:00.001+09:00

Ok, so I had an amusing phone experience this afternoon. I’m working today and I have to make a call to a company called FUCHS LUBRICANTS. Yes. Fuchs Lubricants. Founded by a German bunch of Fuchs in 1931, according to their website.

So I’m trying to decipher just exactly how one would pronounce this correctly. Do I risk saying “FUCKS” and embarrass whoever picks up at the other end (and myself), or do I say “FOOKS” and risk looking like a uninformed dickhead.

Before I pick up the phone I carefully script what I am going to say, a conversation that completely excludes any mention of the business name in question. So I look on my sheet and it says I need to speak with Joe. And so I dial. The wrong number, as it turns out….

The conversation proceeds as follows:

MELLIPOP: Yeah, hi, this is Mellipop from Whatever Job Inc, I’d like to speak with Joe please.

JOEY (female voice) : Ok…Well I’m a Joe with a “y” on the end. I'm Joey. (sounds confused) What company are you calling for?

MELLIPOP: Umm…..

(Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!! I can’t say “FUCKS” because she’ll think this is a crank call or I’ll just look stupid for not knowing how to pronounce it correctly……Fuuuuck!!!! Shit!… What do I say…?)

MELLIPOP: Umm…yeah…..F….U…C…H…S.... Lubricants.

(Quickfire internal dialogue: Yeah, great idea Mellipop. SPELL it out really quickly. Coward!)

JOEY: Sorry, what company was that?

MELLIPOP: (Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!!!!!)

Umm…it says here…I think…Fooks Lubricants.

JOEY: No…..I think you’ve got the wrong number darl.

MELLIPOP: Right. Thanks. Sorry about that……

(Quickfire internal dialogue: FUCK!!! Now I have to make this same freakin' phone call all over again!)

Shaken and confused, I make the phone call again immediately. Dialled correctly this time. And was relieved to hear a perky receptionist at the other end of the line saying "FOOKS Lubricants, this is Kelly speaking, how may I help
you?".

For some reason, I felt an instant empathy with her. I really wanted to plead with Kelly to get out, for her own sake. I instantly envisaged all the lame-ass innuendo she would have to endure from the predominately male, mining, automotive and industrial lubricant clientele. And the horrible pick-up conversations she would be having in pubs.

DRUNK HORNY GUY: Yeah, so where do you work gorgeous?

KELLY: I work for Fuchs.

DRUNK HORNY GUY: (winking salaciously at his mates) Alright boys, I got me a little go'er here.....

And what about the fate of Kelly at parties. I mean, party conversations are generally excruciating. You circle the room, having the same basic conversation with everyone. Promptly forgotten. Ignoring the patronising questions from people who have better jobs than you do. Or who own their own house instead of renting. Imagine poor Kelly's plight....

NEW ACQUAINTANCE: Yes, I'm the national account manager at Clinique. Since I've taken over the role, we've increased overall market share by 20%. So what do you do, Sally?

KELLY: I'm a receptionist at Fuchs. And my name is Kelly.

NEW ACQUAINTANCE: Are you serious? You work at a place called Fuchs? That's so fucking hilarious! What does Fuchs do, Nelly?

KELLY: Lubricants. It's Kelly.

NEW AQUAINTANCE: Get out! Ha ha you are so yanking my chain right now Melly!

KELLY: No, I'm not. But say another word and I might just punch you in the twat.

I wanted to tell her that there is more to the world than working reception for a boring old lubricants manufacturer with a stupidly inapproriate name. That she can DO MUCH BETTER! That perky girls CAN DO ANYTHING! That she must GET OUT AT ALL COSTS!

But instead, I just asked to speak with Joe. Career counselling receptionists is not part of my job description.

MELLIPOP'S ONLINE DIAGNOSIS

2007-01-12T15:20:00.000+09:00

Ok, so the situation in Perth re: doctors is obscene to a healthy Medicare-levy taxpayer like myself. Forget the trusty Medicare card as your ticket to free health care, in Perth DOCTORS EXPECT TO GET PAID! Cash exchanges hands. Then you have to line up with all the dirty unwashed at the Medicare office to get your piddly cash rebate, which generally doesn't cover the full cost of the consultation. Abso-fucking-lutely criminal! The government here should be BLOODY ASHAMED of themselves!

See, I go to the doctor only once or twice a year, for a total of about five minutes a pop while they write me out a new prescription for the pill, take my blood pressure and ask me when I had my last pap smear. And I lie to them and say that I've already had one this year so THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE TO POKE AROUND IN MY PINK BITS FOR THE SMEAR. That's what a $500 Medicare levy gets you. Ten minutes medical attention a year and the warm glow one invitably gets when they know their hard earned money is supporting the obese, the elderly, and the hypochondriacs that fill GP waiting rooms around the country everywhere.

Anyway, because I refuse to support the user-pays (and pays and pays) system currently in place here in Perth, I have been forced to go online for my diagnosis. Now most online diagnostic tools ask for your credit card number before they ask for your symptoms, so I had to resort to a veterinary website that was dishing out the good stuff for free. I mean, we're all freakin' mammals, right.

Now the first choice I had to make was whether I was a cat or a dog. Now I much prefer the nature of dogs as an animal, but alas, feel that I embody more of the characteristics of the feline species. Selfishness, laziness, moodiness, and arrogance. Plus I like being alone and generally enjoy taunting others with my superior cunning.

So the next category was to select which was the affected area: eyes, ears, anus etc. So I chose "internal", because migraines are fairly intangible monsters. From the list of symptoms I was able to select "Vomiting" and "Swollen Abdomen" (but I think that the last one is more the result of my early middle-age spread than my migraines).

Thankfully, it was not necessary to select "Worms (look like rice segments) near anus". Not this time, anyway.

So I clicked submit and the website gave me my diagnosis. Turns out, I have BABESIOSIS! So my migraines, it seems, are the inevitable result of my ass-kicking babe-licious good looks. IT'S NOW OFFICIAL - I AM SO GOOD-LOOKING IT HURTS!

Thankfully in humans, Babesiosis is generally not fatal. Besides the migraines and nausea, other symptoms I suffer from include: being constantly hit on by blokes in pubs, being stopped by photographers in the street begging me to pose for them, being harrassed constantly by the producers of reality TV show Search for a Supermodel, having men run up to me in the street with bunches of flowers in spontaneous displays of love-struck awe and simply being captivated by my own image every morning in the mirror. That's why good-looking people are always, late, you see. It's the Babesiosis.

I tell you, it's such a relief to finally be diagnosed...... I always felt so ABNORMAL. Now I know it's not my fault. It's just the Babesiosis.

In cat's however, Babesiosis is an entirely more serious health matter. And I quote:

Babesiosis is a disease transmitted by a certain species of ticks. It is a single cell parasite that attacks the red blood cells causing anemia. Some signs may include anemia, not eating, lethargy, high temp, vomiting, dehydration and jaundice. In some cases the spleen and liver may be enlarged. Your veterinarian can properly diagnosis this disease with an examination of the blood. Treatment is highly effective.
AREA: BLOOD DISEASES, MENTAL/BEHAVIOR, INTERNAL
SYMPTOMS: ANEMIA, NOT EATING, LETHARGY, HIGH TEMP, VOMITING, DEHYDRATION, JAUNDICE

Tough break, pussycats.

And tough break, Perth GPs. There's $50 you won't be getting from me.....

MELLIPOP GETS PHYSICAL

2007-01-12T15:18:00.001+09:00

OK, so what's the ettiquette when you physically threaten a mate's girlfriend?

It's now been TWO WHOLE WEEKS since that fateful New Years Eve and I've still yet to hear from my best mate. Not a single phone call, email, SMS or AVO (that's a restraining order, for those of you who just missed the punchline there..)

I mean c’mon – it’s Mellipop here! I am an absolute pussy when it comes to physical intimidation. I WAS JOKING! I haven’t hurt anyone physically since I seriously kneed my brother in the balls when I was 10. And he’s sired two children since then SO THERE WAS NO PERMANENT DAMAGE DONE! I mean, he started it anyway….

Ok, so here’s a quick NYE re-cap for new Mellipop users. Put yourself in my shoes. So I call my cobber in Sydney on NYE and he puts his new girlfriend on the phone, whom I’ve never met or spoken to before. We say hello and chat for a bit about how great this guy is. All very amiable. Then I threaten to break her legs if she dumped him. That’s all.

I WAS JUST BEING PROTECTIVE! I WAS TRYING TO BE NICE!

What if I told you that she called my mother a whore? What then, huh? Ok, so she didn’t actually SAY that my mother was a whore. Or even IMPLY that my mother was a whore. Or allege that my mother was in any way at all connected with the Sex Industry. In fact, she didn’t really say anything nasty about me OR my mother at all. But my point is, SHE COULD HAVE! I mean, that conversation was just getting WAY OUT OF HAND!

You understand, don’t you Baz?

So all my closest mates are blokes, right. To be honest, I love meeting their new girlfriends because they often find me a little bit intimidating and most-likely suspect that if I haven’t already slept with their boy during the course of our longstanding history, then I am already hatching sinister plans to add that puzzlesome sexual oversight to my current To-Do list.

So for the record, can I just state for all past, present and future girlfriends of my best mates:

I HAVE NOT SLEPT WITH A SINGLE ONE OF THEM.

They’re all yours girls, unsullied by the evil taint of Mellipop….. Enjoy!

Maybe I probably should apologise to my mate for the NYE incident, though. Maybe…. OK. So I’ll apologise. LOOK, I’M REALLY SORRY I THREATENED TO BREAK YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S LEGS.

She knew I was joking, right?

And YOU know I’m joking, right Baz?

I DID like her, you know. She seemed like a nice girl. I mean, you KNOW I'm a deadset twat, but that's why you love me, right?

Call me B…. xoxox

MELLIPOP LOVES MEATLOAF

2007-01-12T15:18:00.000+09:00

Ok, so lately I have been walking that fine line between being ironic, and being a bogan.

My favourite new item of clothing - liberated from a local St Vincent de Paul store – happens to be a tight-fitting t-shirt from Meatloaf’s 2004 tour of Australia. I pounced on the bugger as soon as I saw it, the delectable taste of postmodern irony rising up in the back of my throat like the sweetest-tasting bile. A few alterations (or should that be altercations) with a pair of scissors later, and the transformation was complete. I had the perfect item of take-the-piss kitsch coture to call my own.

Or so I thought. The voice of my “inner-indie chick” kept telling me that I was a walking testament to the power of self-referential irony. Until my middle-aged hairdresser mistook me for a bogan later that very same day.

The conversation went something like this:

HAIRDRESSER: (lip discernibly curled up in distaste) Oh, so you like Meatloaf, do you….?

MELLIPOP: (momentarily stunned) Oh…..NO! GOD no! I HATE Meatloaf... The t-shirt is meant to be ironic….

HAIRDRESSER: (looks completely blank) Oh.

(head tilts slightly to the left like a dog trying to understand a new command)

What do you mean, ironic….?

MELLIPOP : (stunned again but quickly reinstates a patronising composure) Um…. Ironic. It’s like…. Taking the piss…..yeah? It’s a joke.

HAIRDRESSER: (assumes an extraordinary facial expression that simultaneously combines both perfect understanding and utter confusion) Oh right. Sure. Ha ha that’s funny…..

(continues to look at me in an oddly confused way, as though she is entirely unable to comprehend why anyone would wear a t-shirt of someone they professed utter disdain for)

This was my first brush with the possibility that maybe my idea of irony is someone else’s interpretation of sincerity. To be thought of as a Meatloaf fan - that disturbs me. I mean, how can anyone like Meatloaf WITHOUT irony. What kind of person would that make me. A fucking bogan - that’s what! I didn’t move 4000 miles away to escape my westie roots for nothing you know. I might as well pack up my Meatloaf t-shirt and move back to Blacktown, for all the progress I’ve made.

That’s the inherent danger of irony. You’re always at risk of becoming the joke yourself, when what you’re really trying to do is to smugly host it at someone else’s expense.

Which is where the presumptuous girl in the next real-life anecdote got it completely wrong. Ok I ‘fess up. It was me….. Irony got me again.

The following incident took place during the course of the day of training I had to do when I got offered the job at Virgin Music, replete with 50 other fresh-faced new recruits. Based on their openly-stated recruitment policy, the Virgin HR team sought to choose only the cutest, hippest young things from the pool of 4000 candidates who were interviewed for positions. And me.

One of the many excruciating team-building exercises we had to partake in that day involved each of us standing up and telling everyone what our favourite movie and recording artist is. And as an aside, it’s amazing how many Michael Jackson fans there are still, considering the fact that he hasn’t recorded anything remotely decent since the early 80’s.

Now anyway, this perky blonde girl gets up to speak, and she would have been all of 19 years old. She tells us that her favourite artist is Meatloaf. Now I think that she’s taking the piss right, so I immediately burst into hysterical laughter. Then I notice that no-one else is laughing and that everyone in the room is glaring at me with sharply berating eyes. Including the 19 year Meatloaf fan, who looks somewhat stunned and less than pleased with my unexpected outburst.

I felt bad for her at first. But seriously, why should she be spared the full extent of our (read: my) vehement ridicule and scorn? Think about it for a second…. This girl has the ENTIRE HISTORY OF WESTERN POPULAR MUSIC to choose from, and her favourite artist is fucking MEATLOAF!?! You know what I think? She might be very nice but that girl is an absolutely clueless fuckwit and she deserves to know that about herself. And I reserve the right to make that clear to her.

Because I am a perfect study in self-aware irony.

And she is just a dumb bogan.

MELLIPOP AND THE TATTOO

2007-01-12T15:17:00.000+09:00

OK, so I've been seriously thinking about getting a tattoo for a few years now (I can right this moment hear my mother wailing from 4000kms away).

Something small. Something discrete. Something that means something.

It's something I keep putting off doing, not because I am unsure about the unquestionable permanency of branding my skin with a symbol that will last forever. But for the denial of what that symbol stands for. The ineradicable truth of what that symbol means to me - which is something I have lost forever. Something which goes much further than skin deep.

I lost one of my best friends almost four years ago. Someone I still think about at least once every day. More than just a friend, she was the little sister I never biologically had, and she was only 17 when she was killed in a car accident. Of the many things we excitedly talked about, were all the things we would do together when she finally turned 18. Clubbing, pubbing, credit-card shopping, prowling for boys.

Me with my few extra years of valuable experience accompanying her on those many rites of passage that make themselves available to us when we legally come-of-age. Me dragging her out onto the cheesy dance floor. Me warning her about the dangers of mixing drinks. Me watching over her maternally while she vomited in the dingy toilet cubicle at some dingy suburban nightclub, making all the appropriate, all-knowing, non-verbal gestures of comfort and sympathy while holding her hair back from the mess. Me kicking the worthless asses of the hordes of young men who dared to mess with her on my shift.

The other thing we talked about was that we were both going together to get tattoos when she turned 18, so neither of us could pussy out when it came to the pain factor. By “neither of us” I meant her. We both agreed that I was the brave one and she was the pussy when it came to the pain factor. I was going to have to hold her hand through it. I never knew exactly what my eternal epidermal totem was going to be, but thought that I still had plenty of time up my sleeve to work it out before the clock ticked around to the big 1-8 for my little sister. Turns out I had more time than I ever could have envisaged, and almost four years down the track I’m still tatt-free.

Amy always knew what tattoo she was going to get. In between bumming my fags, talking about boys, dying my hair some unspeakable colour from the latest Loreal home hair-care range, complaining about her teachers and updating me on the latest bitchy in-fighting going on at school, Amy would talk about her horse. And all things horse-related. And she’d play me the theme song from “The Man From Snowy River” on her piano just about every afternoon while I’d sit and drink endless cups of coffee. She hated playing the piano but she loved playing that song.

Amy wanted a galloping horse as her tattoo.

I quite dislike horses, myself. Truth be told, they terrify me. That didn’t stop Amy from trying to get me on that damn horse of hers. And as persistent as she was, she never did get me anywhere near the stirrups. The closest I ever got was feeding the darn thing carrots through the paddock fence, with my arm at a full superhero stretch. She always thought that was hilarious. But it didn’t stop her from continuing to try.

As it turns out, I never got on her horse and she never got her tattoo. So for the last three years I have been thinking about getting that horse tattoo for her. But I keep pussying out because of the pain factor. Not the physical pain of going through the process, but the emotional pain of what that process now represents, and how fundamentally it differs from what was supposed to be a celebration of our love, our friendship and our misguided sense of youthful immortality. Now - in addition to those other things - it represents mortality, mourning and separation.

So that’s why I haven’t yet gotten that tattoo. The pain factor. I guess maybe I did need her to hold my hand after all.

MELLIPOP AND THE DEAD KOOKABURRA AKA 20 GOOD REASONS NOT TO GO ON HOLIDAYS WITH YOUR PARENTS

2007-01-12T15:16:00.000+09:00

Ok, so an initial disclaimer is called for. I absolutely love my folks and had a fabulous time during their stay with us in Perth. But gosh darn it, they are simply so gosh darn easy to take the piss out of. Keep in mind I kept all the good, generous (ie unfunny stuff) out of the following. Love you Mum & Dad!

1. You and your parents visit Margaret River, an area famed for its plethora of boutique wineries. After tasting a variety of different wines at one of the vineyards, your parents’ sole purchase is a $9 CASK of red wine.

2. You overhear your mother telling the haughty staff member, “That’s OK darl, I just mix it with lemonade anyway”. The haughty staff member smirks. You cringe.

3. Your father insists on eating cheese and tomato sandwiches everywhere you go. For some reason that really irritates you.

4. Your father insists on pointing out every bit of roadkill you pass on the five hour drive.

5. Your father also – inexplicably - insists on pointing out every Bayswater Rental white Hyundai you pass. This makes absolutely no sense to you because your parents have hired a white Hyundai from Europcar. This habit becomes alarmingly irritating rather quickly.

6. Your father insists on saving an injured kookaburra from the middle of the road – in the middle of Nowhere, WA. You and your parents shortly arrive at your intended destination – the Treetops Walk – and are dismayed to realise that your plan of dumping the injured kookaburra on some unsuspecting staff member will not eventuate because it appears that there are no facilities there. Just lots of trees and tourists.

7. You and your parents subsequently make a 30 kilometre round trip detour to a wildlife park to try and save the injured kookaburra.

8. Your father gives frequent pep talks to the ailing creature on your lengthy journey to the wildlife park. These pep talks start out as “You’re alright mate – we’re on the way to get help”, continue as “C’mon mate, we’re almost there – hold on” and descend into “Don’t die on me now, you scumbag”.

9. Your parents think that the kookaburra has been “sleeping”, on your arrival at the wildlife park. You take one look at the lifeless kookaburra and pronounce it DOA. You also take the opportunity to snidely remark that “sleeping” and “dead” look remarkably similar.

10. Your parents then get sucked into paying $30 entry into the shitty wildlife park you never wanted to visit anyway. The park superintendents promise to give the dead kookaburra a suitable burial for your trouble.

11. You and your parents leave the shitty wildlife park and head back to the Treetops Walk, your initial stop with the at-that-stage yet-to-be-dead kookaburra. Still reeling from the devastation of your failed rescue mission, you head down a bush track to reveal that there is, in fact, a souvenir shop and ticket sales booth at the attraction. Even more ironically, there is also a “Wildlife Rescue Centre” manned by a volunteer who has cages full of the fortunate wildlife she has saved in the past. You can’t help but think that the poor little bugger would still be alive if they had maybe posted some signs up around the place. Your father is crushed.

12. Your father offers you beer at 7 in the morning. Faced with the prospect of a full day in the car with your parents, you seriously consider the offer, but ultimately decline. Six hours later you regret your decision to forgo the beer.

13. You are constantly cold because all you pack are swimmers and boardshorts for the trip, to a region that subsequently boasts of itself as being “The Edge of Antarctica” - and for good reason. Your father offers his jacket for you to wear. You emphatically refuse to wear the jacket, claiming that is still smeared with the taint of roadkill, having been employed to wrap the dead kookaburra in. Your father has a dummy spit and calls you a “fucking idiot”. You choose to remain cold, regardless.

14. Your mother insists that you stop at shitty tourist places like the Busselton Jetty, which she insists you walk all the way to the end and back. After what seems like hours, you complete the journey and stop to read the sign posted at the start of the jetty while you wait for your mother with her gammy knee to crawl her way back to dry land. Reading the sign, you are informed that it is the longest jetty in the Southern Hemisphere. Elementary mathematics calculate that you have walked four whole kilometres of fucking jetty.

15. Your mother somehow manages to lock herself in the hire car - twice - in the space of ten minutes. Your father has yet another dummy spit and calls your mother a “fucking idiot”.

16. Your parents choose to dine at the cheap-ass restaurant at the cheap-ass $50 a night motel. After much argument, and a spirited dummy spit or two by your father, you relent and decide to risk food-poisoning for the sake of family harmony. You and your parents rock up to the restaurant at 6:30pm to be told that without a booking you cannot be seated for dinner until 7:30pm. Your father has a dummy spit and refuses to wait. You decide to eat at Hungry Jacks instead. When you turn up to Hungry Jacks, you are unable to enter the restaurant because of renovations. You suggest drive-thru instead. Your mother refuses to do drive-thru because she needs to see the menu first. You stop for Chicken Treat instead. On returning to the motel your father has another dummy spit because someone else has parked in your car space.

17. Your father insists that you order seafood every time you eat out for dinner, even though every time you eat out for dinner, you tell your father, yet again, that you dislike seafood. Your father subsequently has a dummy spit whenever you order anything from the menu that isn't seafood

18. Your mother steals some rosemary from a display home site so she can use it to cook with that evening’s lamb chops.

19. Your father is utterly incapable of following road signs on his own. Your mother has to direct him at all times. Your father will see a road sign that quite clearly states in which direction one is to turn to reach one’s desired location. At each and every sign he will confer with your mother as to which direction he needs to turn. In absolutely all cases, your mother’s advice reflects that which the road sign has already clearly dictated. Your father even needs your mother to guide him in and out of carparks. You constantly marvel at your mother’s patience and quietly want to smack some sense into your father.

20. Your parents insist on paying for everything like you were only 14 years old, and treat you like a charity case, leaving a cash donation, a carton of fags, a six pack of beer and a pantry full of food on their departure.

My parents rock!!!! Plus, the house has never been cleaner!

MELLIPOP: NOT A GENIUS, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD TO THE CONTRARY

2007-01-12T15:15:00.001+09:00

OK, so I was bored and uninspired last night, so - in lieu of having anything remotely witty or eventful to post on Mellipop - I sought to boost my flaccid self-esteem by doing a totally kosher on-line IQ test.

I wanted to feel clever and superior, see. I needed external reinforcement to support my own innate claim to uncontested genius. Plus, it was multiple choice. I had it in the bag. What I didn't actually know, I had at least had a 20% chance of successfully guessing.

I couldn't possibly fail. I was going to yank that fucker right off the scale. Bell Curve my arse! They'd have to create a whole new paradigm of intelligence to process my score.

So it turns out that I am only marginally Above Average.

I clocked 116. The average is 100.

According to their IQ scale, I am neither Gifted nor Genius, which completely fucks with my self-concept. If nothing else, it means I’ll need to have new business cards made up.

It was the goddammed puzzles that did me in. I have no spatial intelligence. This confirms the testing done on me as a “volunteer” psychology undergraduate. Essentially, I’ve been denied genius status by a series of puzzles, dice and triangles. These things mean nothing in the real world, for at least three reasons that immediately spring to mind: 1) We do not live on the fucking set of Tron 2) No-one uses IUDs anymore 3) Mr Squiggle never did return to our screens following that unfortunate pedophilia scandal in the late 80’s.

Fucking puzzles.

And the bollocky number series questions. What is WITH those?

Q: What do the following set of numbers have in common?

4859 5949 3850 0184

A: Nothing! Everything! Who the fuck cares! I just made the fuckers up, you morons! For all you know it could be my fucking VISA card number!

The thing is, you can manipulate numbers in an infinite variety of ways, to support any harebrained theory you could ever care to devise. Numbers don’t mean anything – they are completely arbitrary and random.

And - more importantly…. This skill will not help you survive. This skill will not make you the much-sought-after conversational centrepiece at dinner parties. This skill will not get you into bed with the ladies. This skill does not make you a genius. It may in fact reveal that you are a dribbling autistic.

The only numbers that ever really matter in life are:

Number of sexual partners you have ever had :
** (a lady never tells)
Number of your “call in case of emergency” person:
02 9671 ****
Number of days before debt collectors turn up on your doorstep: 47
Number of times today you wish you hadn’t said what you actually said: 14
Number of minutes before your partner comes home with cigarettes: 36
Number of beers left in the fridge: 0

Being a seasoned psychology undergraduate/drop-out from way back, I know how shonky attempts to measure human “intelligence” are. But it still pisses me off that there are people out there scoring HIGHER than me. And some of those fuckers are just guessing. Guessing!

Sigh… I guess you can’t argue with standardised testing. I’m categorically, quantifiably, AVERAGE. Even though some anonymous internet IQ arbitrator told me I was Above Average, the fact that it would deign to use the word “average” at all is depressing enough.

I’m special. I really am.

Genuine sample question: Water is to Ice as Liquid is to…?

a) Solid
b) Dogs Bollocks
c) Venereal Disease
d) Beer
e) I don’t know

MELLIPOP LOVES NETBANK

2007-01-12T15:14:00.000+09:00

Ok, so I must commend the Commonwealth Bank on their “new and improved” NetBanking website.

It seems as though I’ll now have time to post lengthy erudite blog entries in between waiting for each and every transaction to load, as it now takes three times longer to actually do anything. Brilliant.

So far I’ve clocked about forty minutes (and counting) to pay three bills.

I’m quite thrilled, really. It also allows me to take time out from my hectic schedule to stare intently into a hand mirror and witness the evolution of my crows feet, in real time. Or I could squat over the darn thing and spend some quality time getting to know my snatch. Either way, it gives new meaning to the phrase “a wrinkle in time saves ninety minutes waiting on Netbank”.

Alternatively, if I’m feeing particularly Zen-like, it gives me the option of simply staring blankly into the tantalising white space that promises me that my bill payments are “loading”, but without reassuring me that anything is actually taking place.

Oh, wait a second. Maybe things aren’t what they seem.

I’ve just received this curt message – having been ruthlessly hurled out of my own account - which promises me that at least some level of mysterious intelligence is at work.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Hey! No fair! I’ve been very active. I’ve managed to do the dishes, write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, plant a vegie patch and paint the back fence. And all this whilst squatting over a hand mirror. The only thing I haven't done is pay these fucking bills.

So what have YOU been doing, Netbank?

You’re looking out for me, right? I’m being protected. So why don’t I feel secure in this relationship?

So I’ve logged on again like you asked me to, and am staring at this fucking white space again. “Loading”. Right. “Freeloading”, more like. You’re just messing with me now. Don’t think I don’t know it.

Didn’t you make record profits last year? Have you invested it all in internet porn? Did you blow it all on cheap hookers and cocaine?

I’m still waiting, by the way.

I’m not a girl who copes well with rejection. I trusted you, man. I logged back on, just like you asked me to.

Why are you doing this to me?

Are my accounts too small? Is my credit card debt too big? Are you seeing someone else? Is this all just a game to you?

You’re really important to me – I really want this to work. Talk to me. Why do you have to be so darn unresponsive? Look, I just don’t know if I can trust you. Relationships like this just can’t work without mutual trust. Just give me a fucking sign, man.

Look, I’m going to try one more time. Please don’t kick me out again.

Ten minutes later…..

Fuck. I just got rejected again.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Don’t do this to me, man. Do you want me to beg, is that it? Or are you just playing hard-to-get? If you want me to fuck off, just tell me man. Fuck all this game-playing shit.

Look, I can’t do it. I just can’t cope with another rejection. Surely there are others out there. Ones who will treat me with the respect I deserve. I mean, what have I done to deserve this level of contempt? Please Netbank, don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you. I promise I won’t get mad.

You promised me “over 20 new improvements”. Do you think that you’re too good for me now, is that it? I’m trying, man. I’m trying to be a better person. I’m doing it for you, man. I’m fucking doing it for you…

God, I hope you’re not cheating on me, Netbank. Those transactions happened, didn’t they? Please tell me they did. I need to know.

Fuck – you’ve just kicked me out again. I guess this is the end, then. Is it? Look, just tell me. I want the truth. I have dignity, you know. I won’t be crawling back to you again - not today, anyway. Ok look, let me know when things are cool with you, and we can talk. Yeah? We’ve really got to talk about this.

I need you, man…. I really do…. Don’t let it end like this….

MELLIPOP AND THE TESTAMUR

2007-01-12T15:11:00.000+09:00

OK, so through six prolonged years of sheer bloody-minded apathy I’ve managed to destroy the most expensive piece of paper – nay – the most expensive single material item I own.

And I can’t even blame the demon dogs for this one.

So I pulled my university degree out today. I was actually looking for my complete academic transcript, which was stored with the illustrious piece of shoddy laser-printed paper that passes for a degree these days. If I’d known before I’d enrolled just how shoddy a document it was going to be, I would have forgone the five years and countless thousands of dollars and hours it cost to achieve, and would have just whipped something up in Photoshop instead.

Anyway, so my degree and transcripts were still stored in the original plastic folder they were handed to me in. Also contained in the plastic folder with my expensive pieces of paper was another, less expensive yellow slip of paper (photocopied, ironically), still there after six years.

A short extract from the yellow piece of paper reads:

STORAGE OF DEGREE/DIPLOMAS

“The enclosed degree/diploma testamur is produced on a laser printer. Do not store your testamur on a long term basis in this plastic folder as damage may occur….It is recommended that your testamur be framed and hung in a dry environment”

Besides wondering what the fuck a “testamur” is when it’s at home, I also wondered who the fuck takes notice of warnings like that anyway. “Dry clean only”, “Hand wash in warm water”, “This medication may cause drowsiness - do not operate heavy machinery”, “Smoking will kill you”.

P’fff…. whatever....

I mean, to reiterate, what the fuck is a “testamur”? I looked it up in the Macquarie Dictionary and the goddamn word isn’t even in there! It goes straight from “testament” to “testes” with nary a “testamur” in sight. Testify!

But get this, right....

MY DEGREE COMES FROM MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT PRODUCES THE MACQUARIE DICTIONARY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT ISSUES ME WITH A WARNING TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY “TESTAMUR”.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT DOESN'T EVEN SEE FIT TO INCLUDE THE WORD "TESTAMUR" IN IT'S OWN FUCKING DICTIONARY!

So how am I expected to take a warning that contains a word that DOESN’T EVEN EXIST seriously? How was I to know that the “testamur” I wasn’t supposed to store in the plastic folder was actually my fucking shoddy laser printed degree.

Ok, so I kind of guessed it wasn’t a good idea to keep my degree in the plastic wallet. The text has now come off onto the back of my academic transcripts, which were stored in front of it, resulting in a very tragic “double vision” type effect.

Yeah, so my degree is totally fucked now. But that yellow slip of photocopied paper is in as pristine a condition as the day I got it. Hell, I might just frame it.

MELLIPOP: THE NEXT GENERATION

2006-08-26T17:33:00.000+08:00

Ok, so Mellipop has been dying a prolonged, agonising death for a long time now.

She's not regular, she's not stimulating, and she sure as hell ain't entertaining. Damn dogs.

But there's still hope. The mutant spawn of Mellipop is gestating. I'm working on a new project. I'm far too superstitious (and far too drunk) to reveal further details, but hopefully in the next few weeks I'll have further detail - and a new link.

Not sure what the future holds for the Mellipop blog, but undoubtedly no-one cares anyway.

MELLIPOP AND THE CENSUS

2006-08-09T11:59:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I was going to post on this whole Census thing today. That was, until I received a typically hilarious email from a friend and ex-workmate over in WA, on that very same topic. It was so pants-pissing funny that it took the wind out of my smug little sails. So, in a Mellipop first, I'm going to post his Census thoughts instead of my own. He's from Texas, by the way. But don't hold that against him. He's funny.

Yep, just did the electronic version of census.

Top Ten Results of Completing Your Census Online

1) Maybe the internet servers will resolve the glut of traffic so you can PROPERLY surf porn sites.
2) The banks will identify all the fibbing bastards in Balga claiming to earn $2,500.00 a week.
3) The government may actually respond to your answer "blow-job" on the occasional care requirement question.
4) Your employer will be publicly humiliated by your response to the annual income question.
5) Your statistics will be listed in the National Archives so you can be laughed at by future generations as well.
6) Your answers will be screened by Interpol and a heavily lipsticked and overcoated agent named Natasha will pay you a visit at 2:00 AM (See 3)
7) The system may not pick-up on your answer "killing neighbours with rat poison" on the occupation line.
8) The government will receive only input from lifeless singles because families with nine children and a nana won't be fucked.
9) The Census site may develop a free "Meeting Other Singles" section (with photos)
10) You may answer all further government questionnaires by ticking the "Torres Strait Islanders" box. Shit, they are really into that! What is Torres Strait? Why the fuck do they want to identify all of them?

Ha ha, that's why I happened to mention that he was American. Aaahh... Number 10..... Torres Straight..... That's so fucking funny! I might just leave it there as it's patently clear that I've been well and truly outclassed on this occasion. Thanks Mikey!

MELLIPOP ON HER CHEMICAL-FREE SOAPBOX

2006-07-26T15:08:00.000+08:00

Ok, so clearly having too much time on my hands, I’ve embarked on a domestic detox of sorts, to purge my household of the panopoly of toxic chemicals that appear in horrifying amounts in everything from toothpaste, face washes, household cleaners to grooming products. By all accounts, if this forthcoming blog post is any indication, I may also have purged myself of all humour. Bear with me on this one. I’m trying to be serious. Boring, I know.

The following is what inspired me on my latest Amish-lite quest - the list of ingredients in my daily facial cleanser.

Those without a Ph.D in Carcinogenic Chemicals and their Insidious Presence in Everyday Life may elect to skim over the following list of ingredients. Smartarses are advised not to make any smarmy mention in the comments field of my cigarette addiction. We’re all a complex tapestry of contradiction in our own unique way.

Ingredients: Water, Sodium Laureth Sulfate, Sodium Chloride, Glycerin, Coco-glucoside, Cocamidopropyl Betaine, Glyceryl Oleate, Sorbitol, Polysorbate 20, Panthenol, Dipopylene Glycol, Polyquaternium-10, Fragrance, Propylene Glycol, Peppermint Leaf Extract, Polyquaternium-39, Sodium Hydroxide, Green Tea Leaf Extract, Hydrolised Milk Protein, Disodium Phosphate, Limonene, Citric Acid, Alcohol, Magnesium Nitrate, Tris (Tetramethylhydroxypiperidinol) Citrate, Tetrasodium EDTA, Sodium Acetate, Mathylparaben, Isopropyl Alcohol, Ascrbyl Palmitate, Lecithin, Methylchloroisothiazolinone, Magnesium Chloride, Tocopherol, Propylparaben, Butylparaben, Ethylparaben, Isobutylparaben, Phenoxyethanol, Methylisothiazolinone, Hydrogenated Palm Glycerides Citrate, EDTA, Potassium Sorbate, CI 42090, CI 19140.

Phew…..Taking huge breath……

Not just scary the polysyllabic, indecipherable chemical names featured, but the sheer number of them certifiably freaks me out. I have a half-baked though intuitive theory that all of these food additives and chemicals are linked to unprecented rises in things like cancer, asthma, allergies, obesity and mental illnesses like depression and ADHD. Remember when we were kids? There was one token asthmatic and one token fat kid at school. Kids with allergies were kinda freakish. The opposite is now true. To be a skinny kid without a learning disability, behavioural syndrome, life-threatening allergy or respiratory illness is an unusual thing these days.

What the fuck is this all doing to my face, let alone my immune system, my cell biology, my fertility, my mental health? It sure as hell isn’t doing what it promised me on the packaging – “Oil Control” – so why the fuck am I slathering this chemical cocktail onto my still-oily ugly mug twice daily? And paying these fuckers for the privilege.

I’m sure the water is OK. The Sodium Laureth Sulfate is a suspected carcinogen. A quick census of my bathroom cupboard reveals that not only is SLS in my facial cleanser, it is also in my toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and putrid green bubble bath. I have no idea what the fuck anything else is, but I’m sure there will be no harm in removing things like Disodium Phosphate and Tetramethylhydroxypiperidinol Citrate from my grooming regime.

So I made my own facial scrub today. Natural yoghurt and oatmeal. My skin feels soft and smooth as all buggery, though I’ve yet to verify whether I actually smell like a tree-hugging vegan’s idea of the perfect low-GI breakfast. No doubt Anton will give me a brutally honest assessment when he gets home. Oh, just realised that vegans don’t eat yoghurt. Animal product and all… Fucking vegans. Ruin my metaphor, why don't you, ya lousy lettuce munchers?

I also made my own toothpaste with glycerine, baking soda, peppermint oil and salt. Despite the lack of a lathering agent (our good friend SLS conveniently catalyses “bubbles” in addition to it’s other delightful cancer causing properties), it tastes and feels just the same as normal toothpaste.

My first experiment took place a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to dispense with the humble household cleaner for a classic mix of vinegar, baking soda and water. It was nice to clean the bathroom without the head-spinning-sensation-of-wanting-to-faint-as-I-feel-my-chromosomes-mutating-in-real-time that I usually have to endure. Though I did have a wee (tee hee!) accident with the toilet cleaning recipe, which called for a mixture of baking soda and vinegar. I kind of suspected that the combination might be a little fizzy, but assumed that the recipe would have warned me of that beforehand.

So I’m standing at my computer, reading the recipe. Add baking soda to vinegar. Easy as fuck. So I did it and a minor explosion of vinegar and baking soda thus ensued. There still remains a haphazard stain on the carpet outlining the hot potato trail I blazed as I hopped, skipped and jumped my way to the bathroom in Olympic record-time. Though I’ve yet to discover the chemical-free recipe to effectively remove the aforementioned stain.

The best thing I’ve discovered about all this is that the recipes – in addition to being a natural alternative to harsh chemicals – are cheap, easy to source and easy to make. I’m far more lazy than I am zealous, for the most part, hence the “easy” factor is important here. But there’s also a refreshing sense of empowerment that comes with all of this: not buying into the megalithic corporate chemical wankathon; knowing exactly what goes into the products you use to clean your house and your fine self; and the beautiful simplicity of it all. Two common ingredients. Three common ingredients. Not 47 (I counted!) esoteric scientific chemical compounds.

Best of all is the liberating sense of “I made this!” that taps into our long-muted creative core as producers that still lies buried deep beneath the numbing apathy of the mindless consumers we’ve allowed ourselves to become. It’s like reclaiming a little bit of the pre-WW2, pre-consumer, pre-petrochemical pioneering spirit of women who have been making their own homemade lotions and potions for centuries, before the mega pharma and food companies colonised our self-efficacy by pumping out their production-line goodies and lining supermarket shelves with them. For our convenience.

Geez, that made for rather self-righteous, solemn and dull reading. First the poetry and now this. I think I’m in trouble. Oh well, it gives me a new topic to rant about at the pub anyway.

MELLIPOP AND THE MISSING PERSONS

2006-07-23T08:36:00.000+08:00

Ok, so this isn't a "proper" Mellipop post, per se, but a shout-out for a few "missing" compadres.

Busty - Where and how the hell are you sport? Anton has tried calling your number but it's disconnected????

Graham and Kylie - We've left a phone message for y'all, but no answer. I bumped into Hazel yesterday and she tells me that you're not using your work email anymore Kyles?

It's ironic that in these days of wireless-bluetooth-SMS-email-internet-mobile phone-mega-mass-communication overload, you can actually lose touch with anyone.... I fucking hate the global village. I want the pre-industrial, no technology, town hall, one pub, three main streets, white picket peering-over-your-neighbours-fences style village.

Fuck this friends in far-flung places, high-flying, high falutin' postmodern society bullshit. Maybe I should just buddy-up with the shirtless Pakistani dentist next door as he works on his client's dentures in the garage.

MELLIPOP THE POET

2006-07-19T10:06:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I’m planting the seed of a new project and was just now playing around with Thesaurus.com and Dictionary.com.

After entering various related-to-the-project search terminology, as the result of my tangential curiosity I also thought to type the word ”bogan” into both search engines, as you do when you're a dumb bogan seeking external validation for your essence of being. Thesaurus.com was utterly bewildered by my particular keyword, and offered me a comprehensive list of words that I must have otherwise intended to consult it about. I stumped the bugger, and he wasn’t happy about it. Fuck him. Bogans live!

On the other hand, Dictionary.com offered me one solitary entry for “Louise Bogan (1897 – 1970): American Poet”. Being unable to avoid the temptation, I googled Ms Bogan’s particulars for further information and was rewarded with a list of her poems.

The first poem I chose to click on was titled “Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”, thinking that maybe Ms Bogan had made a pilgrimage to her spiritual namesake here in Blacktown before her untimely demise, and saw fit to render it in enigmatic prose for all of posterity.

“Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”

At midnight tears
Run in your ears.

That’s it! That’s her fucking poem!!! I’ve read more elegant prose on the instruction sheet enclosed in tampon packets, and gleaned far more insight into the human condition from the squat-thrust vaginal diagrams herewith.

Alright then, how’s this for poetry.

“Solitary Observation Brought Back from a Sojourn in Hell”

At lunchtime tears
I’m all out of beers.

There - I’m a fucking poet now.

That last line wasn’t part of my poem, by the way. It was a resounding statement of intent. While I’m at it, here’s one for Carefree. Two poems down now, and a slim volume of prose with my name on it must surely be forthcoming.

“Sonnet for Sanitary Products”

Stick white, cottony bungers
Up the canal at the back
Do not insert with dirty fingers
Do not insert in the urinary tract

Mellipop (1976 - ? ) Poet, bogan, raconteur.

It’s a gift, really….That last one came to me scarily easy. No more poems on Mellipop. Promise. You'll have to purchase the book. Genius ain't free.

MELLIPOP GOES TO THE HAIRDRESSERS

2006-07-11T14:09:00.000+08:00

Ok, so why are hairdressers so agonisingly stereotypical? Is it the daily exposure to a terrifying panopoly of mind-warping toxic chemicals; the uneven power-relationship symbolised by their control of sharp implements, flesh-searing chemical cocktails and their knowingly smug ability to ruin your life with a deliberately disastrous hairstyle; or the constant stream of inane chatter from clients so desperate for company that they are willing to pay for the pleasure of inane conversation littered with endless sentences that begin “My boyfriend’s friend’s cousin said…”, “My boyfriend’s annoying habit number 354….” or “My boyfriend’s abnormally over-sized right testicle…” etc etc etc. And etc.

If you hadn’t already guessed by now, I got my hair cut today.

It was a right treat. I got the entire spectrum of hairdresser stereotypes working on my tresses today (minus the “gay” stylist – I live in the western suburbs of Sydney). The 20 year old fat hairdresser. The mid-20’s fat hairdresser. The post-30’s fat, single and desperate hairdresser. All female.

THE 20 YEAR OLD FAT HAIRDRESSER

The 20 year old fat hairdresser was full of stories about her impending 21st birthday party. Did I ask? That’s not the point. I now know that she is going to have her hair done (odd, that), start drinking at 4pm on the Saturday afternoon, possibly fall up and down stairs whilst drunk, and that she has to give a speech at the bequest of her undoubtedly proud parents. Not an Academy Award-style “Here is a speech I’ve prepared earlier” kind of speech. She was planning more of the tried-and-tested drunken tirade exercise in public speaking. She also told me that her “ex-boyfriend’s friend’s cousin” was going to bring along his Solomon Islands dance troupe for the evening’s entertainment, the downside being that she previously dated one of them.

20 year olds are fucking idiots.

And just when you think the tirade of exhausting detail must certainly end for lack of oxygen or further mundane anecdotes to report, I got a youthfully arrogant “Guess what happened to me yesterday? I got asked out by THREE SEPARATE GUYS!”. And because I was dying to know (or just dying of boredom by that point) I asked her if she had accepted any of these unexpected courtship offers. To the undoubted dismay of all three potential suitors, she declined because a) she wanted to be “free” on the night of her 21st birthday binge-fest and b) she had only just broken up with her boyfriend a week and half ago.

I was the unwelcome recipient of this tidal-glut of random infobabble whilst imprisoned at the sink as she washed out and slathered on various chemical compounds in turn. I felt like my head was caught in a fucking vice that kept squeezing tighter and tighter and fucking tighter with every vapid word that tumbled out of her hyperspeed Ritalin Generation motor-mouth.

Just to further clarify. 20 year olds are fucking idiots.

THE MID-20’S FAT HAIRDRESSER

The mid-20’s fat hairdresser was fantastic. She talked to me about what I wanted done with my hair. And then she shut the fuck up and fucking did it. Heaven.

THE POST-30’S FAT, SINGLE AND DESPERATE HAIRDRESSER

The post-30’s fat hairdresser was a walking, talking census form. Hence I was already apprised of her age, living arrangements and relationship status before my denim-clad ass had even hit the seat. 32 years old, single and lives with two male friends who are teaching her how to pick up men with tutorials on the arts of belching, sculling beer and watching motor-sports. With skills like that she’ll no doubt be destined to remain single for some time yet. I got to hear about previous dates in which she was uncomfortable with men touching her hair extensions – and can you believe that the men didn’t even realise she had them on?!? Maybe it’s just me but I thought that was the whole point of extensions. In between touch-ups I also got to hear some timeless wisdom as it relates to the ideological divide between the genders, including particularly articulate and insightful gems like “men are clueless”, "men like looking up women's skirts" and “men would rather look at a woman’s tits than her shoes”. Gobsmacking stuff.

I do like my hair though, despite having to endure the aforementioned morass of conversational banality. This kind of thing happens to me every time I go for a style, and the universal nature of their prattle is so systematic I’m sure that “Hairdressing Stereo-Archetypes 101” is a mandatory part of their apprenticeship training. No doubt the syllabus includes the following pre-requisite module on “Aids to Client Conversation: How to Force Them to Talk to You When They Really Want You To Shut the Fuck Up and Cut Their Hair”

And so we must endure the following:

Q: “So, what are you doing tonight?” see also “So, are you going out tonight?”

A: I will be cooking dinner, watching Big Brother and sobbing in dismay before the bathroom mirror, trying to ascertain whether a few artfully applied gobs of styling wax will render my new hairstyle fit for public display.

Q: “So, what are you doing this weekend?”

A: The answer to your previous question is crucial here. If it is determined that my new hairstyle is not fit for public display, I will be spending this - and the next 11 - weekends hidden under the doona at home. Weeping. And plotting revenge.

Q: “So, where do you work?”

A: I work in a butcher shop (it is optional to insert a few mumbled, lame, comments about also being a freelance writer: all depending on my willingness to risk volunteering any further cues to conversation and the supercilious extent of the question). Yes, that is why I’m in here on a Tuesday morning. I have a worse, and more lowly-paid job than you do. Happy now?

Q: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

A: What you are really asking me to answer is the hairdresser’s equivalent of the eternally fraught existential question of “beingness”. To wit, am I a “normal” human being or a lonely, perverted mutant doomed to an eternity surfing internet dating websites and attending speed dating events? Insert “yes”, “no” or “I’m a lesbian, actually” as appropriate.

Q: “Are you married?”

A: Unfortunately I seem to get the “married” version of the hair-existential question more than the “boyfriend” one these days. So I must look old. Sure, to a 20 year old hairdresser in the burgeoning throes of her “binge-drinking and promiscuous sex years”, I’m certain that I must look well and truly fossilised. No, I’m engaged, actually.

Q: “When are you getting married?”

A: How the fuck should I know? Regardless of whether I know the actual date or not, I’m sure as hell not telling you. That would be needlessly damning myself to an agonising series of inane questions about my looming nuptials for the next two and a half hours.

Q: “So, do you like it?”

A: The only answer you can possibly make to spare you any further pain, is “Yes, I love it”. Alternately, a snarky “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor” is your only other option.

Sigh…Only eight short weeks to my next appointment….

MELLIPOP AND THE CAKE

2006-07-05T16:13:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I baked a cake today. No biggie, right?

Here is the finished result.

This is a cake. I swear on my mother’s life that it is. At least, that is what the good folks at Green’s meant it to be…(Please, no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my wholesale abuse of your marvellous modern-lifestyle convenience product)

A FUCKING PACKET CAKE.

Add a couple of eggs, a bit of milk, some butter and bake for 40 minutes. I took the fucker out at 41 minutes, having been absorbed in the onerous task of cleaning out all my kitchen cupboards, whilst grooving out with my new iPod shuffle. (Please no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my absentminded distraction due to your marvellous portable music product)

I fucked it up. The bottom and the sides were all burnt. So I had to cut all the sides and the bottom of the cake off, and subsequently iced what was supposed to be the bottom of the cake – though the bottom of the cake had now been sliced off due to the unanticipated burning of the cake. Comprende? Hence the “interesting” texture on what is now the “top”of the cake…. So it looks like one of those greasy lumps of plastic that doctors show you to illustrate what a kilogram of fat actually looks like. Tasty.

People scoff with incredulity when I tell them what a bad cook I am. Like I’m trying on a bit of false modesty for size and am really a whizz in the kitchen, effortlessly whipping up a wanky French three-course something-or-other whilst also juggling the stern demands of making my own puff pastry from scratch for a tasty dessert. Homemade crossaints, anyone?

Au contraire, mon cheri.

Baked beans on toast I can do. Eggs on toast I cannot. OK, so I can do a mean scrambled egg, (something even I can’t fuck up) but forget about the fried or the poached variety. What almost-30 year old can’t even successfully fry a freakin’ egg for godssakes?

Mellipop.

I’m trying, I really am. I just don’t have “the knack”. Nor do I enjoy cooking at all. If I have a couple of glasses of wine, some groovy tunes playing and a half full pack of fags I can at least endure the process, but without guaranteeing the end result, which is inevitably not worth the time or ingredients massacred during the process.

Here I am blogging while I should be cooking. Tonight’s delectable dish is going to be a satay chicken stir-fry, thanks to a half full bottle of Masterfood’s Satay Sauce and some hokkien noodles. Plus, I have a brown onion, a red capsicum and some frozen beans to throw into the mix. I’m already anticipating the disaster that lies ahead. Sure, I have a whole pantry full of abitrary ingredients like soy sauce, cornflour, coconut milk, peanut butter and baked beans, for example, but I don’t have the werewithal to actually combine said ingredients to create a palatable meal. Anton can do this effortlessly. I think I can honestly say that I hate him for that,

Fuck him. He has to eat my food tonight…

POSTSCRIPT:

Ok, so having returned from walking the dogs, Anton has just come into my room with a barely concealed look of bewilderment and hilarity on his face. The bugger has the hide to ask me what happened to the cake and asked me why it looks like a "crater". Ungracious bastard.... I stay home and slave over a hot stove for him today and this is the thanks I get???

Ha ha, bring on the stir-fry motherfuckers!

MELLIPOP PLAYS INTERIOR DESIGN

2006-06-20T13:03:00.000+08:00

Ok, so you know you're getting old when each and every visit you make to the residence of some old friend or new acquaintance is spent enviously scrutinising their interior design aesthetic. And to be secretly shamed by the very fact of your bare walls and hand-me down furniture back home, befitting the status of a nomadic, impoverished university student, but not befitting your status as mature suburban domesticate (note that I did not use the word "sophisticate")

No photos, no artwork, a couple of ailing indoor plants and dog-chewed furniture. The hilarious irony is that I have actually written two feature articles on interior decor for a glossy lifestyle magazine.

So I'm making amends here and now in the final few months of my twenties. And I am refusing to let the crucial fact that I know nothing about art, style or good taste stop me.

I'm very excited about my latest project. As mentioned, I know nothing about art but I do know that generic Van Gogh prints are not my thing.

My thing, it turns out rather nicely, is tour posters. So I'm scouring the 'net for worthy candidates and having them blockmounted. I have made three fabulous acquisitions already, with a further five already on the way.

My Wilco poster is now officially my favourite material possession. It's freakin massive (about 1 m x 1.5 m) and seriously sexy. I've also got a Bob Dylan poster from a French show he did with Van Morrison and another of Ryan Adams and the Cardinals when they played in Australia. Though I hate having to explain that RYAN Adams (sexy alt.country artiste) is NOT BRYAN Adams (bland MOR rocker). I tried without success to convey this very point to the lady at the art store, who still listed the poster as Bryan Adams on the job sheet when I went to have it blockmounted. It was shades of the Meatloaf t-shirt all over again and I was left feeling like a sad suburban bogan with hideous taste in music.

So anyway, those who know me know that I don't do things by half. I've already shelled out for a further five posters from tours by The Flaming Lips, The Shins, Sonic Youth, You Am I and Belle and Sebastian.

So my interior design aesthetic has finally been defined. At least now I can answer the very naff question I posed at the opening of one of the aforementioned interior decor articles I wrote.

To quote myself: "What does your home say about you? Is it fab or drab?"

Well dahhhling, my home veritably screams "indie rock cliche". And I like it like that.

MELLIPOP NEEDS CLARIFICATION

2006-06-19T17:08:00.000+08:00

Ok, so what is the etymology of the word "dis"?

I used it in in my last post, though I'm not entirely sure of the origin of the word. I am aware that in context, it ultimately translates to "criticise", or more colloquially, "take the piss", but am keen to be appprised of the lingustic origin.

I am also somewhat amused that I am writing this pissed, and cannot command the motor skills to type reasonably simple words like "ultimately" and "the", but still have enough command of my vocabulary to pull out words like "linguistic", "apprised" and "etymology" even though it currently takes more than a few attempts to actually spell them correctly...

Henceforth it shall be determined that I am far more intelligent with a few ales under my belt. I just require a few extra keystrokes to demonstrate this.

MELLIPOP DE CASTELLA

2006-05-31T07:40:00.000+08:00

Ok, so indulge me in a rare moment of micro-braggadocio.

I've been running for a few years now. When I started running, I actually couldn't run at all. I could manage a semi-decent power-walk, but my aerobic capacity was such that I could barely run a single lap of the oval down at Camperdown without collapsing with a near-fatal stitch. The legs were willing but the lungs weren't able. This was circa whenever-I-lived-with-Nick. I think it might have been around 2002??? Not too sure, as that was also the height of my inner-west pub-hopping glory (heh heh heh) days.

Since then, despite having moved five times across various states and suburbs, I've kept up with the running. My knees were fucked up for a while. Until I realised it was all in the shoes. Despite my scepticism, I did the Athlete's Foot "foot test" thing and was duly paired up with a hideously expensive pair of runners by the 17 year old staff member, who also tried to upsell me on the $50 insoles to boot. And fuck me, if my knees haven't been perfect since. I am now officially a running powerhouse.

Running became an addiction for me while I was living in North Fremantle. Considering the warm weather, the long days, the beautiful beach I used to run as part of my route and the fact that I was home from work at 4pm every day, running was easy.

I was worried that moving to Quakers Hill would put an end to my love for running, but the reverse is true. I am even more addicted than I was in Freo. Despite the darkness, the cold, the lack of scenery and the rare occasion of rain, without any difficulty at all, I leap straight out of bed at 5:30am every morning and run for forty minutes before getting ready for work. And it is an addiction. There have been mornings when I have woken up and made a conscious decision to stay snuggled up in the doona for that extra hour's sleep. Within five or ten minutes of having made that decision, my body throws itself out of bed and into my beloved runners, saying "fuck you" to sleep and warmth and repose.

So I run. Then I do twenty tricep dips, twenty "boy" push-ups and a further fifty "girl" push-ups before hitting the showers in the morning. The push ups are a hangover from my pilates days, and were drilled into me as homework by my brilliant instructor Freya, whom I miss dearly. I think she'd be pleased to know that I still do those goddamn push-ups of hers.

Anyway, last night - on the way home from buying grog and fags, ironically - Anton and I measured the length of my current running route. I was rather pleased to discover that my running track is just short of 8 kilometres. Which is not bad in forty minutes, especially because I do it easily, and without exertion. Plus, I've started running in the evenings as well, a few times a week. For a girl who never had any stamina or athletic fitness - even back in my school days - I am rather proud about that.

So fuck all of you who dis us smokers for being unhealthy and unfit. I'd run rings around you pristine-lunged fuckers any day.

MELLIPOP AND THE GUARD DOGS

2006-05-17T07:50:00.000+08:00

Ok, so let it just be firmly established that my two Staffies make for utterly useless guard dogs.

Two men have just taken down our entire side fence without any hassles from the demon dogs, who were upstairs with me at the computer, completely oblivious to what was happening in their own backyard. Umm.... to be fair, I was too. I mean, it's not like I was listening to really loud riff-rock music or anything. It was Peter, Paul and fucking Mary. Pussy folk singers from the sixties.

Let me just say that this all comes as a great shock to me because I WAS NOT INFORMED THAT ANYONE WAS GOING TO COMPLETELY DISMANTLE OUR SIDE FENCE TODAY.

I only just discovered that our entire fence had been taken down because Tonka - to his credit - started barking and going crazy. So I went to check and see what the little blighter was barking at, with no real concern. Tonka barks and growls at the strangest and most random things. Feathers. Plastic bags. The clothesline. I just assumed that Tonka was barking at a pink plastic dishwashing glove I had propped up on a Maglite torch in the kitchen, to dry it out. Bloody inside was wet, so I had to wash the dishes this morning with one glove on. Why bother with one? Dunno. Why did Michael Jackson do it?

Anyway, so Tonka was going rather schizoid, and I followed him downstairs to see that OUR WHOLE FUCKING SIDE FENCE WAS GONE. At least the Tonkmeister barked to alert me that something was happening downstairs - if a little belatedly. Comanche didn't do a goddamn thing. It's like strangers come and remove parts of our house every day. Alright, whatever. Nothing odd about that. Just keep the noise down can you, I'm trying to sleep here.

We are the end unit in a row of townhouses, and our place backs onto a housing development currently in construction. So it is not unusual to hear a lot of noise during the day. For the last two days I have been cursing their constant use of chainsaws.

So we currently have no fence. Lucky that neither one of the two dogs actually escaped from the yard - this is because they are so fucking clingy that they sit at my feet or follow me around all fucking day. Pathological co-dependence has it's benefits, few as they are. I'd hate to think what the fuck would have happened if I had been out for the day. WHAT WERE THEY INTENDING TO DO WITH MY FUCKING DOGS??? Let them run the fuck away?

Anyway, I went outside to suss out what the fuck was going on with the fence. Apparently they had tried knocking on the door earlier, and presumed that I had gone out or something because I didn't answer. Which is odd, because even if I don't hear anyone at the door, the dogs generally always do. They didn't today. Great guard dogs.

Ok, so they firstly didn't hear anyone knocking at the front door and secondly didn't hear anyone knocking down our rather sizeable side fence. What was their subsequent reaction when faced with some random stranger standing in our back yard?

Did they:

a) bark and growl at the random stranger in a threatening manner
b) form a defensive line in front of me with hackles raised to protect me from the random stranger
c) stand alertly by my side, scrutinising the random stranger with fierce stares of suspicion, poised to strike at the first sign of any threat to my person
d) run instantly with wagging tails up to the random stranger to say "hello"

The answer, sadly, is d).

Faced with two random stangers in their own backyard who have gained access by dismantling our perimeter fencing, and despite their female master being at home on her own, the sole response of my two nuggety Staffordshire Bull Terriers is to run enthusiastically and without suspicion up to the random strangers for a pat.

This is why Staffordshire owners get pissed off whenever people stigmatise them for being aggressive and dangerous dogs. I'd get better protection from a couple of Maltese Terriers.

MELLIPOP AND THE JOB AD

2006-05-10T15:00:00.000+08:00

Ok, so even Seek.com.au has given up on the hopes of me finding work in Sydney. Either that, or the prick of a thing has a very nasty sense of humour.

Having done the online search for work again today and finding nothing worth applying for, I thought I’d have a little bit of lighthearted fun on Seek. As much as you can ever have fun on Seek.com.au, if you’re a sad, unemployable bastard like me.

So anyway, I’m on the home page, the point at which I enter my search criteria.

So I choose Sydney as a location, and opt for “any area”, “any classification” and “any sub-classification”. Though the pedant in me did ponder briefly the absurdity of still having the option of a “sub-classification” if you don’t actually specify a “classification” to begin with.

N’ermind.

So basically, I’m open to all comers, as long as they are based in Sydney. To prove to Seek.com.au my willingness to do absolutely anything - no matter how abysmal - I type one small yet meaningful phrase into the “keywords” field.

WORST JOB EVER.

Game on. I was challenging the fucker to hit me with it’s worst job. Ever. In Sydney.

I got one hit.

“Foremen - Here is your chance to get somewhere warm for winter!”
Its getting cold down south so why not look at moving to Brisbane and make the most of our beutiful one day perfect the next weather!!!???!!!

You know what really shits me about all this. Not just that Seek.com.au is brazenly telling me to give up and get the fuck out of Dodge, but that the gainfully employed person (or persons) who :

a) wrote the job advert
b) proofread the job advert
c) approved the job advert
d) posted the job advert

….did not even notice that the word “beautiful” was spelt incorrectly. So not only did I suffer the indignity of it being suggested to me that I actually leave the state in search of gainful employment - after specifying that said employment must be in Sydney as the ONLY criteria I required - but that the persons advising me to do so can not even spell at a third grade level. Nor do they have even a tenuous grasp on basic grammar. Sure the weather is great up in Brisbane, but to have no rain and NO COMMAs. Sorry guys, I need fucking commas.

Oh, it gets better. Grammatical atrocities aside, the bright-eyed young recruitment copywriter has really plumbed the depths of his or her creative core to deliver an engaging yet authentic account of life on-site. I mean, I've never worked in construction, but it made me really want to. Surely there must be a frustrated artist lurking in the soul of every recruitment officer.

We all know that the worst thing about being on site in winter is that first drop of cold water that runs down the back of your shirt! Or how about waking up in the dark and dragging yourself off to site only to get there and bang your frozen hands!

Yeah....that fucking sucks, man. There’s nothing worse than banging your frozen hands after waking up in the dark. Brisbane sounds better already.

Just in case you hadn’t already rushed off to pack your suitcases, the bright-eyed recruitment copywriter brings out his or her biggest literary guns yet:

The jobs are big and the jobs are interesting.

I also like the way they bold the word “jobs” twice in the one sentence. Just in case you’d forgotten why you were on Seek.com.au to start with. Well, with writing like this, you could be forgiven for thinking you had stumbled across some hidden treasure trove of previously unpublished late 19th century literature. It’s almost Dickensian, really.

Morons.

MELLIPOP AND THE WAR ON TERRIERS

2006-05-09T11:59:00.000+08:00

OK, so Mellipop regulars on-line and in-life know that not a week goes by when I don’t have yet another new exasperated anecdote to share about my two Staffordshire Bull Terriers (aka The Demon Dogs), and the havoc they wreak on my home, my possessions and my dignity.

To be fair, they’ve been rather well-behaved since the unfortunate incident with the next door neighbour’s bunny rabbit at Easter. Just the ubiquitous series of petty pilferings and destruction. Recent playthings include underpants (mine, always bloody mine), wine glasses, the new trees we planted in the backyard and a bit of tupperware, none of which survived the frivolity.

So I thought I’d play a bit of catch-up, to fill in some of the newsworthy blanks left by my self-imposed blogging absence of the past few months.

Long-time friends of Mellipop may remember the troubles we had constructing an appropriate Staffy-proof barricade in our rental property over in North Fremantle. It would be an understatement to say that we have had the same trouble here, in our own house at Quakers Hill.

It’s a story of courage, determination and success against all the odds. (Them)

It is also a story of chaos, destruction and a series of monumental failures. (Us)

In this titanic struggle between man and beast, there has been only one winner:

Bunnings Warehouse.

THE STORY OF THE BARRICADE: PART TWO

So here we have Quakers Hill Version 2.1 of the barricade. It took very little time for the demon dogs to eat or smash through this on their way to freedom. I almost imagine they were laughing at us from the very moment they saw Anton proudly putting the finishing touches to it. Timber is no obstacle to any self-respecting Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

There were actually several "improvements" made on this version of the barricade, with cross supports being added and whatnot - none of which stayed intact long enough for me to photograph them.

Quakers Hill Version 2.2 offered it’s own unique challenges. Having determined that they could neither eat nor headbutt their way through the solid sheet of MDF, the demon dogs instead turned their attention to going over the darn thing, rather than going through it (always a steamrolling Staffie’s first instinct). Despite being incredibly dopey dogs, their unique combination of stubbornness and cunning is an effective one.

So we had peace in the house for a couple of weeks. To be honest, Anton and I were a little cocky. We thought we had finally beaten the little fuckers. But who were we to think that an almost six foot tall, solid wood barricade could possibly stop two obstinate Staffies from getting to the other side?

Naïve, indeed.

Pay careful attention to the height of the barricade, and the height of our fridge. It is about the height of my head (I’m somewhere between 165 and 170 cm tall). My two dogs are about the height of my knees.

So we came home one day, and Comanche was on the wrong side of the barricade. Thinking that I must have locked her in the house before I left, I opened the barricade and went into the kitchen, reuniting her with her younger brother on the other side.

It was then that I noticed the little muddy footprints all over the kitchen counters and walls. The fridge had been moved from the wall, and our large archaic microwave oven (late 1980’s vintage, so roughly the size of a compact car) had been dislodged from the top of the fridge, and was balanced precariously on the edge.

If my powers of deduction had not yet fully confirmed the sequence of events, the footprints behind the microwave were the clincher.

The little fucker had jumped up onto the kitchen counter, then managed to jump on top of the fridge – pushing the microwave forward so as to manouvre behind it - and then jumped right over the barricade, landing on the floor on the other side.

A monumental feat of athleticism, fearlessness and stupidity.

We’d been beaten again.

In Quakers Hill Version 2.3 Anton extended the barricade right up to the ceiling (not pictured...why freakin' bother...they become obsolete faster than new versions of the iPod). We then moved the fridge to another location in the kitchen, where it was duly padlocked to the wall on both sides. Yes, padlocked. It's like living with two insanely powerful mental patients. In a maximum security prison.

The War on Terriers was not yet won, we had already suffered mass casualties and we were fast running out of tactics.

Moving the fridge from near the barricade left the wall completely exposed. The dogs could not get over or through the barricade, which left one final stategy for them to explore.

They started chewing the corner of the kitchen wall.

Our counter-attack was to bolt a sheet of aluminium to the wall, to stop them from chewing the plasterboard. The thin sheet of metal was bolted to the wall in twelve places.

We got home one day and they had somehow managed to rip the sheet of aluminium right off the wall, at which point they then proceeded to rip the metal to shreds.

Just to say ”fuck you”.

Anton and I just stared at each other in shock and bewilderment. The metal looked as though it had been mauled by a shark. There were several shredded pieces of it all over the kitchen, with puncture marks right through the metal from their teeth. They were covered in dry blood.

HOW STUPID ARE THESE DOGS, WHO WILL EAT METAL UNTIL THEIR MOUTHS BLEED?

What fucking chance in hell did we have of putting an end to this escalating madness? What is the Staffordshire Bull Terrier equivalent of kryptonite?

We didn’t know. And still don’t. So we left the sheet of metal off the wall and tried daubing a combination of citronella, curry powder and fresh chilli on the walls. The sheer desperation. The vain hope. The tired resignation.

So what happened next?

THE MOTHERFUCKERS ATE A HOBBIT-SIZED HOLE IN OUR KITCHEN WALL.

Just to say “fuck you”.

I guess when eating through metal until your mouth bleeds is no obstacle, a smattering of spices on the wall is a pathetically lousy deterrent.

And Anton’s counter-offensive? Get thicker steel….

He’s very lucky that I am a patient and forgiving woman, otherwise I would have had the whole lot of them down at the goddamn pound a long time ago.

Seriously. Who’d have a fucking Staffy?

I do love them, though… Little fuckers.

MELLIPOP AND THE TESTAMUR

2006-05-03T14:58:00.000+08:00

OK, so through six prolonged years of sheer bloody-minded apathy I’ve managed to destroy the most expensive piece of paper – nay – the most expensive single material item I own.

And I can’t even blame the demon dogs for this one.

So I pulled my university degree out today. I was actually looking for my complete academic transcript, which was stored with the illustrious piece of shoddy laser-printed paper that passes for a degree these days. If I’d known before I’d enrolled just how shoddy a document it was going to be, I would have forgone the five years and countless thousands of dollars and hours it cost to achieve, and would have just whipped something up in Photoshop instead.

Anyway, so my degree and transcripts were still stored in the original plastic folder they were handed to me in. Also contained in the plastic folder with my expensive pieces of paper was another, less expensive yellow slip of paper (photocopied, ironically), still there after six years.

A short extract from the yellow piece of paper reads:

STORAGE OF DEGREE/DIPLOMAS

“The enclosed degree/diploma testamur is produced on a laser printer. Do not store your testamur on a long term basis in this plastic folder as damage may occur….It is recommended that your testamur be framed and hung in a dry environment”

Besides wondering what the fuck a “testamur” is when it’s at home, I also wondered who the fuck takes notice of warnings like that anyway. “Dry clean only”, “Hand wash in warm water”, “This medication may cause drowsiness - do not operate heavy machinery”, “Smoking will kill you”.

P’fff…. whatever....

I mean, to reiterate, what the fuck is a “testamur”? I looked it up in the Macquarie Dictionary and the goddamn word isn’t even in there! It goes straight from “testament” to “testes” with nary a “testamur” in sight. Testify!

But get this, right....

MY DEGREE COMES FROM MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT PRODUCES THE MACQUARIE DICTIONARY.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT ISSUES ME WITH A WARNING TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY “TESTAMUR”.

THE SAME UNIVERSITY THAT DOESN'T EVEN SEE FIT TO INCLUDE THE WORD "TESTAMUR" IN IT'S OWN FUCKING DICTIONARY!

So how am I expected to take a warning that contains a word that DOESN’T EVEN EXIST seriously? How was I to know that the “testamur” I wasn’t supposed to store in the plastic folder was actually my fucking shoddy laser printed degree.

Ok, so I kind of guessed it wasn’t a good idea to keep my degree in the plastic wallet. The text has now come off onto the back of my academic transcripts, which were stored in front of it, resulting in a very tragic “double vision” type effect.

Yeah, so my degree is totally fucked now. But that yellow slip of photocopied paper is in as pristine a condition as the day I got it. Hell, I might just frame it.

A VERY MELLIPOP EASTER

2006-04-18T10:30:00.000+08:00

Ok, so Easter was almost uneventful. I gave and received a fair few chocolate goodies. Eggs, bunnies, and a dusty box of "oh shit I forgot" chocolates from Anton (purchased from the servo down the road on Sunday arvo), who unfortunately missed the painfully brief post-January lead up to Easter Sunday in April. A man can be forgiven for only having had something like four scant months of easter egg buying opportunities in preparation for the day's festivities.

So we all got our seasonal treats in the end. Even the two demon dogs got their very own Easter Bunny this year.

Literally.

On the Monday night prior to easter weekend, they killed the next door neighbour's bunny rabbit.

Yes, killed. A bunny rabbit. Not just any bunny rabbit, but the beloved pet of the two young boys who live next door.

So Monday night was shaping up to be just like any other Monday night. Dinner was cooked and eaten, and we were sitting down to enjoy my favourite weeknightly half hour of self-righteous voyeurism - The Biggest Loser - when we heard small squeaking noises from out in the backyard. This is not in any way unusual. Now that Anton works for the biggest pet supply distributor in the country, we have come into possession of just about every freakin' squeakin' dog toy known to man and beast.

So hearing these few barely audible squeaking sounds in the backyard, at no point did it ever occur to me that it may in fact be the sound of our two dogs devouring a small mammal. So I stayed glued to The Biggest Loser. Anton thought otherwise, and went to check on the demon dogs.

He was shocked to discover that the Easter Bunny had come early to our house this year. The poor little tacker was in a very bad way, still alive but breathing rapidly, and deep in a state of shock. An immediate examination revealed that there was no blood, and no scratches, bites, injuries or wounds of any kind. Just a heavily traumatised bunny rabbit and two over-excited staffies who didn’t quite know what to do with it. Thank God they hadn't mauled or bitten the poor thing, though I can't help but wonder what might have happened if Anton hadn't gone outside straight away. I was definitely thanking God that it hadn't all happened on Tuesday, as my "good in a crisis" beloved was booked to stay overnight in Port Macquarie on business...

As soon as we moved in we’d anticipated that there may be an issue with the rabbit. It was left free to roam the complex that we live in, and was rarely if ever properly caged. With this in mind, we’d placed pavers all around the perimeter of our shared fence, to prevent any parties digging under the fence from either side. But rabbits are skinny. And stupid, it would appear. The bunny had dug a hole and squeezed through a two-inch gap between pavers, finding itself in our backyard. And subsequently finding itself with two new rambunctious playmates about ten times its size.

So Anton went straight over to the neighbours house, and she came over to claim the bunny, which unfortunately died later that night. I’m no forensics expert, but it would appear that the bunny, having been cornered at our side gate, literally died of shock and fright. Our neighbour was incredibly apologetic, as she had removed barriers from her side of the fence, thinking that the rabbit couldn’t possibly have been stupid enough to try and gain access into a backyard containing two dogs. In subsequent light of the bunnies death, we offered to get the boys a new bunny rabbit, an offer which was kindly refused by our neighbour.

So these poor little boys lost their pet bunny at Easter. Their mum didn’t tell them that the bunny had died, but that it had gone away to “live somewhere else”. I’m not going to try and make any of this funny, because it’s not.

There we have it. My stupid, hypo dogs have now graduated from petty theft and malicious damage to manslaughter.

MELLIPOP AND THE REJECTION LETTER

2006-03-20T17:38:00.000+08:00

OK, so the only mail I get these days tends to fall into one of two categories: bills or rejection letters. Here is the direct transcript (and unspoken subtext) of a rejection letter that arrived today. A Mellipop exclusive for you, dear voyeur.

Private and Confidential

Mellipop
Villa Le Bogan
Quakers Hill 2763

Dear Mellipop, (Dear Loser,)

Thank you for your interest (incomprehensible) and application (if you could even call it that), for the position of National Advertising Coordinator (why the fuck would you want this shitty, soul-annihilating job anyway, loser?).

We regret (ha, ha – sure we do!) to advise you that after careful consideration (a lot of arse-scratching was done), your application (if you could even call it that) for employment has not been successful on this occasion (fuck off, loser). We received a number of applications (fuck all, really), with a number of other applicants (all of them - including the mentally handicapped hobo who pissed in a rented pot plant in our reception area) better matching the selection criteria for the position (being able to wipe your own arse without requiring assistance).

I would like to thank you for the time and effort you made with your application (which was clearly close to zero), and would encourage you to apply for any other vacant position you consider suitable (as long as it is not with this company).

Yours sincerely (Get Fucked),

Tamara XXX
Chief of Sodomy (Broken Bottle Division)
Dead End Job Pty Ltd
A subsidiary of Ass-Lickers Incorporated

MELLIPOP VS ANONYMOUS

2006-03-20T16:18:00.000+08:00

Thanks for your clearly uninformed and somewhat puzzlesome contribution, Anonymous (not too anonymous obviously, as we would seem to share a mutual acquaintance called Bazza, though for whatever reason you cowardly chose to post under the "anonymous" imprimatur anyway).

Who said anything about living with my Mum and Dad? I live with my fiancee in our own home.

You think I'm sad? At least I'm not peering greedily into someone else's life solely for the cynical opportunity to post two paragraphs of snarky pot shots from behind a wall of cyber-anonymity. Glad that my satirical commentary on my current life situation has made you feel somewhat superior.

Oh and P.S. I'd quite happily spend my 30th partying with my folks, as I rather enjoy their company.

- Mellipop replies to "Anonymous" [for some inexplicable reason, Blogger isn't showing the above text in the Mellipop Back in the Saddle comments field. Mellipop thus assumes that Blogger has hitherto unrevealed pacifist leanings]

Ok, so we seem to have a blog spat brewing at a previous post. I wouldn't normally dignify anonymous snipes with a reply (and certainly won't fuel the fires in future), but the fact that the comment has come from someone who appears to know me - but is reluctant to reveal themself - is a curious one. I can only presume that this person found out about the existence of Mellipop through a mutual acquaintance whose name was mentioned in the comments-field diatribe that inspired this post.

I also know that a similar thing has happened to my fellow blogger and best-friend-in-real-life Disappearing Boy. I can only presume that this person moves in the same incestuous circles that caused a comments-field shitstorm on DB's blog last year.

Being a keen observer of human behaviour, I'm trying to understand the psychology of someone who chooses not to socialise or have any contact with me in real life, but still makes the effort to read my blog, and subsequently makes a further effort to then post two entire paragraphs of childish insults from behind a defensive wall of cyber-anonymity.

I find this behaviour rather odd, and more than a little hilarious. Am I truly that fascinating?

Goddamnit, I must be....

P.S. Aaahhh..... I miss the good old days when this sort of thing was thrashed out over a few beers down at the pub. How about it, Anonymous? I'm extending the cold schooner of peace....

HA HA I'M SO FUCKED!!!

2006-03-14T10:05:00.000+08:00

Ok, so flicking though my pitiful output over the last few months, I just noticed something that would be totally hilarious if it wasn't so darn pathetic.

I christened my most recent "comeback post" this morning as "Mellipop Back in the Saddle".

It would appear that way back on October 4 last year, I also posted an excuse-laden "comeback post" entitled "Mellipop Back in the Saddle".

First miserable post in after yet another extended break and I'm already starting to repeat myself. Do you see the pattern here?

I never did like horses anyway....

APOLOGIES

2006-03-14T09:44:00.000+08:00

Ok, so sincere apologies to anyone who logged on or posted comments during my extended absence. Certain friends have commented that they felt closer to me when I was over in WA, 'cos at least I had the blog thing happening. I would definitely agree, and hope to work on that breach, starting with the resumption of Mellipop activity.

Even the fucking spam commenters have given up on me.....

MELLIPOP BACK IN THE SADDLE

2006-03-14T09:29:00.000+08:00

OK, so there’s nothing like a mid-morning flogging on seek.com.au to instigate my much-belated return to blogging. Many of you may be forgiven for assuming that my months-long silence has come as the result of a triumphant return to Sydney, and my subsequent engagement in a whole manner of debauched partying, glamorous scenstering and lucrative full-time employment opportunities.

Alas, the real reasons for my silence are as follows:

a) Apathy – self explanatory

b) Temperature – I live in Quakers Hill. When the mercury climbs to 35 degrees in “Sydney”, it climbs to 45 degrees in Quakers Hill, and subsequently climbs to 55 degrees upstairs in my un-insulated, un-airconditioned two-story townhouse. To simply sit at my computer entails that I be attached to a drip to avoid fatal dehydration. I shit you not. During summer I sweat more just SITTING at my computer, than the combined fluid loss of the twelve fat, sweaty contestants on the Australian version of The Biggest Loser. And that INCLUDES all the self-pitying tears those big fucking nancies shed every episode.

c) Creative inertia – Selling sausages does little to fire the synapses. Brain dead job = brain dead blog. Be thankful I have spared you all the agony.

So I’m making a tentative attempt to come back to blogging, if only to cast my recent failures in a humorous light for the sake of my own sanity. And to feel like I still have something to contribute to humanity, society, eternity. Even if it’s just gratuitous obscenity.

A brief summary of the last five or six months would go as follows:

Moved home, working retail, dogs destroying house, family bbqs, dog number one has an expensive series of serious allergic reactions to the fucking grass in Quakers Hill, working retail, dog number two has a massive anaphylactic reaction to bee sting, looking for a job, working retail, not getting any interviews, working retail, discovering that my mobile phone number was wrong on all my cover letters, furious cussing, working retail, we start dog training after dogs number one and two eat a hobbit-size hole in the kitchen wall, dog number two contracts kennel cough as the result of a kennel cough vaccination, new hair cut, dogs currently going mental and loudly smacking their stupid heads on my bookcase as the opening bars of “Been Caught Stealing” by Jane’s Addiction – complete with recording of someone else’s dogs barking - begins to play on iTunes.

And that about covers it.

The lack of decent job thing is starting to shit me. My open-hearted attempts at honesty as it pertains to job applications have thus far gotten me nowhere. So it’s time to get “creative”. IT’S TIME TO FUCKING LIE, BABY.

In order to play the “fucking hire me (or at least freakin’ interview me)” game, I have now dumbed down my resume to the extent where a six month tenure in a sheltered workshop sticking address labels on envelopes wouldn’t look amiss. I have also “tweaked” various details so that I don’t come across as the old, overeducated, underachieving, western suburban bogan that I am.

* I've now included the CORRECT mobile phone number on all documents
* The word “manager” has been replaced by the word “coordinator” in previous job-titles
* I've removed my date of birth to hide my age (fuuuuuuckkkkk!!!)
* My educational qualifications have been entirely deleted to conceal the fact that I have a bachelor degree
* I've included a false address (inhabited by an ex-flatmate) to hide the fact that I now live in Quakers Hill
* Plus I’ve deleted my home phone number to outsmart any smarty-pants potential employer who may be alerted to the fact that the phone prefix places me snugly up the stinky rectal cavity of the Western Suburbs, and not in the funky “Inner West” suburb my false address implies

So all I need to do now is actually send the fuckers out. And keep slinging snags in the meantime.

Postscript: I know, it’s not exactly the inspired return I was hoping for….. Consider the creative blockage cleared, at least.

BRIEF MELLIPOP LECTURE ON MOBILE PHONE ETTIQUETTE

2005-12-01T17:56:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I think we need a brief reminder here on a point of mobile phone ettiquette. No. Not just ettiquette, but a basic sense of courtesy and human decency. Remember what that was? If not, try renting something from the "Classic Movies" section of your nearest video store.

How about this? When someone is serving you as part of a mutually-respectful retail encounter and your phone rings, don't answer it and then proceed to hold an inane five minute conversation with someone else whilst holding your friendly customer service representative at bay. Plus, it's not like there are other customers waiting for service, you know.

And if you truly have to answer - I know you people with your bloody mobile phones tend to think of listless conversations about meandering down to meet someone outside K-mart as "urgent" calls - subsequently resume your encounter with said friendly customer service representative by AT LEAST sheepishly apologising for your reprehensible behaviour.

I do realise that your time is far more valuable than that of some miserable sub-human retail peon like myself.

In such cases I like to wander off and pretend to be studiously applied to some other minor unrelated task. When I notice out the corner of my eye that they are off the phone and are looking impatiently to recapture my attention, I continue to pretend to beaver away at my minor unrelated task with all the steely-eyed determination of a pit-bull devouring a small lap dog, until I think that I have irritated them enough. After I have kept them waiting, I chance to look up with a combined air of surprise and irritation because they have somehow interrupted me from my extremely important minor unrelated task. Which I usually also punctuate with a smarmy yet innocently-framed comment like "Oh, so you're finished now?".

Petty, I know.

People are so fucking rude.

MELLIPOP RETURNS TO TALK MUSIC

2005-11-29T16:20:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I’m trying to make a comeback of sorts here. No excuses for my last 5 or 6 weeks absence, besides general lethargy and little of interest to report. I only have so many noteworthy lamb chop anecdotes to share.

So, being at my self-indulgent best, I’ve decided to post on my favourite albums of 2005. Exciting, huh? It’s kind of like dinner time when you were a kid. You’ve been tooling around the neighbourhood all afternoon like a right little bastard and you’re starving. You’ve got your fingers crossed for spaghetti bolognaise. Mum serves up lamb chops and vegies instead (there, I’ve managed to include another gratuitous lamb chop reference already). So the chops are great, but the boiled vegies are unwelcome filler on your plate. Overdone, soggy and decidely unsexy tea-time fare (sorry Mum, but your boiled vegies utterly SUCK!!! And don’t even start me on the whole “Deb” fake mashed potato experience. I thought I hated mashed potato for years. Until I tried mash made from REAL potatoes. DOCS should list the provision of “Deb” at meal times as a legitimate form of child abuse).

Anyway, as unappealing as your rapidly congealing vegie slop is, you have two options. Ignore the gnawing emptiness of your gut and stage your own miniature hunger-strike in protest. Or cave in to your Mum’s incessant nagging, and polish off your plate of limp vegies with a petulant grimace and a few pointed displays of dry retching for dramatic effect (my older brother was the KING of dinner-time dry retching – in between deviously transferring his vegies to my dinner plate or smuggling them out of the room to throw them out his bedroom window).

Essentially, this is the blogging equivalent of Mum forcing you to eat your greens. If you’re truly hungry, you’ll eat it. With any luck, you might at least get dessert a little later on.

2005: THE YEAR MELLIPOP WENT COUNTRY

So for me, 2005 was noteworthy for at least one reason: I found myself dabbling in a musical genre I could NEVER EVER conceivably see myself enjoying. Country music. This may mean nothing to you, fellow bloggers. But to illustrate the foundation-shaking-ness of such a turn of events, think of the resounding shockwaves if say, John Howard all of sudden decided that socialism sounded like a pretty good gig, and legislated accordingly (which he could pretty much do at the drop of a hat if he ever felt like it – there’s always hope, people).

I mean, Country Music is all achey-breakey, tractor-pulling, mullet-headed, cousin-kissin’, line-dancing in rhinestone jackets and cowboy boots, right? Hell yeah – yee haa!

Rest assured that I’ve not pulled out the Bedazzler to jazz up that old acid wash denim jacket just yet. I’m simply engaging in a spirited flirtation with that hoary old chestnut called alt.country, which is simply a term coined by unimaginative music critics and adopted by hipster indie-wannabe types to justify listening to anything featuring steel pedal, fiddle or harmonica. But not the naff stuff from Nashville.

It’s a slippery slope from my two all-time fave bands Pavement and Wilco to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams, Lucinda Williams, Son Volt, Uncle Tupelo, Richmond Fontaine and Bright Eyes, all of which have line danced their way into my collection this last year. Though I must insist on being shot the day I ever ponder the purchase of anything by Shania Twain, Garth Brooks or the Dixie frikkin’ Chicks.

So country music aside, 2005 has so far been defined for me by two key discoveries:

1) Dirt Cheap CDs – Aaahhh…. A dizzying surfeit of $10 back catalogue CDs (insert “kid in candy store” metaphor here). This retail outlet is directly responsible for much of my fiscal irresponsibility this year. Total acquisitions far too numerous (and far too terrifying) to be listed here individually. Just as an aside for interested punters – most of the Wilco back catalogue is currently available to buy for $10 a pop. They appeared just after I paid full retail price for all of them in the midst of a typical addict’s buying frenzy.

2) 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die – this hefty little volume is a recent purchase which has now resulted in my “Albums to Buy” list blowing out to an unprecendented deficit (as if the UK music press weren’t “helpful” enough in that respect). No doubt the annual sales projection figures for Dirt Cheap CDs have already been amended accordingly.

OK, so I’ll start with the albums that sucked this year, only as it makes for more entertaining reading. They certainly didn’t make for entertaining listening.

WORST OF 2005

X & Y – Coldplay
So I know it’s not in any way cool to like Coldplay, but I LOVE their first two albums. Now to the eagerly-awaited third album, released this year… Hey kids, remember algebra in school? Thrilling, wasn’t it?

Here’s an equation for you Coldplay, and an algebraic reminder to Mellipop readers.

X + Y = BORING

BORING = the new Coldplay album.

I only have one other question. What is the mathematical shorthand for SAVE YOUR FUCKING MONEY?

Get Behind Me, Satan – The White Stripes
The White Stripes are the Great White Shark of the music world. Greg Norman is infamous for his ability to inevitably disappoint his supporters by choking in major golf tournaments. Each purchase of a White Stripes CD leaves me with the same empty feeling. The dashed hopes, the disappointment, the nagging suspicion that these guys are just so damn overrated, with more style than substance, earning more money and attention than they deserve while there are much better but less-strikingly-attired bands potting a hole-in-one or two with little or no mainstream recognition. Get Behind Me, Satan – while having a few cool tunes – is just Greg Norman in a flash hat but flush last on the leaderboard. Fuck off back to your 40 ft yacht and retire disgracefully with a massive mound of pure Bolivian coke and a few fawning supermodels to remind you of your fleeting moment of commercial success. We’ll wait patiently for your branded line of hipster urbanwear if you promise never to record again.

BEST OF 2005

For every X & Y released in 2005, there was an album like The Magic Numbers to remind us that cool tunes never die – they’re just harder to find sometimes. So, in no particular order, here are the best of the bunch for 2005.

Illinois – Sufjan Stevens
Who’d ever thought that a quirky little concept album about a dinky little state in the US could be so much fun. A little wanky in parts (thank God for iTunes), but the bulk of the songs are truly sublime pop symphonies about subjects as off-kilter as serial killer John Wayne Gacy, killer wasps and local landmarks like the Seers Tower. Think Brian Wilson meets Belle and Sebastian for a few beers at Phil Spector’s house. Edit out the bridging tracks in between (the aforementioned “wanky” bits) and you’ve got a work of pure pop genius that somehow avoids pretension by lieu of it being so utterly brilliant.

Martha Wainright – Martha Wainwright
Now that PJ Harvey has disappeared up her own skinny ass, the world needs a new uber-kick ass singer-songwriter chick to pen kick-ass classics like “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole”, just one highlight of Ms Wainright’s self-titled stunner. Martha is one of the least kick-ass names I can think of (besides “Britney”), but this album has been on serious rotation for me all year. Just get it. Great voice (a little bit PJ, a little bit Marianne Faithfull after all the drugs), great songs, and probably has a great set of tits too. Love ‘er!

I am a Bird Now – Antony & the Johnsons
Like nothing you’ve ever heard before – unless you’ve heard Nina Simone. Except this guy is a white New York transsexual. Swooning, soaring, bleak torch songs for the new millenium. Sublimely beautiful, profoundly sad, achingly vulnerable and deeply moving. About as far away as you can get from balls-out alpha male Bon Jovi on the musical spectrum. And that can only be a good thing. Plus, guest spots from Lou Reed, Devendra Banhardt and Rufus Wainright. I am a Bird Now is one to listen to at home. Alone. With a bumper box of tissues. This little number ain’t getting any party started. Unless you’re at a wake.

I’m Wide Awake it’s Morning – Bright Eyes
So he’s not the “New Dylan”. Not by a long shot. And anyway, Jeff Tweedy is the “New Dylan”, so no further candidates need apply. But this is a darn fine album. Neo-folk, alt-country, whatever you want to call it, the indie kids love it and as far as I know, it hasn’t yet been co-opted as the “new cool” by the producers of The OC. Nuff said.

Kicking Television: Live in Chicago – Wilco
Need I say anything? I hear that Wilco are already working on a new album for 2006, so we’ve got this double live CD to keep us amused until then. The only disappointment is that there was also a DVD version recorded, but bloody Tweedy has scrapped it because it "didn’t properly capture the atmosphere of the venue blah wank blah” or some such shit. Geez, Jeff. Like we care! Who gives a rat’s poo-shute about the freakin’ “atmosphere”? We only wanted the DVD version for the unmitigated perve-factor, you-who-don’t-make- music-videos. Ok, so we still love you anyway. Crotchedy old bugger….

The Alternative to Love – Brendan Benson
Good mates with Jack from the White Stripes, poor old bridesmaid Brendan is a fine example of someone who made a great album which was released to almost universal indifference this year. Flog your copy of Get Behind Me Satan to Cash Converters and buy this instead. A great pop record which is a bit Phil Spectorish in parts and just very groovy overall.

Alligator – The National
Crap album title. Fucking great album though. Q Magazine described them with the quote “Like REM when they were good”. Fairly accurate, but The National are even better than that. I think the comparison is somewhat unfair, because The National don’t actually sound like any other band. This is a rare compliment – especially since it is the stock-in-trade of most fans and critics to cite other artists as a standard point of reference when discussing music. Alligator is just a seriously good rock album. Great lyrics bordering on the morbid side of wit. All killer, no filler. Songs about fucked up losers and fucked up relationships for the most part – but oddly uplifting.

Discover a Lovelier You – The Pernice Brothers
These guys are a bit like a fatter, older, high school teacher version of Belle and Sebastian. The winsome lyrics about the minutiae of daily life and an ironic sense of self-deprecation, all backed by pert little pop symphonies and lots of catchy melodies that will damn well jam themselves into a small niche in your frontal lobe.

Funeral – Arcade Fire
OK, so this one got more than it’s fair share of frothy-mouthed five star reviews this year, and it’s quite good. But not THAT good (more Donut King than Krispy Crème). It’s not going to change the face of rock forever or anything. Quirky and eccentric, a bit gothic, a bit Motown, a bit lounge and in quite a few cases more than a little pretentious, so much so that it labours under the delusions of it’s own importance a bit too much. But all that tall-poppy stuff aside, a pretty good listen. Much better this than the solo album from Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20.

The Magic Numbers – The Magic Numbers
Like the new millenium Mamas and the Papas on Prozac. Loving this. Chock full of divine harmonies, sunny melodies and popstatic little odes to love and long legs. Believe the hype on this one. ‘Tis good.

The Sunset Tree – The Mountain Goats
I truly hated this album at first – so much so that I abandoned it in disgust halfway through for an old Joni Mitchell album. I was in the bathtub at the time, which was completely the wrong context to hear it. Essentially, it’s a concept album about a recently deceased step-father, detailing the physical and mental abuse the singer experienced at the hands of said dead step-father. So not exactly cheery listening. But for whatever reason I was drawn back to the album, and fell in love with it. The guys unique voice is quite grating at first (somewhat Jello Biafra-esque), and couple this with songs referencing his step-dad throwing his mother around downstairs while he listens to dance music upstairs and you’ve got some fairly uneasy listening. But by turns it becomes utterly compelling and rather absurdly, becomes morbidly catchy “singalong” fare.

You Could Have it So Much Better – Franz Ferdinand
Oh I know. It’s a bloody obvious one. I was expecting it to be utterly crap. It’s the rule. Great debut. Woeful, self-indulgent, rush-released follow up to capture the tail-end of the chart-topping zeitgeist. But it’s bloody great. Not breaking any barriers musically, but when you’re stealing from Bowie at his best, it’s hard to go too far wrong.

Oh, and honorable mentions go to Howl - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Fitzgerald - Richmond Fontaine and reissues from obscure 70's folk singers Bill Fay (self-titled) and Judee Sill (Heart Food and Introducing...).

There you go. Too buggered to tie things up any more eloquently than that. But it doesn’t matter. Most of you won’t have made it this far anyway. Only the desperate music loonies like me.

More on Mellipop soon. Promise.

MELLIPOP PASSES THE BUCK

2005-10-17T19:53:00.000+08:00

Ok, so one last word regarding work today. Promise.

What do you say to a five year old who, after contemplating a tray of loin chops with a plastic pig stuck in it saying "Fresh Pork", looks up at you and asks, "Why did you kill Babe?"

What could I say? I told him that the butcher did it....

MELLIPOP AND THE TERRORIST THREAT

2005-10-17T16:11:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I found myself in the midst of a true-to-life terrorist threat today.

So I was at work this afternoon, going about my daily business in that courageous yet stoic way that people do when they live surrounded by the constant threat of terrorism. I work in a bona fide terrorist hot-spot, see.

Castle Hill - a north-western suburb of Sydney, for those of you fortunate enough to never have visited.

Castle Hill is the Christian "bible belt" of not only Sydney, but the Entire Continent Formally Known as Van Diemen's Land. Castle Hill is directly responsible for Hillsong, an allegedly "hip" new-school church of Christianity that breeds Stepford Adolescents toting "New Testament for Teens" Bibles and ripping Hillsong CDs with titles such as "God is in 'da House" to their iPods (umm...ok, so the real title is actually "God is in the House", but the former is marginally more humorous).

So it would raise no eyebrows were I to suggest that the mujadheen might want to blow the bugger to smithereens. I mean, fuck, even I want to blow the fucking joint to smithereens. The people in Castle Hill seriously annoy me. For example: one of my overly uptight customers came back to complain about me ONE WHOLE WEEK AFTER OUR TRANSACTION HAD OCCURED because I had the audacity to call her “mate” during said transaction. The boss (aka my father) was fairly unmoved by her complaint. I believe his reply was - and I quote - “Well, this IS Australia, love…”. Though what she thought of him calling her “love”, one can only guess.

Anyway, irritating customers aside, as mentioned before I was at the centre of a real-life terrorist threat today in the shopping centre where I work.

So I was serving a customer. She ordered 700 grams of veal schnitzel. After asking if it were cut fresh today - with an affirmative reply from the butcher - she still insisted that we cut more fresh for her because according to her the perfectly OK veal schnitzel on display looked “dark”. Being accustomed to the illogical, unreasonable and unfathomable demands of the general public, the young butcher cut and pounded fresh veal schnitzel for her without comment.

It was during this interval that my customer mentioned to me that she had just seen an “unaccompanied” green-bag over near the ATM machines, and insisted that we call security. I was utterly unmoved by both the situation and her request, with absolutely no intent of following up on it. I was far more bemused by her sincere belief that this was a potentially dangerous situation, and one deserving of anyone’s attention at all. Besides the senile senior citizen who left her loaf of bread, Sensodyne denture paste and Tena Lady pads in a Coles green bag beside the ATM machines around the corner in her haste to get down to the local RSL club so she could blow the last of her pension money on the pokies.

I mean firstly, this customer of mine had already proved herself to be an unreliable source of information. She was “alert, but not alarmed” by the state of our veal schnitzel. AND SHE WAS WRONG! It was a complete FALSE ALARM! The schnitzel on display was FRESHLY CUT! It was this overreaction that first led me to doubt the veracity of her terrorist-bomb-threat-in-Castle Hill claims.

Secondly, she had this weird lazy eye thing going on. Her left eyeball was completely out of whack with the right eyeball. If I’m going to phone a bomb threat through to centre security, I need to know that my sources are accurate. What if the senile, incontinent, denture-clad pensioner was in fact standing RIGHT NEXT TO the allegedly “unaccompanied” Green bag at the ATM machines, but my customers’ obvious visual impairment made it impossible for her to process both stimuli simultaneously. It was essential that I required another verifying witness before acting. Or possibly an actual explosion.

Thirdly, my customer did not consider this information vital or urgent enough to report before she ordered her 700 grams of freshly-cut veal schnitzel.

And forth and most importantly, my customer totally reeked of that pompous air of self-importance characteristic of those who like to “dob in a dole cheat”, pen long-winded "letters to the editor" complaining about the miserable state of the public health system and gleefully bring to light the various and sundry shortcomings of others in everyday conversation. Like the “class snitch” in high school, or those crotchety old pensioners with so much time on their hands yet so little to whinge about, this woman was one of those types who just wanted to feel important by “reporting” SOMETHING. ANYTHING. NOTHING.

So I didn’t bother calling in the potential Al Qaeda Coles green bag threat to security today. That may indeed make me a loathsome and irresponsible citizen. I simply refuse to buy into the cacophonous “impending threat of our immediate annhiliation from terrorists AT ANY SECOND NOW” scaremongering chorus led by our government and media, just because some stupid bogan left their shopping behind.

Oh, and if you hadn’t already guessed, everyone in the shopping centre emerged with all their limbs and organs still intact. Though I don’t know whether that old pensioner got her groceries back. Maybe I should have just turned the mysterious green bag into the "Lost and Found" at Centre Management instead.

MELLIPOP AND COMMENT SPAM

2005-10-10T18:41:00.000+08:00

Ok, so within ten minutes of posting my previous rant, my blog post has already attracted three random spam comments. Two of which have been duly deleted (oh, the anti-climactic disappointment of the fake comment!), though the one on "French Kissing Tips" (they're free!) has been left intact for interested punters.

Fucking internet.

Oh, and please don't ignore that overwhelming desire to post a comment on the previous artefact of my vented spleen just because I posted this brief yet indignant comment on comment spam.

Cheers.

MELLIPOP FIGHTS THE GOOD FIGHT

2005-10-10T18:01:00.001+08:00

Ok, so I’m REALLY fucking fired up tonight.

I’m trying to think of a word worse than “cunt”, but am struggling to think of something truly obscene. Mammoth-cunt, mega-cunt, exponential-cunt, infinity-cunt, infinity-times-infinity cunt?

However, none of these terms seem appropriate. The kind of rage I am feeling is – I presume – generally manifested outside the arena of language, and more in the arena of direct action. Something which would involve a chainsaw, perhaps. And a lot of someone else’s blood.

However, tonight’s post is not just a desperate expression of my impotent rage. It also stands as a cautionary tale to those of you who may be interested in self-improvement generally. Damn fools.

My succinct and (briefly) obscenity-devoid words of wisdom tonight - and I can’t stress this enough – are,

DO NOT EVER SIGN UP FOR A GYM MEMBERSHIP.

EVER!!!!

Unless, however, you happen to be a litigation fetishist who gets off on slapping on the Braveheart facepaint and going toe-to-toe with a "dodgy credit card fraud outfit disguised as a law-abiding health and fitness establishment" like the HEALTHY LIFE FITNESS CENTRE IN PEPPERMINT GROVE, WA.

So the battle rages, spanning both sides of our esteemed continent. At my long-distance phone call expense, of course.

A few pertinent details, now that I have expended some of my ancilliary rage.

So Anton and I signed up for a gym membership at the "dodgy credit card fraud outfit disguised as a law-abiding health and fitness establishment" aka the HEALTHY LIFE FITNESS CENTRE IN PEPPERMINT GROVE, WA, on September 6 2004. A mere three days after we landed in Perth. Enthusiastic, yes - sensible, no.

Our 12 month memberships should have expired on September 6 2005. I emailed and faxed the the gym on August 9, 2005 to advance written notice of our intention to cancel our membership. We also went into the gym to fill out their cancellation paperwork before we left WA on September 3.

We were assured that our cancellation would be processed and that no further payments would be debited to our credit cards after the expiry date. This was reinforced on a follow-up phone call I made when the promised phone call from the gym to confirm the cancellation was not forthcoming.

Since we have been in Sydney (a month) , three fortnighty payments ($50.45 a pop) have subsequently been debited to our credit cards (just in case we happened to be in the neighbourhood and felt like jumping on a treadmill, no doubt). The third illegal debit had been helpfully extracted even after I spoke with the “manager” Sarah after the second illegal payment was debited. Sarah promised to call me back but must have, ahem… “mislaid” my number. I’m sure she fully intended to sort everything out for us the first time we spoke.

But lo and behold, we get yet debited the third illegal installment of a gym membership that has already expired for a gym that is in the vicinity of 4000km away.

So I’m thinking that maybe I wasn’t clear enough the last time we cordially discussed the issue as mutually respectful adults.

As a result, I called the motherfuckers again tonight. Bad Mellicop this time, not Good Mellicop. And not just Bad Mellicop, but Bad-Mellicop-on-three-beers-Mellicop. Let me tell you, you don’t mess with THAT bitch.

So after more than a few angry “fucks”, allegations of “serious credit card fraud”, frothy-mouthed threats to make formal complaints to the "relevant authorities" and rabid threats of litigation, it apppears that we may have progress. (??) Though I’m not entirely sure… I was so venomously, bile-spittingly angry that it appears that I accidentally gave my mum’s home number as my contact number for Sarah to call back (oops!), instead of my new home number.

So my parents just called to say that they have had a phone call from sputtering Sarah saying that the payments will be fixed up – and they gave her my actual home number for her to call me (oops again!). Though I am still waiting for said call. Fucked if I am going to make yet a another long distance call to sort this shit out.

But it appears, at least, that we have progress.

And if it turns out that we don’t have any progress on the credit card fraud front, I’ll make yet another long distance phone call to the "dodgy credit card fraud outfit disguised as a law-abiding health and fitness establishment" aka the HEALTHY LIFE FITNESS CENTRE IN PEPPERMINT GROVE, WA. And I’ll be bringing out the “cunts” for this one. Unless I can feasibly come up with some greater as-yet-unestablished obscenity.

Though bar flying over to WA, wielding a rusty chainsaw and spilling some Healthy Life Fitness Centre taut n’ toned blood, I can’t think of anything more irascible than the ever-trusty expletive “cunt”.

Sigh….The limitations of language…..

Postcript: Sarah called back in the middle of dinner (eye fillet steak and stir-fried veg…mmm… the perks of being a butcher bitch again....). Contrite apologies offered, membership has been cancelled and she is going to "consult her managers” regarding the other illegal payments.

Fuckers.

And the moral of this long-winded and otherwise yawn-inducing story?

a) Don't sign your life and finances away to a gym. Be fat and unattractive instead.

b) Being obnoxious, offensive and obscene gets results.

c) Don’t fuck with bad Mellicop. She keeps all the pertinent paperwork in order. And is not afraid of slinging a few uncouth “fucks” around after a couple of tinnies of full strength, in addition to throwing around some vociferous yet empty threats of legal action. My brother-in-law-to-be is a lawyer. He’s in insurance law, but no-one needs to know that.

Mellipop 1, Fitness Fraud Motherfuckers 0.

MELLIPOP: MARLOBORO LIGHT UPDATE

2005-10-04T13:07:00.000+08:00

Ok, so Sydney is quite embarrasingly superior to all the other states in this wide brown land in many respects. AFL, Rugby League, road rage incidents, air and water toxicity levels, and so on.

But most importantly.... The Marlboro (Lights) are FUCKING AMAZING. They taste exactly like cigarettes should. FUCKING AWESOME.

Let's just put all that WA "dog-shit-tasting-cigarettes" unpleasantness behind us now. I'm back in Sydney and my beloved fags look and taste the same again. White butts, smooth flavour, same sexy carcinogens.... Sigh....

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY MELLIPOP!!!

2005-10-04T10:33:00.000+08:00

Ok, so in true Mellipop style, I've forgotten yet another birthday.

My own.

As of September 28, Mellipop is one year old! Happy birthday to me!

Bugger. If I remembered my birthday I would have organised a Mellipop party. But considering that a) remembering things and b) organising things are not exactly strengths of mine, it's probably for the best.

I'm pretty sure that I have also missed two other far more important birthdays of late. Two of my "bridesmaids" and very best friends Barry and Tarun have celebrated birthdays recently. I think. Fuck. I am chronically ABYSMAL when it comes to remembering these things. I really must get a calendar or something.

Esteemed apologies again, friends. I suck really badly, I do realise that...

MELLIPOP BACK IN THE SADDLE

2005-10-04T09:36:00.000+08:00

OK, so friends and bloggers have noted my distinct lack of communique of late. My blogging absence can be explained by a serial aversion to the internet of late (which is maybe more honestly expressed as an aversion to seek.com specifically). My telecommunications absence - well let's just put that down to my usual ineptitude with such things (in addition to the usual work excuses). Plus Anton is using my phone now, as his mobile is now officially dead.

None of you would be surprised to discover that our cute little four-legged antichrist was the architect behind that one. Tonka. I swear this puppy is the devil incarnate. Am thinking, in hindsight, that the name “Damien” may have been more appropriate. The balance sheet on this particular animal is catapulting even further into the red, but we do still love him very much, despite the steady stream of calls for us to despatch him with a silver bullet or two.

So Tonka didn't EAT the phone. He has been far too busy eating the walls. Yes. EATING THE WALLS. Though we have concocted a delightful little home remedy for that particular problem. Mix citronella oil, curry powder, fresh chilli and Rexona deodorant and smear it on the walls. Bingo! Puppies suddenly don't enjoy eating the walls so much anymore. So our house has the distinct odour of an East-Indian eatery located in a gym locker room with the obligatory outdoor bamboo torches burning for ambience. But the walls remain intact (though the pre-Staffy value of Anton’s investment property is maybe not so intact).

Anyway, back to Anton’s recently departed mobile phone. So yesterday he takes both pooches down to our old stomping grounds at the doggie café at Leichhardt. Tonka’s first time. For those who have never been - by lieu of geography or by lieu of not having a dog (oh how I envy you!) – the park has a stinky sewer-ish canal running along one side of it. Tonka likes water, and thinks he can swim. Hell – we thought he could swim!

He can’t. So he’s seen the water and hurtled down to leap into the canal at which point he then proceeded to drown. After he had gone under about three times - with a look of abject panic on his poor little puppy face - Anton realised that he was going to have to jump in after him to rescue him. So he did, with phone, wallet, keys and sunglasses still intact. Phone died. Tonka survived. Though the poor little blighter did vomit up a lot of water.

Anti-social behaviour, wanton destructiveness, chronic disobedience, the complete lack of heroic initiative, the tendency for chaos and acts of pure evil to manifest in his mere presence....

Damien, yes. Lassie, no.

RETAIL MAKES MELLIPOP GO CRAZY

2005-09-09T15:08:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I’ve done two and a half days of retail (back in the butcher smock), and already it’s seriously doing my head in. I yelled at a customer yesterday. She was elderly. She was in a motorised wheelchair. She had oxygen tubes coming out of her nose.

And yes, I yelled at her. It was all because of two lamb chops. Not one of my finer moments.

So Terminal Woman comes up to the counter with her husband, and orders eight lamb chops. Being the sprightly and efficient butcher chick that I am, I swoop down on the tray, count out eight lamb chops, throw ‘em into a plastic bag and hoist ‘em up on the scales, all in the one swift and graceful movement.

But none of this was good enough for Terminal Woman.

Terminal Woman: (affecting a rude and haughty tone) NO! I don’t want all those rough ones. Put all those rough ones back!

Mellipop: (sighs) What rough ones?

Terminal Woman: Those rough ones you picked up. I don’t want those ones.

Mellipop: (sighs and breathes deeply) Here, look. What rough ones?

(goes through the bag and pulls out each of the eight lamb chops for her to scrutinise, one by one)

Terminal Woman: Yeah, those ones are alright. NO! I don’t want those last two. They’re rough ones! Give me another two instead.

Mellipop: (sighs and places the disputed lamb chops back on the tray, picks up another two chops and places them in the bag on the scales) Ok. That comes to $10.56.

Terminal Woman: (outraged) LOOK – NO - YOU JUST PUT THE TWO SAME BLOODY CHOPS BACK IN THE BAG! I saw you!

Mellipop: (now yelling at a woman in a wheelchair) WELL LADY - IF YOU HAD BEEN WATCHING WHAT I WAS DOING YOU WOULD HAVE NOTICED THAT I DID EXACTLY WHAT YOU BLOODY ASKED ME TO DO. SEE THOSE TWO CHOPS THERE ON THE TRAY? THE ROUGH ONES? NOT IN THE BAG! OK?

At which point Terminal Husband jumped in to placate Terminal Woman (who looked well set to continue arguing the point), reassuring her that I was in fact telling her the truth, and that I was not defrauding her out of premium grade domestic lamb.

Once payment had been transacted and Terminal Woman had left the store, my self-righteous indignation subsided and I kind of felt bad. I mean, she had fucking oxygen tubes stuck up her nose for chrissake. And I yelled at her over two lamb chops. But there’s nothing that makes my blood boil more than having my integrity questioned by rude, ignorant fools.

So the Mellipop moral of the story is: Being seriously ill does not give you free reign to be a complete asshole. Even if you can’t walk and have plastic tubes stuck up your snooty nose.

MELLIPOP BIDS PERTH A FOND ADIEU

2005-08-31T16:38:00.000+08:00

Ok, so my beloved 'puter is scheduled to be packed up, well, now.

I shan't see her for at least two or three weeks, until we are reunited in Sydney. So just to give you all the heads up, Mellipop will cease trading as of this moment, and will hopefully resume as soon as the removalists get their shit together and get my stuff back to Sydney.

It's been a sad day. Have had to say farewell to my work colleagues and a regular paycheck. I am now at the mercy of the Sydney job market and regular mortgage repayments.

Hope you all keep well. Am off to pack more crap. See you back in civilisation.

MELLIPOP AND THE JOB OFFER

2005-08-29T19:48:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I got offered a fantastic job today, completely out of the blue, putting paid to the sinister lie that unsolicited spam is the scourge of modern mass communications.

Opening with the warm yet not overly familiar greeting “Dear human being”, I knew straight away that I was onto a winner.

Dispensing with all other social niceties, the email went all out to forward me a fantastic employment offer. I can be my own boss and work from home, for only 2 to 3 hours a day. The only requirement is that I am “smart and honest”. Tick and tick. Plus I’m an Aussie citizen, over 21 and am a computer and email user. Tick, tock, tick on the Playschool clock.

So what does this dream job entail exactly? They were a bit scant on the details, but did reveal that I will be “Fulfilling company orders until we open an office in your country” and that “Your line of work will be tied to the banking system”. Sounds pretty sweet. I always fancied a role in the dynamic yet rewarding world of global capital.

However, there is one small glitch, no doubt due to the logistical nightmares involved in setting up a completely kosher multinational banking-system order-sending-out corporation. The poor buggers are keen to open a business account, but it requires two weeks. Damn banks and their paper pushing bureaucractic ineptitude. No doubt my new employers will be kicking against the pricks to revolutionise the entire way that banking systems operate on an international scale. Once they get that damn business account open, that is.

But rest assured that some initial hassles with paperwork isn’t going to stop me from commencing employment with them, because my new bosses are a proactive bunch, stating “Therefore you will be working with your own bank account”. And it gets better - “If you don't have a bank account, that's no problem! Any bank takes just one day to open a new account!” These guys are obviously a forward-thinking solutions-oriented organisation.

Mmm…though it makes you wonder why these bastards in banking take TWO WEEKS to open a simple damn business account when they will open one for me in JUST ONE DAY. Go figure.

So anyway, here’s the 411 on how I make my dough. I’ll make a sweet 10% from every transaction made to my account - “The least amount of transfers will be 5000$, so you will make from 250$ to 2500$”. Not bad for doing sweet FA – though I’m not sure that those figures really add up. Isn’t 10% of $5000 a total of $500? Not $250. Maybe it’s those damn banks and their account keeping fees. Bloody criminals.

“Do you agree that it's good money for a job, that takes you only 2-3 hours a day?” Do I even have to answer? Hell yes! Sign me up! And boy, were they ever keen to.

“Don't hesitate! Take this opportunity, space is limited!
You must fill out our form if you are interested in working for us and meet our requirements http://spectrumdevelopments.com/info.html”

God I hope I get this one - I've got a pretty good vibe about it. I wonder if this mob are affiliated with www.nigerian-internet-fraud.com? Those guys make shitloads of money.

MELLIPOP HATES POLITICS

2005-08-28T16:33:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I think what this country needs is some good old fashioned witch hunts to kick in.

Starting with every motherfucker who voted for the Howard Government. Sorry Mum, but my finger points first at you. But that's only because no-one else I know will come clean and admit their guilt.

You have all been part of the biggest con perpetrated on the Australian people, well, EVER. What is WRONG with you people? Give me one good reason (besides interest rates - or should that be "self-interest") that you voted for this bottom feeding ass fellating apologist for the ruling elite, not just in this country, but in the whole world ie the United States of Terror.

Good old Johnny is out there kicking goals for all of us. But he's using our heads, people. And I say "our" because presumably those most benefited by Johnny Howard's regime are all out supervising some underpaid illegal immigrant who is out buffing their Beemer ("Make it shine real good you little chink, or I'll have you shipped off to Woomera faster than you can blink") or planning their next round of redundancies ("If we cut 3000 jobs on Monday, that'll hold me in good stead for another non-CPI indexed payrise with share options"), so probably don't log on much to Mellipop.

Industrial relations "reforms" that leave the individual at the mercy (or lack thereof) of their employers, the complete privatisation of Telstra, the embarrassing toadying to the US in foreign affairs, vile and divisive immigration policies that evoke the racism of White Australia, sending our troops off to wage war on a sovereign nation that has never once threated our sovereignty, funding cuts to basic social services and education, paving the way for full fee paying degrees to give the rich a monopoly on access tertiary education, ignoring Australian citizens locked up for years in overseas gaols without charges laid against them or access to legal assistance, the constant laying of the boot into single mothers, the scary alliances with the Christian right, tax relief to the highest income bracket...

I want someone who voted for Howard to post a comment naming one benefit this has accrued to them. One that does NOT include the "Cash for Kids" baby bonus. I really want to know, and promise not to shout anyone down who has any comments to make.

Why did middle Australia vote for this ass clown in the first place? And then why did they continue to vote for him the other two times after that? I am genuinely mystified and appalled. Admittedly, the Labour party offered no real alternative or vision. But why did the working and middle classes jump so readily into bed with the Liberals?

Bah. This country is fucked. No more political posts, promise.

This is all your fault nightrider! I'm having that comments problem again. So consider this my response!

MELLIPOP HATES HER HAIR

2005-08-27T16:59:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I toddle off to the hairdressers today, to get a fabbo new style for my impending return to Sydney. Don't want everyone to think I've let myself go since being in WA, see.

Late change of plans, but we just cannot come back to Sydney now. I hate my new hair style.

Getting a new hairstyle leads one to ponder certain questions of aesthetics. Big questions are raised. Big questions like, "Why have I not had a fringe for the last four years?".

The answer to these questions soon become apparent. Oh, that's right.... BECAUSE I LOOK SHIT WITH A FRINGE.

Seems that in living without a fringe for four years, one forgets this simple fact.

Fuck.

Plus, it's too short.

Double fuck.

Maybe it just needs "product".

EVER WONDER WHY THE REST OF THE WORLD HATES YOU?

2005-08-24T16:43:00.000+08:00

Ok, so far be it from me to get all geo-political on you, but I read something on SMH today that rather quite pissed me off.

No, for once it involves neither the anti-tobacco lobby, nor my anti-furniture Staffys. But it does involve two of my other favourite pub-debate whipping boys - the Christian right and American foreign policy. Combine the two and you have one motherfucking dangerous ideology.

So anyway, the president of the US Christian Coalition - who we will call Pat Robertson because that is his name - has publicy called for the assassination of democratically-elected Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. Who it would appear, is a dirty-lefty and a "terrific danger" to the United States. To be precise, Hugo was accused by Pat of turning his country into "the launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism" and called for some good old fashioned covert operations to "take him down", thus saving the American taxpayers the expense of another $200 billion war.

Ah, god bless you Pat, you're a fiery old coot. The communist thing is SO 1965. This is the same man who also once declared that feminism "encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians". Though he did forget to mention the greater feminist sins of unsightly body hair and criminal dress sense. Plus, the feminist thing is SO 1975.

Anyway, apparently Prez Hugo is a "dictator". One who was elected by a landslide in the 1998 presidential election and undertook social reform to bridge the gap between rich and poor. Naughty Hugo. Plus he said some nasty things about a few filthy rich oil barons and criticised the US for their war on Iraq. Naughty, naughty Hugo. Plus he's mates with bloody Castro. Je-sus! Go on Hugo, off to the corner to have a serious think about it.

Pat, our man of God, reaches an average 1 million American viewers daily. And is seemingly taken quite seriously. Though he is seemingly quite deranged.

MELLIPOP AND MARLBORO WHITES?

2005-08-21T15:39:00.000+08:00

Ok, so the anti-tobacco lobby has struck again. Riding as high in my personal estimation as say, the religious right, these "Guardians of Public Health and Morality" have now destroyed the humble Marlboro Light cigarette, in a characteristically hubristic episode of PC arrogance.

Now, for the non-smoker, a brief synopsis. The anti-tobacco lobby have successfully lobbied (funny, that...) to have tobacco pushers change the name of Marlboro Lights cigarettes, claiming that the "Lights" moniker implies that the deleterious effects of smoking are perceived to be lessened by smoking that particular brand.

Not true, and any smoker worth his weight in nicotine knows that smoking "light" cigarettes is like eating "lite" camembert (and the ones who don't know this deserve to be culled from the gene pool for their extreme stupidity anyway). In the first instance, we know that it will still kill us just as in the second instance we know it will still make us fat.

So anyway, the upshot is that the distinctive Marlboro Lights brand cigarettes are now called Marlboro.... Well, they haven't actually replaced the "Light" with anything else. Maybe they should just call them Marlboro Death. Or Marlboro Darks, just like the inside of our lungs and the inside of our coffins, which with every cigarette we draw irrevocably closer to.

I mean, I don't care about the name change. I’d still smoke them if they were called “Syphillitic Cock”. I don’t even care that they have also changed the filter butt to yellow when it was once a far more aesthetically pleasing white, which always singled you out as an afficionado of the Light - or the menthol smoker, but that’s a different story. Even us smokers revile the Menthol set.

The problem is though, THEY TASTE DIFFERENT NOW.

To be more precise…. THEY TASTE SHIT NOW.

What was once a smooth and delicious tasting cigarette, is now an experience to rival that of smoking fucking Longbeach or Holiday 50’s. There is a harshness and a cheapness about the flavour that is completely alien to what the Marlboro Light once stood for.

And I’ve spoken to other Marlboro Lights connoisseurs about this. I’ve done my research. Each and every one of them has noticed the difference. For a while there I actually thought that I kept being sold cheap Asian knock-off Lights - thinking that they had flooded the Perth market - until informed about the recent PC-hysteria driven change.

So I don’t know if the manufacturers were also forced to alter the delicate balance of carcinogenic toxins that made the Marlboro Light the king of cigarettes, but it would seem that way. Either way, the Marlboro’s loss is mourned here.

Are you happy now, anti-smoking lobby? Now we can’t even enjoy the experience of killing ourselves slowly. But the thing is, shit or not we’ll still smoke them. And you know that, don’t you? Miserable bastards.

But you know what? I buy rollies now anyway because I'm poor, so this is not the catastrophe you think it is. Stick THAT in your ass-pipe and SMOKE it.

P.S. Geez... You guys know that I'm seriously taking the piss here, right? I don't want to come across as some crazy cigarette apologist/fundamentalist. Cigarettes are bad for you. Don't smoke. See you on the other side of hell (no, not the Perth side - the OTHER side).

THE MELLIPOP COUCH : PROGRESS REPORT

2005-08-21T14:08:00.000+08:00

Ok, so from the "If You Don't Laugh, You Cry" files, I thought I'd post a progress report on the state of our Staffy-mangled couch, for lack of anything else much to report right now.

And I am posting this because I'm not quite sure that my friends and colleagues can really envisage the level of devastation I refer to almost daily on an anecdotal basis.

This is our couch. Nothing short of MONUMENTALLY EMBARASSING - I am painfully aware of that.

Note that one of the cushions is missing. No, not missing. Eaten, to be precise. Note the painstaking craftsmanship that has gone into stripping both armrests of all material and padding, and the delicate decorative nibbling work that has gone on at the front.

My two Staffy's are slowly destroying my life and my property like a pack of crazy fucking furniture piranhas. As each day passes, more and more of what is left of my couch disappears.

And may I just say that NONE of the breed-specific literature we consulted before initially welcoming Staffies into our household refer to this particular quirk of character.

Ok, so that rather feeble excuse only holds up on acquisition of Staffy Number 1. Why we got Number 2 I will NEVER fucking understand...

Oh that's right. Because they love us. Unconditionally. And because they teach us about love. Unconditionally.

Fat lot of good that'll do me when I'm sitting on the fucking floor.

MELLIPOP STEADY AS SHE GOES

2005-08-19T20:56:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I really need something embarrassing, unusual or infuriating to occur this weekend.

ANTON THE BUTCHER BITCH

2005-08-19T19:41:00.000+08:00

Ok, so life in Perth just gets better.

Anton got a PAY CUT today. Seems as though once you've managed to endure three weeks at the meatpacking plant, your employers reward you by compulsorily classifying you as part time and dropping your pay from $17 an hour to $13 an hour.

Same hours, less money. Striking a blow for industrial relations everywhere.

So Anton engaged in a little bit of "enterprise bargaining" and managed to negotiate a whopping $14 an hour instead. Plus benefits. Company car, personal assistant, generous superannuation package, pair of overalls, a shred of personal dignity (up from a smidgin) . That kind of thing.

MELLIPOP THE BUTCHER CHICK

2005-08-18T17:54:00.000+08:00

Ok, so can anyone get me a cool full time job in Sydney?

I'm already starting to practice intuitively weighing out half kilogram parcels of mince.

HOW A BUNCH OF MILD MANNERED MIDDLE AGED MEN MAKE MELLIPOP FEEL LIKE AN OVER-EXCITED TEENAGER AGAIN

2005-08-16T19:46:00.000+08:00

Ok, so it's official. I am in the deepest throes of neo-teenage obsession with a band.

A band made of mild mannered, normal looking middle aged men.

Wilco.

It's really quite refreshing that at the age of 28 - a good ten years after the tenure of my teenagehood had already expired - I can still get that head-over-heels excited about anything.

I want to put their posters up on my wall, and write their names all over my pencil case, and start up a pen-pal fan club of like-minded obsessives. Though they aren't exactly poster-boy pin-up material and I don't have a pencil case. Plus I don't even know all their names. Though I bet they don't have names like Jordan, Jonathan, Joey, Danny and Donnie (or NKOTB, an acronym well-known to those of my generation). The lead singer of Wilco is called Jeff (seen here in red shirt). That's a Wiggles name... And he is only marginally more sexy than "Wake Up" Wiggle Jeff himself. Actually I lie. He is rather sexy in that "I'm really quite smitten by your genius" kind of way.

So not since my serious adolescent dalliance with Guns n Roses have I been this into a band. I'm playing their albums non-stop, with the kind of overly-dedicated obsessive compulsive glee that only self-absorbed teenagers have the time for. And counting my pennies to buy up the rest of their back catalogue. And praying that they decide to tour sometime in the near future so I can squeal and scream and wet my pants somewhere in the vicinity of the front row.

All normal fan behaviour.

Now for the obligatory plug. These three albums are currently responsible for my excess gushiness…

A.M.
Summerteeth
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

Sigh…..

And in summing up, I feel it appropriate to quote verbatim from the NKOTB website: These good-looking dudes have good tunes with the right moves.

MELLIPOP: HOW NOT TO BE POPULAR IN PERTH

2005-08-12T19:11:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I think I pissed off a train carriage full of Perthites today.

So the whole city is in a heightened state of parochial fervour. It's the "local derby" today. Both WA-based AFL teams are going head to head down at Subiaco Oval. Perth vs Fremantle. This is quite a big deal, apparently, and was enough to inspire a tiresome round of at least 20 internal staff emails in the office this afternoon. The question on everyone's lips is: "Who is better? WA or WA?". The answer to this question pleases everyone in WA. Whichever way you look at it, WA is the winner. WA are the champions of the mofo world.

But all this has nothing to do with me placing myself at acute risk of being lynched by a packed carriage of afternoon commuters. It does, however, illustrate the theme on which I was expounding to one of my colleagues, whom I had the misfortune of sharing my train ride home with because a) I am in the seriously deep throes of an obsession with the band Wilco and wanted nothing more than to strap on the iPod and unwind after work and b) I really don't find this particular colleague to be of any interest whatsoever and had all but exhausted my stores of polite social chit chat for the week.

So my colleague is not a Perthite either. Like me, he is an intruder - a painful reminder to the good people of Perth that humankind exists outside of Western Australia. We threaten the sanctity of the tribe, see. They don't like facing the realisation that they are not, in fact, the centre of the known (and unknown) universe. This was the essence of my drive-time lecture, as I explained to my colleague the reasons why I was moving back to Sydney. And the reasons why I wouldn't miss Perth.

By this point I was really quite enjoying the collection of judgemental stares and rolled-eyes I was attracting. Then the lady sitting next to me was so moved to object that she sought to interrupt our conversation, leaping to the defence of Perth and seeking to justify the insularity of the tribal mind on the pretense of Perth's geographic isolation. To which I replied that Perth wilfully reinforces its own sense of social and cultural isolation, which is not so much a function of the external pressures of geography as it is an internal function of a collective masturbatory geo-centrism. Or something. And then promptly dismissed her without another word.

I need to work on my attitude, see. I'm back in Sydney in three weeks.

It's nice to know that I've still got the goods.

MELLIPOP IS BORED AND INARTICULATE

2005-08-04T19:17:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm meant to be doing a whole bunch of writing (paid - yay) for the glossy lifesyle mag. I'm being coy and non-specific about specifics, see, because I read an article today in the SMH. It was one of a rash of articles I have noticed recently, meant to serve as cautionary tales to us incautious Bloggers.

Blog and thou shall be sacked.

Blog and it may come back to bite you on the bum one day if you ever become Prime Minister or the President of the P & C.

Blog and thou life shall be ruined.

The commercial media backlash is in full swing, see.

I work in the commercial media. I write for commercial media. I'm supposed to be doing that now. But I'm writing for this blog instead.

Have you noticed that this blog post is incredibly boring? And my sentences are really short. And unimaginative. This, my friends, is what re-writing press releases does to the human mind.

I was thinking about Tolstoy today. The mind of Tolstoy. Tolstoy wrote in the pre-TV era. I'm currently reading Anna Karenina. I chose Anna Karenina over War and Peace because Anna Karenina is 800 pages and War and Peace is 1200 pages. It's all about Time and Investment. Who has the time to invest in 1200 pages of the same book? Where all the characters are called Alexey Ivanov Something-or-other-ovitch. Why can't he just call them Mike? Or Jeff? Or Bec? Or Lleyton?

And as much as I am loving Anna Karenina, it's 800 freakin' pages long. Here I am thinking that an 800 word blog post is a fucking epic, which it is by Mellipop standards. Tolstoy is churning this brilliant stuff out, page after page, and I can barely string at least one coherent sentence together. Tolstoy didn't have one eye on the clock and one hand on the remote control, waiting impatiently for Lost to start on Channel 10.

Tolstoy was a great writer. How many great writers of our generation have been lost to press releases and niche-marketed television programming?

SYDNEY: MAKE WAY FOR MELLIPOP

2005-07-28T16:56:00.000+08:00

Ok, so write this date in your diaries kiddies. September 3. Exactly a year from the date we left home, and not a second after our lease expires, Mellipop is coming back to Sydney. To live.

And you're gonna love this Baz. We're moving right into Quakers Hill, so we can start hitting the local RSL clubs again! Another thing Perth lacks - besides culture, a sense of national identity, Oporto burgers and poker machines - is RSL Clubs. Maybe all their servicemen got killed in the war or something.

I'm looking forward to: Oporto, Krispy Kreme, decent Thai food, something other than the bloody AFL on tele, people walking at normal speed (not the austisic shamble of people who have no purpose in life), Merrick and Rosso in the morning, having the opportunity to SMS vote for reality TV contestants (note: I have never and most likely will never do such a thing - I just don't like being denied the opportunity to do so if the urge ever strikes), daylight saving, sinking a few brews at the Annandale Hotel and taking both puppies down to the doggie park at Leichhardt and raising some Staffy mayhem.

And that's just for starters.

Neither of us have jobs lined up in Sydney, which should be interesting (read: stressful) and are essentially scraping the pennies to afford the move. But nothing ventured.... There's talk of Anton going back into hospitality and Mellipop going back into slinging sausages to tide us over until real jobs are to be found.

Anton is most disapointed to have to leave behind his stimulating MEATPACKING job, working 4am - 3pm each day. Though it will look fabulous on his resume with the pet store gig and the car sales thing.

And ironically, I got offered a promotion at work a few days before I was going to hand in my notice. I was asked to be the researcher on Perth Vita, our glossy lifestyle magazine. D'oh. (Umm....can you keep quiet on that one Hes, it was meant to be kept under wraps...).

So there you have it. Just on four weeks, and our WA interlude comes to a close.

MELLIPOP DRAGGED KICKING AND SCREAMING OUT OF SEMI-RETIREMENT

2005-07-24T13:51:00.000+08:00

Ok, so there's nothing like a written rental inspection report featuring a cavalier use of the word "aghast" (and several other less than complimentary adjectives) to drag my grumpy old ass out of semi-retirement.

So two days on, now that my initial homicidal rage has dissipated into a mere slow-burning vengeful rage, I am now somewhat composed enough to vent my spleen safe in the knowledge that it will not result in me hurling my long-suffering Mac through the window to my right.

Write THAT up on your inspection report, motherfuckers.

Before I proceed to share the tawdry details of said rental inspection report, I’ll preface my rant by saying that a) we had managed to have the lino floors completely returned to their original state thanks to a bit of luck sourcing lino offcuts at the eleventh hour (the exact pattern had long been discontinued, according to each and every vinyl floor purveyor we had spoken to on our search), b) we had spent the whole weekend tirelessly cleaning up to avoid any possible recriminations and c) the bitch turned up seven hours early for the inspection.

Now if I had been the one at home, the motherfucker wouldn’t have made it through the front door. She would have been packed up on her merry motherfucking way and told to return at the scheduled time later that day.

But my sweet and naïve Anton is a trusting a soul, and - having nothing to hide - let her in the house to do the inspection first thing in the morning, when he was still in his pyjamas.

Lesson one: REAL ESTATE AGENTS ARE SATAN INCARNATE (ALBEIT, IN SUB-SUB-HUMAN FORM) AND ARE NOT TO BE TRUSTED FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. THEY EXIST ONLY TO CALLOUSLY INFLICT NEEDLESS PAIN AND SUFFERING ON THE HUMAN RACE, ESPECIALLY TO SPITE THOSE OF US WITH GOOD HEARTS, HONEST INTENTIONS AND MEANINGFUL EXISTENCES.

So the motherfucker, who we will simply call Margot (as she cowardly refused to divulge her last name, unfortunately she cannot be named and shamed as the witch she truly is) slithered her filthy way into our home and Anton’s trust.

According to his report at the time, Margot did not manifest the level shock and outrage that was to later appear in our written rental inspection report. The Devil is sly. The Devil is duplicitous. The Devil will seduce you with a falsely charming and cordial exterior while all the while it secretly plots to destroy you.

The following are some choice cuts (taken verbatim) from the carve-up that was Margot’s inspection report. In the interests of truth and fairness Mellipop’s version is also contributed in each instance.

MARGOT’S VERSION

Bedrooms All rooms in chaos. No sign of order. Beds unmade, mess everywhere. Mainly untidy.

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Bedrooms Margot is playing with the truth a bit here. The bed was unmade. And yes, we only have one bed, not plural “beds”. So one unmade bed becomes “chaos”, “mess everywhere” and “mainly untidy”. Presumably Margot makes her bed the very nano-second she gets up in the morning, every morning. On second thought, no she wouldn’t. The Devil does not sleep.

MARGOT’S VERSION

Loungeroom Furniture has been eaten.

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Loungeroom Furniture has been eaten. OUR FURNITURE. Mellipop regulars would no doubt have seen the photographic evidence pertaining to what is left of our couch. Anton was supposed to have used our “Break in Case Guests Arrive” throw rug, mostly used in such situations to hide the damning evidence of our dog ownership (ie a less than pristine lounge suite - oh the horror). Though we hadn’t anticipated that our “guest” was going to arrive seven hours early so she got to see the couch in all it’s chewed up glory.

I always hated that couch anyway. It was never going to make it back to Sydney with us.... Any day now, kids.....

MARGOT’S VERSION

Kitchen Untidy – dishes undone.

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Kitchen Tidy. Oven cleaned. All laminated surfaces and cupboard doors freshly scrubbed. Dishes done and stacked up on the drying rack. Margot is being a little generous with the truth here again. The Devil is left wanting in attention to detail.

MARGOT’S VERSION

Laundry Ditto (as in, “untidy” from her previous commentary on the kitchen).

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Laundry For “ditto”, read “did not even enter the laundry”.

MARGOT’S VERSION

Bathroom Didn’t bother to inspect it – judging by the rest of the house I had seen enough.

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Bathroom If Margot had “bothered” to do her job properly, the lazy motherfucker would have noted that the bathroom was actually clean, having been doused in Domestos and set ablaze the day before. The Devil is truly a lazy, incompetent, lying cunt. Though to her credit, she was at least honest enough in this one instance to admit that she hadn’t even looked at it before judging the room to be the same calibre of filth as the rest of the house. Nice work.

MARGOT’S VERSION

Back garden A complete wilderness.

MELLIPOP’S VERSION

Back garden There are a healthy abundance of trees, plants and grass (nicely trimmed) in our back garden. Was she expecting some topiary, a Japanese Zen garden or a suburban wog-style expanse of stark white concrete dotted with nude statues of ancient deities?

And good ol’ Margot wrapped it all up by saying:

“I’m sorry but I had nothing to compare against this inspection. As I had never seen it before I could only be aghast at its present condition. I would say any owner would not be happy at seeing the house in its present state”.

All I can say is that if Margot ever tires of her job as a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding real estate agent, she’ll make a great tabloid journalist. Grade-A cunt.

MELLIPOP SAYS SAYONARA

2005-07-20T06:47:00.000+08:00

Ok, so it's been a month and I've not wanted to come anywhere near the land of blog (and still don't) so I'm going to officially announce my semi-retirement from Mellipop.

I say "semi" to cover my arse in case the urge ever strikes to return. Which it may. Or may not. But saying goodbye at least takes the motherfucker off my "To Do" List for now.

So bye for now guys and thanks for helping to keep me sane. Hopefully I'll get to see some of you folks in person real soon.

MELLIPOP AND THE ABYSS

2005-07-11T16:52:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I have just one question for this rancid stinkhole of a city.

Who's dick do you have to suck to get a motherfucking job in this town?

So post-engagement euphoria has given way to more zany Mellipop poverty-line hijinks. Less than a week after popping the question, Anton got sacked from his job. Walked on the spot. Get your slimy Sydney arse out of here. Stick that up your "Sydney Fund".

My beloved has now sunk even lower on the evolutionary scale. Having been ousted from the penultimate rung on the ladder of human filth (otherwise known to man as the Genus "Car Salesman"), he has since interviewed for positions as a) a vacuum cleaner salesman (yes, they still have those apparently) and b) a waitress on $15 an hour, plus tips. Here's a tip for you son. GET THE FUCK OUT OF PERTH.

So in between standing on the breadline and prostrating ourselves before the callous lash of the unemployment whip, not much else has been going on. Except for a brief but terrifying unplanned pregnancy scare which saw me reduced to pissing on preg-test sticks, praying for my period and hoping to god that my burgeoning "baby bump" was little more than an acute case of water retention or a slight thickening around the middle due to the usual slight winter weight gain (goddamn supermarket tabloid mags and your fucking "baby bump" hysteria).

Thankfully, my period made a fashionably (two-week) late apppearance, for the first time ever in the history of my acquaintance with Aunty Flo. God's idea of a practical joke, I suppose. That fucker. Great timing, though. The true essence of a well-delivered joke.

Hence my absence from Mellipop of late. Not much humour value in any of that. That's all I've got.

MELLIPOP AND THE NON-SMOKER

2005-06-25T11:22:00.000+08:00

ANTON MELLIPOPS THE QUESTION

2005-06-23T18:13:00.000+08:00

Ok, so it’s official. Mother’s – unlock your sons. Mellipop is off the market.

So as previously posted in the midst of my post-proposal stupor, I am now engaged. That was very Dr Seuss of me, by the way.

Work was crazy yesterday. For people who have known me only a relatively small amount of time, they were all incredibly excited and sweet about the whole thing. I felt the first sensual ticklings of Bridezilla egomania, if I’m to be totally honest with you. There’s nothing like a wedding to get people talking. I felt like Bec Cartwright, when she first got engaged to Lleyton Hewitt. Though Anton and I look more like Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi.

The actual proposal itself was a bit of a comedy of errors, earning me a nomination for the “Numbnuts of the Week” award. And I reckon I’m a shoe-in to take the title this week, just quietly.

So Anton had the day off on Tuesday, and went to buy the ring. Unbeknownst to me, he had been planning this for a little while, and had been researching engagement rings on the internet.

I had no idea it was coming, of course. Though I have to admit, there have been a couple of occasions in the past few months when the issue had been raised. Ok, so it involved certain instances in which I had one more glass of wine than I ought to, and set about in my subtle way systematically shouting Anton down about the fact that he was never going to propose to me. I mean, I never thought it would actually work. I am walking testament to the power of drunkenly, belligerently badgering your partner to propose.

THE ANATOMY OF A BOTCHED PROPOSAL

4 pm – I get home from work. Anton has had the day off. He asks me to go down to the beach with him and the dogs. I’m taking advantage of a break in the shitty Perth weather to go for a run. I say no. Anton says he will meet me down at the beach with the dogs. I tell him not to stop me mid-run.

4:30 pm – Down at the beach. Contrary to my prior warning, Anton tries to stop me mid-run, by standing in front of me with outstretched arms. He asks me to stop for five minutes to hang out with him and the dogs. Completely oblivious to his intentions, I tell him no, push past him and keep running home. My gammy knee is holding up, see, and I want to keep going.

I fail to realise what a complete nob I am being. I am literally running away from a man who is trying to propose to me.

4:45 pm – I’m on the home stretch, running up the street our house is on. Anton is parked by the side of the road with the dogs. He flashes his lights at me. I go over to the car. He tells me to get in. We’re going back to the beach. This irritates me somewhat. I am sweaty and soon to be cold. Anton is prepared for this. In the interim he has gone home to get my jacket and a bottle of cold water.

4:55 pm – Back down at the beach. The sun is starting to set. I’m starting to shiver. And we’re still throwing the ball around for the fucking dogs.

5:25pm – Anton says that we should head off home. I am relieved. While still on the beach, he hands me both dog leashes, tells me to stop, close my eyes and hold out my other hand. I think he has picked up a dead fish, or some other grotesque item he’s found on the beach. I close my eyes and keep my hand out anyway, berating him in advance for whatever nasty trick I suspect he’s about to pull. I open my eyes suspiciously at one point to see him struggling to pull something out of his pocket. I am told to close my eyes again.

5:26 pm – I finally open my eyes and Anton is down on one knee with a ring in his hand. The exchange goes something like this:

Anton: Will you marry me?

Mellipop: Are you for real?

Not exactly the stuff of romantic legend. I mean, I have two excitable Staffies on leashes wrapped around my legs, both trying to run away so they can devour some tiny little fluffy dog further down the beach.

Plus, my first reaction is that I think he’s joking, due to a conversation we had just the the night before regarding a good friend of mine who told me he was going to propose to his girl. I was semi-joking, semi-hounding Anton about the fact that he was never going to bloody propose to me.

It’s all a bit of a blur after that, but I believe that Anton had to prompt me as to what my answer was going to be. I think I said yes. I guess I did.

I then spent the next two hours barely speaking from shock. I couldn’t even call my folks. Though I did have two very vague conversations with a couple of mates – one being the guy I spoke to the night before about his proposal, the other being someone who saw my first post on the blog, and called me within ten minutes of it being up.

I did call my mum the next morning. By that stage I had recovered enough to play a little joke on her. I told her that I had some news for her. Then I told her that I was pregnant.

I’m such a horrible child. And now I'll be a horrible wife, too.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS: THE MELLIPOP WEDDING

2005-06-22T17:27:00.001+08:00

Ok, so it turns out that people have a lot of questions for you when they find out you're getting married. Here are the answers to some of the most frequently asked questions I have encountered so far.

1. Are you pregnant?

No.

As far as I can tell, I’ve broken a long-standing family tradition – the shotgun wedding. At least I can be sure that Anton really wants to marry me, and that’s he’s not just "doing the right thing” because he fucked up by knocking me up. Damn fool.

2. So, when’s the big day?

I. DON’T. KNOW.

I’m thinking of having t-shirts made up.

3. Where will you get married?

Just to dispel any rumours to the contrary, it WILL be in Sydney, at an as yet to be determined location. Otherwise if it were a WA wedding it would just be me, Anton and the dogs present. Tonka would have to give me away and Manche would have to stand-in as the beaming mother-of-the-bride. Rest assured that I’m not going to be one of those Bridezillas who expect everyone to pack up and travel interstate for the festivities.

4. Will it be a big wedding?

God I hope not. Anton and I both have large families – his Greek, mine white trash.

Though it might have to be a big wedding, for purely financial reasons. I mean, you've seen how much of our shit the dogs have destroyed. A new bed and a new couch will definitely be on the registry list, for any interested parties with the disposable income to spare. Those of you on a more modest income can chip in for a new pair of slippers.

5. Will you change your name?

Hell no. I really like my surname – it’s unique and somewhat poetic. There are only about 11 of us in the whole country - just my family. If I were a “Smith” or a “Jones” I might have considered it. And there will be no hyphenating for this Little Miss Mellipop either.

Having just spoken to my horrified mother, the fraught question of baby names has been raised. When I have children, I want them to maintain my surname (and yes, I realise that this will be subject to some debate). The reason for this is that my family name will die out in this country if I don’t, as my only sibling has two female children and a vasectomy.

A long-standing joke between Anton and I is the names I have chosen for my firstborn girl. I really like the name Serena. His mum’s name is “Reni” (pronounced “Reenie”), which I would choose for a middle name (for the hilarity factor rather than the tribute factor). If I were to have a girl, it would thus be be Serena Reni S*****. Folks that know me may find that hysterically funny. Apologies for the in-joke to those who don’t know my surname – I’m not going to reveal it here as it will make it far too easy for internet stalkers and other assorted weirdos to track me down if they happen to feel that way inclined.

6. Who will be in the bridal party?

I noticed that this topic has generated some interest in the previous comments field. For the record, I’ve had my “bridesmaids” picked out for years. They are all blokes who I have been best mates with for longer than is sensible (kudos to you, boys!). And I’m pretty sure that I have already had drunken conversations with all of them, with words to that effect. Well guys, whaddaya know, I was serious.

BRIDESMAIDS

(in alpha order) Barry, Nick, Pete and Tarun.

Depending on the size of the wedding of course, if they are not my bridesmaids in the traditional sense, they will be in the spiritual and symbolic sense. Though I’m thinking that I’d like to see them all in apricot satin and tulle gowns, with big puffy sleeves.

FLOWERGIRLS

Busty and Graham

I’ve pencilled my two favourite warehouse bitches in for this job. But be warned fellas, you might need to fight my two nieces for this plum job. Respective ages 5 and 2. But they are both absolutely terrified of Comanche and Tonka, so you might just be in luck.

RINGBEARERS

Tonka and Comanche – this is Anton’s idea, not mine. And I believe he is serious….

7. Are you going to embark on a wedding day crash diet so that you can shed half your body weight to fit into an expensive white dress you will only ever wear once?

Yes.

8. Who will be looking after the dogs when you go on your honeymoon?

That’s yet to be decided. My greatest fear is that Anton will insist that they both come along. He really loves those dogs. It could be our first official marital spat.

9. Can I look after your dogs while you go on your honeymoon?

We’re expecting to be flooded with offers. Interested parties should submit their CV’s and the names of three references to Anton’s email address – no phone calls, please. You will be duly informed if you have been selected for the shortlist, at which point you will then be invited to interview for the position.

Proposal post and picture of my ring to follow (cue tacky joke...). Apologies for boring you all shitless. Mellipop will resume as normal very shortly. Don't think that this marriage caper is going to mellow me out.

MRS MELLIPOP

2005-06-21T17:53:00.000+08:00

Ok, so am a little bit spun out right now.

Anton proposed today. I said yes.

Will fill you in on all the details when I have regained my faculties.

I will soon be Mrs Mellipop. Though I'm already used to that. Due to some arbitrary mis-administration of my personal details, my weekly payslips have me down as Mrs Mellipop already.

Apologies Mum & Dad if you read this before I call you tomorrow. I'm still speechless.

Oh, and my holidays were denied for July, even though booked well in advance with work (damn publishing schedule). So no Sydney trip, at least until September. It's been a strange day. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. My Beyonce is almost finished cooking dinner. Oops, I mean fiancee. Gotta get used to saying that.

MELLIPOP COMES HOME?

2005-06-20T17:27:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm in the midst of a quandary.

I have some holidays coming up in July. I think.

The plan was to embark on a whirlwind tour of Sydney, to catch up with all of you fine folk back home. This plan is somewhat in question now that Demon Dog Number 2 has decided to undertake a few unauthorised home renovations.

Here is my quandary. Do I come back home for a short trip and whack the fucker on the plastic?

If I come back to Sydney I can (in no order of importance):

1. Buy Busty that Carlton Draught I owe him and catch up on all his bachelor-boy stories
2. Do Nick's tarot reading we missed out on last time and badger him to start writing again
3. Meet Pete's lovely new squeeze IG (oh, and hang out with you too, DB!)
4. Catch up with Baz, who has seemingly disappeared into the abyss
5. Disgust Graham with my accumulated dog poo anecdotes
6. Sponge off my parents for a place to stay and see my Pop
7. Have a few drinks with Aimz so I can hear that priceless manic laughter again
8. Catch up with all the New World crew in general
9. Get to see my brother, sister and my two nieces (who no doubt have forgotten who I am)

I think I have answered my own question. Nostalgia will always win out over slightly increased debt.

Ok, so I'll confirm the dates tomorrow. You buggers better all make yourselves available. Stay posted.

MELLIPOP, MORMONS AND NIRVANA

2005-06-17T18:03:00.000+08:00

Ok, so in lieu of blowing more of "The Sydney Fund" at my local JB Hi Fi Store today, I decided to turn to a cheaper source of stroking my musical mojo. Ok, so weird obsessive habit number one: I like to go on-line at Amazon.com to read the CD reviews posted by my fellow wacky music-nuts. Please don't let that make you think I'm odd.

I found a good'un today. A review of Nirvana's Nevermind. With the intriguing title of "Suicide is a One-Way Ticket To Hell", the following one-star review was posted by one James H. Richardson "Good James" (his non-ironic pseudonym, not mine) of Utah.

Nirvana is known by most as a revolutionary band which changed the music scene single handedly with their monster major-label debut "Nevermind" on David Geffen. I had just finished my Mormon mission when these guys came out, and I can remember nothing but madness coming from Cobain's mouth.

With dire interest into Cobain's life, I picked up a book about him. I was shocked and horrified at what he thought his life was like. He was a political aristocrat? A feminist? A God-hating fool with no direction? Stunned at what I had read, I felt compelled to write something about these guys.

Feminism and related God-hating practices are not the way to go about life. Family Values and Righteous Church-going is what keeps today's society alive, not crazy Liberal messages of hate and disgust. On top of all this, he committed suicide on April 5 of 1994, as most Nirvana fans recall. This is how to go to hell the quickest, commit suicide.

To help prevent this, I suggest you attend the church of latter-day saints to help you get a grip on life and find out more about God and his plans for you.

P.S. In no way am I affiliated with "Prophet Gordon". I assume this man is a fake and trying to give the Mormon church a bad name. I wrote this review in hopes that you will change your mind about Mormons and that we are not a bunch of abusive weirdos.

Yes but James, more importantly - did you mosh to it? I mean, you at least gave the album ONE star. What was that one star for? There's no mention of at all of Nirvana's music or lyrics here. I mean, you DID listen to the album, didn't you? God won't send you to hell for that, you know. Or do you think that the second quickest way to go to hell (after suicide, as you mentioned) is to listen to grunge rock. Feminist, liberal, hate-mongering, anti-family values grunge rock. I'm sure God wouldn't send you to hell if you claimed it under the guise of "research". I mean, he's pretty fair, God is.

And tell me James, why have you chosen this unlikely forum in which to spout your Family Values and Righteous Church-going anyway? Are you trying to get to "the kids"? And more importantly, why have you chosen to incorrectly capitalise those which are not proper nouns? Not a good example to set "the kids". Did you receive an education James? One that did not involve being sodomised by some mountain-bike riding doorknocker with the prefix "Elder". I think maybe you need to give your God a miss for while so you can bone up on your Grammar instead.

Here's a thought. Did you maybe think that people reading this review are more interested in Kurt Cobain than this "Prophet Gordon", whoever the fuck he is. Was he in a band too? Did he have a flannelette shirt and a cult following in the Seattle area? Or was he from the underground rock scene in Utah? Did he hate himself and want to die? Did he marry a junkie ex-stripper and blow his head off with a shotgun? Did he change the face of rock n' roll forever? You said he's a fake, right. Is he just another major-label sell-out? Holy shit, he's not the lead singer from Bush is he? You know, the one who's married to Gwen Stefani. Man I hate that talentless fuck. You're right, he IS a fucking fake.

I mean, and what could ever make YOU think that WE think you guys are just a bunch of religious freak "weirdos"? C'mon! You're Mormons - you rock! We love it when you guys come knocking. Especially now that I know that YOU know what God's plans are for me. Be seeing you in the mosh pit buddy. Be sure to catch my soul while I'm crowd surfing. And keep your fucking hands away from my crotch.

MELLIPOP RUNNING OUT OF IDEAS

2005-06-16T16:37:00.000+08:00

Ok, so the Wooden Barricade Version 2.0 has now been made redundant and we need to upgrade again. The little fuckers just pummelled straight through it today.

This is God's revenge for my prior blasphemy.

MELLIPOP GETS COLD FEET

2005-06-16T16:34:00.000+08:00

Ok, so the little fucker tore my slippers up today, after busting through the barricade. We now have tiny little pieces of sheepskin strewn all over the house.

And my feet are cold.

FUCK YOU, GOD... THE SEQUEL

2005-06-13T21:17:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I've just logged onto my best mate's blog, only to reveal that I have forgotten his birthday.

Here I was thinking that it was June 21 (and proud of myself for actually "remembering").

Nuh uh. June 12. Yesterday.

I'm going to fucking bed now.

Happy Birthday Nick xo

FUCK YOU, GOD...

2005-06-13T20:44:00.000+08:00

Ok, so we just opened today's mail.

Guess who has a rental inspection coming up on June 23?

And I'll say it again. Fuck you, God.....

P.S. Current quote to replace lino floor.

$570.00

MELLIPOP AND THE BARRICADE

2005-06-13T18:11:00.000+08:00

Ok, so Anton and I have recently tried various methods to keep the demon dogs from completely destroying the house. The key has been to keep them restricted to the tiled living room area, which is a stategic compromise between my hardline willingness to leave them locked outside all day (oh, the horror!) and soft-cock Anton’s desire to allow them interior access to escape the elements.

1. THE ELECTRIC FENCE

So we rigged up an electric fence inside the house last weekend. Poor little Tonka got mega-zapped, the inevitable and unfortunate result of his juvenile curiosity. His slightly more intelligent older sister was more than happy to avoid the fence at all costs having simply witnessed the painful result of her younger siblings’ encounter with the electrified barrier.

Unfortunately the electric fence did not even stay up long enough for me to get a picture. Little Tonka, in his stupid stubborn persistence, decided that he would try to get AROUND the barricade rather than THROUGH it, as he did on his first unsuccessful attempt.

So as Tonka was trying to get around the fence, the wires touched and started sparking. Now I’m no electrician, but the thought of leaving a sparking electric fence unsupervised inside the house with two Staffies for 10 hours every day did not leave me with any great feeling of reassurance. I finally convinced Anton that in attempting to “save” the house, it was probably best not to risk burning it down. Lino we can feasibly replace without getting busted - or incurring inordinate expense. Rebuilding the house, not so feasible. And somewhat more expensive.

So that was a costly $300 failure, the components of the electric fence being entirely non-refundable.

2. THE CHICKEN WIRE BARRICADE

This was the next step. Anton created a barricade using chicken wire. We stepped out of the house for two hours, only to come back and find that the dogs had eaten through the wire barricade. They both looked fairly pleased with themselves.

Back to the drawing board.

3. THE WOODEN BARRICADE – VERSION 1.0

So Anton then used the frame from the chicken wire barricade to construct a wooden barricade.
Not so successful either. Comanche somehow managed to jump through the gap at the top, where we ran out of wood. She then helped her little brother Tonka escape by pushing the barricade forward so he could get into the kitchen. He then ripped up another huge section of vinyl just to say “Fuck you”.

4. THE WOODEN BARRICADE – VERSION 2.0

So Anton and I then hit Bunnings to get more wood, so we could shore up the barricade and increase its height. This worked. Sort of. The dogs are not able to jump it anymore - and are hence unable to rip up the lino on the kitchen floor - but instead, now spend their days systematically ripping up the couch just to say “Fuck you”.

Note that the couch cushions have already been removed during the day, to stop the dogs eating them too.

You might also like to note that Tonka seems quite keen to pose defiantly with the various results of his daily destruction. That little fucker.

MELLIPOP AND THE MEANING OF MISOGYNIST

2005-06-13T16:27:00.000+08:00

Ok, so another intriguing train incident for Little Miss Mellipop today.

As mentioned in a previous post, I can't ever resist the temptation to scope out the preferred reading material of my fellow commuters. So the guy next to me today was reading the dictionary. He looked like Che Guevara (even down to the facial hair and beret), and was writing Spanish in a pocket notebook, so I naturally assumed that he must have been studying English.

When I noticed the blue highlighter in his hand, it instantly piqued my interest. So he's scanning the page, seemingly looking for a particular word. He then highlighted the word "misogynist". I inwardly giggled, wondering whether some ex-girl friend had only recently levelled that accusation at him. Or whether he had he just come from a campus meeting of anarcho-commie-feminist activists. He then put his dictionary back in his bag as I continued to mentally conjure up any number of unlikely scenarios in which he may have been exposed to the word "misogynist".

Anyway, my interest piqued once more, when he again took his dictionary from out of his bag, and started flicking through it for another word. This time it was the word "deceived", though this particular word was already highlighted in yellow. He wrote the word down in his notebook, and again put his dictionary back in his bag.

And again, five minutes later, the dictionary comes out again. By now, I'm hooked. What word was he going to highlight next? And what the fuck did it all mean?

The third word he highlighted was "delirium". Delirium? Now I was really confused. And subsequently disappointed, as he then got off the train.

So, thinking that I was never going to crack the code, I glanced across the newly emptied seat to see what another fellow traveller was reading on the way home.

It was an African guy. And he was reading the seminal self-help text "Men Who Hate Women, and the Women Who Love Them".

Ker-ching! It was all I could do to stop laughing out loud! Here I am reading over Che Guevara's shoulder, and here he is reading over the African guy's shoulder. And looking up the words he didn't understand!

Misogynist. Deceived. Delirium.

"Men Who Hate Women, and the Women Who Love Them". It all made perfect fucking sense!

It made a lot more sense than this African dude reading that book. It's a fucking chick's book. A book us gals read to discover the reasons why we always date men who treat us like shit.

I mean, what was the African dude reading that particular book for? To better refine his skills as a self-professed misogynist? Or was he simply a nice guy boning up on that current male fad, "I'm going to become a woman-hating asshole so that I can get laid"?

Men are weird.

MELLIPOP, ON BEHALF OF ALL BLOGGERDOM

2005-06-13T16:14:00.000+08:00

OK, so in addition to harrassing tradesmen for business cards so I can design adverts for them, I also work on a new lifestyle magazine, just launched in WA. The editor, yours truly and another colleague were recently tossing around ideas for a "What's Hot" section to go in the next issue.

I told the editor that she HAD to include "blogs", or more precisely "Perth Bloggers" (it had to have a WA angle, of course). Now she doesn't know what blogs are, and when I launched into a gabbled description (including a mini-rant about how they are rendering traditional forms of commercial media redundant), she then asked me to come up with a 200 word intro piece for the next issue.

I have two dilemmas:

1) How I can distill the "why, how and wonder" of blogs in a meagre 200 words, for the unitiated

2) How I can blag the Mellipop blog in there somehow in a cynical bid to up my "circulation"

I'm feeling the pressure....

I mean, how the heck can you describe a blog to someone who has no idea what a blog is? In 200 words. And - in my case - how to do it without using the word "fuck" at least once?

BORING MELLIPOP POST ABOUT MUSIC

2005-06-10T17:03:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm not going to post tonight, even though a "Numbnuts of the Week" award is well overdue.

I'm in new music heaven. I have just come home with new albums from the White Stripes and Coldplay (plus a ten year old album by Wilco, but it's new to me...). Plus I am still in love with recent purchases by Martha Wainright, Antony and the Johnsons, Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes, The Bravery, Kings of Leon and The National. Add to that some back catalogue Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Queens of the Stone Age and Liz Phair and you've got yourself one heck of a problem.

(Plus I'm also eyeing off new releases by Belle & Sebastian and Brendan Benson).

The road to Sydney is littered with the relics of my CD substance abuse habit.

Sigh.... At this rate I might never make it back.....

P.S. New albums that really suck, even if the music press tell you otherwise : Architecture in Helsinki, The Dears. Avoid at all costs. "JJJ Album of the Week" my ass. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't listen to JJJ anymore.... Plus their shitty new JMag magazine are holding a competition to find new music writers. And I don't fall into their 18-25 year old criteria. Ageist fuckers. Like once you hit 28 is you're just sooooo fucking past it. Wankers.

MELLIPOP LOVES NETBANK

2005-06-07T17:11:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I must commend the Commonwealth Bank on their “new and improved” NetBanking website.

It seems as though I’ll now have time to post lengthy erudite blog entries in between waiting for each and every transaction to load, as it now takes three times longer to actually do anything. Brilliant.

So far I’ve clocked about forty minutes (and counting) to pay three bills.

I’m quite thrilled, really. It also allows me to take time out from my hectic schedule to stare intently into a hand mirror and witness the evolution of my crows feet, in real time. Or I could squat over the darn thing and spend some quality time getting to know my snatch. Either way, it gives new meaning to the phrase “a wrinkle in time saves ninety minutes waiting on Netbank”.

Alternatively, if I’m feeing particularly Zen-like, it gives me the option of simply staring blankly into the tantalising white space that promises me that my bill payments are “loading”, but without reassuring me that anything is actually taking place.

Oh, wait a second. Maybe things aren’t what they seem.

I’ve just received this curt message – having been ruthlessly hurled out of my own account - which promises me that at least some level of mysterious intelligence is at work.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Hey! No fair! I’ve been very active. I’ve managed to do the dishes, write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, plant a vegie patch and paint the back fence. And all this whilst squatting over a hand mirror! The only thing I haven't done is pay these fucking bills.

So what have YOU been doing, Netbank?

You’re looking out for me, right? I’m being protected. So why don’t I feel secure in this relationship?

So I’ve logged on again like you asked me to, and am staring at this fucking white space again. “Loading”. Right. “Freeloading”, more like. You’re just messing with me now. Don’t think I don’t know it.

Didn’t you make record profits last year? Have you invested it all in internet porn? Did you blow it all on cheap hookers and cocaine?

I’m still waiting, by the way.

I’m not a girl who copes well with rejection. I trusted you, man. I logged back on, just like you asked me to.

Why are you doing this to me?

Are my accounts too small? Is my credit card debt too big? Are you seeing someone else? Is this all just a game to you?

You’re really important to me – I really want this to work. Talk to me. Why do you have to be so darn unresponsive? Look, I just don’t know if I can trust you. Relationships like this just can’t work without mutual trust. Just give me a fucking sign, man.

Look, I’m going to try one more time. Please don’t kick me out again.

Ten minutes later…..

Fuck. I just got rejected again.

For security reasons, your NetBank session has been terminated as a result of being inactive for a period of time. You will be redirected to the logon screen. To continue using NetBank, please logon again.

Don’t do this to me, man. Do you want me to beg, is that it? Or are you just playing hard-to-get? If you want me to fuck off, just tell me man. Fuck all this game-playing shit.

Look, I can’t do it. I just can’t cope with another rejection. Surely there are others out there. Ones who will treat me with the respect I deserve. I mean, what have I done to deserve this level of contempt? Please Netbank, don’t shut me out. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on with you. I promise I won’t get mad.

You promised me “over 20 new improvements”. Do you think that you’re too good for me now, is that it? I’m trying, man. I’m trying to be a better person. I’m doing it for you, man. I’m fucking doing it for you…

God, I hope you’re not cheating on me, Netbank. Those transactions happened, didn’t they? Please tell me they did. I need to know.

Fuck – you’ve just kicked me out again. I guess this is the end, then. Is it? Look, just tell me. I want the truth. I have dignity, you know. I won’t be crawling back to you again - not today, anyway. Ok look, let me know when things are cool with you, and we can talk. Yeah? We’ve really got to talk about this.

I need you, man…. I really do…. Don’t let it end like this….

“NUMBNUTS OF THE WEEK” AWARD : THE UNKNOWN ASSHOLE

2005-06-02T16:32:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I would like to formally introduce the inaugural recipient of Mellipop’s “Numbnuts of the Week” award.

Much like the Unknown Soldier, the identity of this week’s inauspicious winner is a mystery that has plagued Mellipop-kind for some time now, nigh on four weeks.

AND THIS WEEK'S WINNER IS……

The Unknown Asshole who keeps stealing my daily newspaper.

(wild applause, wolf-whistles and steely-eyed glares from the other nominees)

“I, Mellipop, will be accepting this award on behalf of the Unknown Asshole, who couldn’t be with us tonight due to other devious commitments. I would just like to say a few words on his or her behalf. Firstly, I would like to thank the numbnuts who broke the lock on the front gate, the real estate agent who failed to have it fixed and the paper delivery guy - without whom none of this would be possible. And it would be remiss of me if I didn’t thank myself – Mellipop - whose complete and utter contempt for the newspaper my employers produce daily ensures that it is always still there for him or her to steal each and every day of the week. Oh, and I’d also like to thank God. FREE THE REFUGEES! Thank you and good night.”

And so concludes this week’s ceremony. Nominations are now open for next week’s winner, So if you hear me saying – as I often do – “That’s going on the blog!”, you too could be in the running!

"NUMBNUTS OF THE WEEK" : AN INTRODUCTION

The "Numbnuts of the Week" Awards are inspired by a trailblazing colleague of mine, who recently caused a stir at work by actually telling a client over the phone that he was a "numbnuts". Because he was. And haven't we all dreamed about doing that at some point? So it is from this awe-inspiring spirit of "telling it like it is", that the "Numbnuts" Awards are inaugurated.

The weekly candidate will be freely chosen from a wide pool of friends, family members, public figures and random strangers. This means that none of you are safe from winning the “Numbnuts of the Week” mantle. Nor am I myself immune from nomination. Indeed, I can well see myself parading in the winners circle on many occasions in the future. I am hard but fair.

The judgement criteria are simple. Numbnuts is as Numbnuts does.

Each weekly winner will receive the honour of being publicly humiliated by me.

The judge’s decision is final. No correspondence will be entered into.

MELLIPOP FINDS NEW VICTIMS

2005-06-01T17:44:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm pretty stoked tonight.

I've got three fabulous new blog links from folks who were foolish enough to post comments on the last bit of dribble I posted.

Heh heh heh... I got you now. Suckers!

Blondie's Blog

I Love the Theatre Process

Under a Rock

I don't have anything interesting to contribute tonight. But these crazy kids have got the good stuff.

And two of the buggers are from WA. Props!!!

Three cheers for the internet. It's not just porn!

MELLIPOP LOVES "NICE GUYS"

2005-05-31T17:17:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm sick of all this fucking talk about girls only liking "bad guys" who will treat them like shit. We love this, apparently.

Inspired by a spirited, hilarious and - at times - disturbing manifesto from a male friend of mine whom I absolutely adore, I'm going to attack head-on, the ridiculous theory that girls don't want anything to do with "nice guys". And I have heard this theory at least three times recently from three separate and distinct self-proclaimed "nice guys" (two of whom have now adopted a deliberate strategy to become "bad guys").

See, this friend of mine is an amazing catch. Intelligent, funny, good-looking, courteous, ambitious, trustworthy, hardworking - an all-around great guy. Though he is crazy. And Argentinian. But he does have a very sexy accent. The ladies do love the Latin tongue....

So why is this fabulous guy so jaded by womanhood? Ladies - are we that fucked! Do we REALLY want the assholes?

Here's the thing. Girls will quite happily sleep around with "bad guys" and indulge in a tumultuous fling or two before our metabolisms catch up with us and the dimples start to show on the back of our thighs. But it's like eating chocolate. We know that it's really bad for us in large doses but we do like to treat ourselves every now and again. But "bad guys" are not a staple part of any girl's sexual or emotional diet. Exciting, yes. Healthy, no.

You know - I'm all for the "bad guy" strategy as a short-term endeavour. The best thing is that they are easily disposable and even more easily replaceable. And without all that messy guilt to cloud your clinical emotional judgement. But a nice guy will love your dimpled thighs, patiently endure your insecurities and cook you eggs in the morning. They will ultimately jump happily into the domestic nest at just the right age.

Think about this, ladies and gentleman. What happens to the "bad guys" when all the "nice guys" have rings on their fingers and happy fat wives at home? Here are some of the most likely outcomes:

1) They sit alone at the pub after 8pm on a weeknight; pushing 40, tattooed and mulletted, eyes glued to the trots on Fox Sports, beer in one hand, TAB ticket in the other

2) They can often be spotted carrying home grocery bags containing a couple of spuds, several packets of two minute noodles, a few tins of baked beans and a cheap bottle of scotch

3) They end up in prison. They still get plenty of sex, sure, but it's all back-door action from a fat lifer called Bubba.

4) They end up having several simultaneous online "relationships" with bored trans-continental housewives and men masquerading as women for kicks.

5) They spend far too much money downloading internet porn and supporting children they conceived out of wedlock ten years ago but refused to accept parental responsibility for because it interfered with their sexy dick-swinging bachelor lifestyle.

6) They tend to fixate on material possessions like cars, elaborate hi-fi systems and model train sets to repress their desperate need for intimacy and physical connection.

7) They end up stuck in Jerry Springer-style physically and emotionally abusive relationships with women who have a sense of self-worth roughly equivalent to that of a dead newt.

8) They end up dead. Or in rehab. Or penniless in a Salvation Army hostel for men.

Trust me gentlemen. Us ladies LOVE "nice guys". Nice guys are keepers. Bad guys are sexual roadkill on the relationship highway, callously left to rot in a long-forgotten mess. You really don't want that.

MELLIPOP AND MR MUSHROOM-HEAD

2005-05-30T16:33:00.000+08:00

Ok, so it’s 3:30 on a Monday afternoon and you’re tripping off your head on a combination of acid, mushrooms and alcohol.

Question: Who do you choose to sit next to on a busy commuter train?

Answer: Mellipop.

Yes, your resident “freak magnet” friend and narrator got herself a live one today on the way home just now.

So I’m sitting quietly on the train, reading my book (Marianne Faithfull’s autobiography, for the trainspotters amongst us) and am contentedly engrossed until a huge swaggering bear of a man staggers onto the train and falls into the seat next to me, leaving his screaming gal pal fumbling at the ticket machine on the platform as the train pulls away. The man reeks as though he has just recently bathed in a tub full of white spirits.

He is ranting incoherently, swaying into me and calling me a cunt. He is also pointing at the poor little Indian guy on the other side of him and is calling him a cunt too. I inwardly cringe while maintaining a neutral expression, my eyes fastened on my book. This is what I like to call my “Crazy Dog” technique. The hypothesis on which it is founded is that crazy people - like crazy dogs - are best neutralised by avoiding all eye contact and not making any sudden movements which might otherwise antagonise them. You do this until you determine the level of threat involved and then proceed to act accordingly.

My initial diagnosis was not a positive one. I naturally assumed from the guy’s stench that he was a raving mad drunk. Raving mad drunks are often only one small step away from being aggressive and violent. Especially ones that point at you and call you a cunt.

MR MUSHROOM: So he’s a cunt, and she’s a cunt and it’s like the male and the female, and the penis and the vagina. I’ll never understand these cunts. (pointing at me and the young Indian guy sitting on his opposite side)

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Oh dear. This guy is drunk off his nut and has just had a domestic with his woman. Only four more stops until North Fremantle.

MR MUSHROOM: Yeah so I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid man. I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid. I’m so fucking tripping. Perth has shit fucking drugs man. These fucking cunts are from Perth (pointing at me and the Indian guy again). I’ll never understand these cunts. I’m from Melbourne, man. Melbourne has the best fucking drugs. Coke, acid, fucking mushrooms, speed. Perth has SHIT drugs. Perth is fucked, man. They’re all cunts. Sydney has great fucking drugs.

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Phew!!! He’s only on acid. Thank God! He’s harmless.

(listens with more interest now that the imminent threat of violence has diminished)

So, it's quite ironic that as soon as I find out that he is on a “harmless” combination of illegal hallucinogenic drugs - and not alcohol - my fear of him completely diminishes, and I can begin to enjoy our little interlude as unexpected drive-time entertainment. What does that say about so-called “legal” drugs like alcohol?

Anyway, so at this point I think, what the hell, the guy’s talkative. And seemingly harmless. Might as well talk back to him. I mean, he had acknowledged me - even though he called me a cunt. It’s only polite to acknowledge him back. And I'm nothing if not polite.

MELLIPOP: So, where you from?

MR MUSHROOM: MELBOURNE, man!! This cunt here is from Perth (pointing to the Indian guy again, who still looks frozen with terror). And he still lives with his mother. And his mother is his fucking wife. His mother is his wife!

MELLIPOP: And I’m from Sydney.

MR MUSHROOM: You’re from Sydney? Where you from in Sydney?

MELLIPOP: Leichhardt, Newtown….

MR MUSHROOM: (eyes lighting up) Really? You got any coke?

MELLIPOP: Umm….no. I’m in Perth now man. The drugs are shit, remember.

MR MUSHROOM: YEAH!! They’re all cunts here. Perth is fucking shit!

So even drug-fucked Melbournites know the score. PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT. I’m totally straight, he’s totally fucked and yet two ex-pat East Coasters still managed to bond over the fact that PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT.

MELLIPOP: So what are you doing over here, if you hate it so much?

MR MUSHROOM: I’m importing, man. I’m setting up and importing.

MELLIPOP: (train pulls into North Fremantle) Yeah alright. Enjoy the rest of your trip, mate.

(thinks) Brilliant pun Mellipop! Shame the guy’s too fucked up to fully appreciate it.

And then I got off the train and walked home. Monday afternoons, huh? Crazy.

MELLIPOP AND SCHAPELLE

2005-05-29T17:58:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I feel as though I should have an opinion on this whole Shapelle Corby mass outpouring of self-righteous indignation phenomenon.

But besides mouthing the predictable comparisons between the baffling disparity of sentences handed down for jihad junkies planting bombs in Bali and beauty therapist bogans smuggling hash into Bali, I am strangely bereft of concern for any of it.

I mean, I should probably really care more, I guess. But to be honest, I have no interest whatsoever in examining all the available evidence before coming to my own conclusions. As I am sure that everyone else with an opinion on this subject has already done. The debacle that is the Trial By Media. Why the fuck should we believe any of it? Do these people have any idea how the media actually functions?

Let's bandy around a hypothetical scenario, shall we (hypothetical because I don't actually know whether it is indeed true, and as mentioned previously, have no interest in making any effort in determining whether or not it is true) Anyway, let’s just say – for example - that Channel 9 have a vested interest in making her appear innocent and stirring up public sympathy because they have paid for the exclusive rights to "The Schapelle Story", and are sending their sales reps into overdrive crunching the numbers on their subsequently increased advertising rates.

Now say that the above scenario was true. If Channel 9 were to lean towards framing the verdict as "guilty", presumably public interest in the case would deteriorate. Public sympathy for Schapelle would wane. So would their ratings. And more importantly, so would their advertising rates. And they’ve paid for this chick. They have to make that money back somehow. The perception of injustice is far more likely to engender interest in a subject, than would a standard "Ok she's guilty - do the crime pay the time". Feeling sedated and sated we could then switch over to watch Big Brother and go on with our miserable lives. And more importantly, we'd never have to watch Channel 9 ever again - thank God and Ray Martin for that.

Look, don’t even bother reading the last couple of paragraphs of dribble. Basically, it comes down to this. The media are shaping the opinions of the mass public. The media have their own agenda, one which is not a judicial or legal function. So anyone with an opinion on this is a dick, because it is necessarily a limited and uniformed opinion. And I’m all for having uninformed opinions, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t have one myself in this case and I’m feeling kind of jacked off because of it.

So essentially, I’ve come to the completely unrelated and arbitrary conclusion that I really don’t give a crap about what happens to this girl. I wish I did though. It might have made for a much more interesting post. Schapelle’s loss is now your loss. And that’s all that really matters.

ADDENDUM: MELLIPOP HATES HER GENERATION

2005-05-28T17:41:00.000+08:00

Ok, so it was that idiotic "Crazy Frog" ringtone that launched my recent shambling tirade bemoaning the cancerous state of modern culture.

So I'm reading the newspaper today, and I came across a disturbing statistic that adds weight to my recent thesis. The Crazy Frog ringtone is set to beat the new Coldplay album to the number one spot in the UK Charts. The evil amphibian has outsold the heartfelt rockers by a margin of three to one, in its first day on sale.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 1: Over one million seriously deluded people have already purchased the Crazy Frog ringtone.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 2: It will be the first time that a ringtone has reached the top of the charts.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 3: The Crazy Frog will no doubt follow up his smash success with yet another idiotic ringtone. This one has "pop-culture phenomenon" written all over it.

I weep for my fellow men.

MELLIPOP AND THE VIPER

2005-05-28T17:30:00.000+08:00

OK, so Mellipop would like to introduce the newest member of our household, the Viper AN90. Or, as I like to affectionately call him, “Old Sparky”.

“Old Sparky” has moved in to help us with our naughty Staffy problem, much like the “Super Nanny” does for parents whos children have brought them to the brink of faking their own deaths and moving to Kalgoorlie to become topless waiters.

You see, “Old Sparky” (aka The Viper) is an electric fence. Yes, we are going to rig up electric fencing INSIDE OUR OWN HOUSE. It will be like a maximum security doggie prison – take one wrong step and feel the V’s. It better fucking work. All up it cost us nearly $300. Quite the sting.

MELLIPOP GETS PERSPECTIVE

2005-05-26T18:09:00.000+08:00

Ok, so my parents weren't screening me the other night when I called to whine about my miserable doggone life (pun intended). My Mum had been at the hospital, as my Pop had taken a turn for the worse.

So there I was, having finally got to speak with my Mum, and without drawing a breath, I launched into a ten minute rantathon about the damage wrought by the dogs at home. Having exhausted my deep vein of irritation and general woe, I let my mother into the conversation long enough to find out about my Pop being taken to hospital. And there I was raving about some cheap fucking lino like it was the biggest fucking tragedy since the Twin Towers.

Kind of put things into perspective, really....

LORD, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?

2005-05-24T16:27:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I've had a shitty day at work, and I fucking get home to this.

THIS is gonna fucking cost me. Those motherfucking dogs have ripped up the lino. As such, we'll need to have the whole motherfucker re-laid. Now we're talking a fairly expansive area not just limited to the kitchen, but the dining room and both passageways to the laundry and bathroom as well.

Christ - I truly have no clue what the fuck lino costs. I guess it's somewhat more costly and involved than using Con-tact to line the inside of your cupboards. And I don't envisage that such a hideous design could still possibly be in production. Fuck!

Plus I left my cigarettes at work. And there is no beer in the house to calm me down. And if I leave the house again, I'm afraid that they'll eat through one of the walls in my absence.

And, more ironically still, I have no-one to rant to on the phone. Anton's mobile goes straight to voicemail and I keep getting my parent's answering machine. Those two aren't fooling me. I lived with them both for 18 years - I know their exact, unswerving evening routines. No - I know exactly what this is. I'm being fucking screened!

Alright God - you win today. Check-fucking-mate.

MELLIPOP HATES HER GENERATION

2005-05-23T17:33:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm feeling old and curmudgeonly today. At the risk of alienating any number of Mellipop readers can I just state that anyone over the age of 15 who has ever downloaded a polyphonic (or otherwise) ringtone of a popular song is a complete fucking tool and an all-too-willing architect in the demise of our culture.

To me, polyphonic ringtones represent the absolute lowest common denominator of a crass and meaningless consumer culture that absolutely sickens me. This false, empty, disposable, self-cannibalising culture that takes everything that was once creatively beautiful, subversive or original and uses it to flog deodorants, car insurance and female incontinence pads.

Real life examples of this I hold in utter contempt include the use of a Marvin Gaye song in a TV commercial advertising a shitty woman's magazine like New Idea. "What's Going On?", a heartfelt protest song about the self-destruction and violence within African-American culture in the late 60's, and a groovealicious call to arms for peace and unity, is now being used to flog a shitty chick magazine as vapid and irrelevant as it is idiotic. In its new context, the answer to the question "What's Going On?" , becomes what Paris Hilton is wearing on the red carpet this week or which so-called celebrity needs to cultivate an eating disorder to earn their place in the magazine's esteemed list of "Best Bikini Bodies". Vive la revolution.

Just the other day I recognised the tune of a song which was being used to flog Ski museli bars. The song was "Pass the Dutchy", originally written in praise of sharing a reefer and an anthem of decriminalisation – completely de-politicised in its new context. It's now being used to sell fucking museli bars - without any sense of irony whatsoever.

Another favourite drug anthem (ahem..not a "personal" favourite, mind), "Golden Brown", a paen to heroin use, being used to sell fucking honey - without irony again. It's the complete inversion of the subversive that bothers me. This co-opting of what was once radical and shocking, and neutralising it by taking it completely out of context - and in some cases rewriting the actual lyrical content to completely castrate the otherwise controversial aspects - this really disturbs me.

I hate that everything that was once cool or controversial is neutered, blanded out and/or used to sell something.

Ringtones are a huge bugbear, for similar reasons. Call me old-fashioned, but a huge part of me is both disturbed and disgusted by the fact that Australians spend more money downloading ringtones - the new millenium's muzak equivalent - than they do buying real music.

You can’t dance to them, have sex to them, sit and cry at home alone after a breakup with them, or engage with them in any real way – in essence, the emotional and meaningful aspect of music is completely destroyed. It becomes another empty commodity. Another pointless accessory. Another superficial token of identity. Another disposable simulacrum of something that was once a geniune creative impulse.

I don’t know. Everything is a fucking commodity really. Not a new idea, by any means. I think I just needed to clear a blockage tonight.

Feel free to argue the case for ringtones. I’m genuinely bewildered and curious. And humourless and grizzly.

DOMESTICITY CLAIMS ANOTHER GENIUS

2005-05-16T18:25:00.000+08:00

Ok, so now that Anton is working ridiculous hours each week, I've taken it upon myself to step up to the plate in the domestic stakes. Hence my lack of blogging in the last few days.

I'm cleaning, washing dishes, walking the demon dogs, scrubbing dried-up food off laminated surfaces and cooking now. Ok, so according to Mellipop's stringent criteria in defining the culinary arts, heating up previously prepared food is classified as cooking. To my mind, if it doesn't come pre-prepared by a pimply adolescent in a paper bag it's fucking cooking, alright.

All of which leaves me little time to attend to the burgeoning flower of my God-given creative genius. This upsets me. God didn't create me for the divine purpose of menial domestic tasks, or to be a dab hand with the Domestos, that I am sure of. Otherwise s/he would have made me good at it.

So I had a great idea for a pseudo-food post tonight, and now I only have a mere seven minutes in which to write and post it, before the hard-working "hubbie" gets home. Seven minutes is not enough time to post a thoughtful commentary on modern malaise but it is at least time enough for a mini-whinge. I feel like Sylvia Plath. If Sylvia Plath had had two demon Staffy's to contend with, she would have stuck her head in that damn oven much sooner than she did. We've got a fucking electric oven. Though I'm sure that I could stick a knife in the toaster if needs be.

Maybe that's why Sylvia wrote poetry. Cooking for her useless poet husband, cleaning up baby crap and keeping a dust-free mantlepiece left no time to actually write anything substantial. Hence poetry. The drive-thru equivalent of the literary arts. It doesn't need to rhyme, entertain or make any sense at all. In fact, any old dribble that meets those three basic criteria can be slapped out in five minutes and bear the mark of genius. Because no-one understands it and NO-ONE CARES. Throw in a couple of sinister-sounding metaphors, acquire a substance abuse habit, die young and tragically and be remembered as a tortured artiste. Anyone can do that.

There's no romance in domestic drudgery. Dinner served on time, clean sheets and spotless laminated surfaces. The stuff that eulogies are made of.

Sigh... I really feel like writing tonight. But I need to be a good and attentive housewife. If Sylvia couldn't do it, what chance do I have?

MELLIPOP IS SCREENING TONIGHT

2005-05-11T19:44:00.000+08:00

Ok, so Anton is working late tonight, I've had the day off with the flu and we really need to get an answering machine. I’m screening tonight, see.

I'm a big fan of screening. Generally I screen phone calls to avoid facing one of two things 1) My parents 2) Anton's parents.

I can say this without fear of recourse, because no-one in Anton’s hemisphere of our combined “Circle of Love (and Obligation)” actually read Mellipop. I think he is simply far too embarrassed by me to expose them to the dubious inner workings of my psyche. Fair enough. They probably already think I’m strange enough as it is. Plus, his family don’t cuss half as much as mine does. We’re foul-mouthed butcher-folk from Blacktown.

My parents already know and understand that I am a moody bitch, capable of erratic moments of vivacious chattiness alternating with episodes of sullen withdrawal. It’s a phone-call crap-shoot, and they know it. They usually prefer to speak with Anton anyway. He’s always predictably upbeat and polite. Mr Mono-Mood.

Anyway, as with regards to this evening, the problem is that the essential nature of screening has as its central concern, the act of identifying the caller first, then deciding whether or not you actually wish to speak with them.

Without an answering machine, screening, for the most part, is completely ineffectual, and begins to rely more on the principles of pure risk rather than calculated risk.

Do I pick up the phone call and risk having to make inane small-talk with the in-laws in Anton’s absence, or do I elect to take the soft option of Star 10 Hash to minimise that risk? Now Star 10 Hash, is not without its problems either. The only phone number I actually have committed to memory is that of my parents, and that is surely only because it was also my phone number until I hit the age of 19.

So the only callers I can successfully screen are my parents. Any other number simply leaves me mystified, no clearer as to who wished to speak with me and why. So then I start to feel guilty, wondering whether maybe someone has been in an accident, or has died. Or maybe a good mate has just broken up with someone and needs a friendly shoulder to cry on. And here I am screening them. What kind of horrible person does that make me?

Truth be told, I hate talking on the phone, though the irony is that my parents were completely frustrated by their failed attempts to wrench me away from the darn thing for five long years between the ages of 13 and 18. I’d much prefer to talk over a schooner in a quiet beer garden somewhere.

Friends and family members all attest to the same frustration at trying to call me on my mobile phone. Having loudly resisted getting one of the bloody things for years, its prime function these days is as an over-priced push-button paperweight on my desk.

The “mobile” aspect of my phone is generally neutered by a lack of credit, battery power or the simple failure to carry it with me on my person. Plus, I don’t have emergencies. Being 15 minutes late to meet with someone does not classify as an emergency. I’m always on time. I sincerely believe that other people use their mobile phone as a handy excuse to be tardy. It is simply called being “rude” or “inconsiderate”, regardless of whether or not you phone ahead to explain that you haven’t had the courtesy to make any attempts at punctuality.

So to assuage my guilt at refusing to pick up the phone tonight, I have logged on to the internet. I still don’t know who called me tonight. Though at least I can eliminate my folks from the equation, thanks to Star 10 Hash. Apologies if it were anyone amongst you, friends of Mellipop, who was trying to call me tonight. I would have been boring and sullen company anyway, devoid of even the slightest spark of wit - as this post attests to. I’m sick, see.

MELLIPOP FEELS FLU-EY

2005-05-10T17:49:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I'm calling in sick tonight, fellow Bloggers.

I can feel the flu coming on. Worst of all, Anton and I are scheduled to have dinner with my fabulous ex-boss tonight, who is in Perth on business. A rare opportunity to socialise. And I just want to sleep. I was below par at work today, noticeably quiet and devoid of my usual incessant idiotic banter, which made the day that much more intolerable.

Then I get home only to discover that the fucking dog has started eating the couch, having been shut out of the bedroom during the day. I was going to post a pic, but there is no really compelling reason to do so. I don't think Mellipop needs any more pictures of shredded foam.

What Mellipop really needs is industrial-strength pseudoephidrine and a good lie down.

MELLIPOP GOT NOTHIN'

2005-05-10T05:47:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I have seen only the first episode of Big Brother Season 5, and am certain that I have already slashed my meagre 116 IQ in half. I feel tangibly dumber for having witnessed it.

Alas, I have been struggling to come up with a post for two hours now, and am still no closer to achieving my usual level of (ha ha) intelligent social critique. Plus I have just under 10 minutes to do this before the next episode begins, which I am watching under the dubious guise of “behavioural observation”.

Already it has its sinister tentacles wrapped firmly around both frontal lobes - for at least the next three months anyway - before all memory of its participants are well and truly erased. Had the producers been recruiting from within the ranks of the Third Reich ruling elite, they could not have assembled a more unlikeable or obnoxious group of individuals. At least the Nazis had ideals, however warped and repulsive. Ideals presuppose some level of cognitive activity. Though I have yet to see any evidence of this in amongst the BB Season 5 rabble.

I got nothing. I will duly post and subsequently remove for posterity’s sake.

MELLIPOP GETS OUTED AS A BOGAN BY A SCOTSMAN IN A BELGIAN PUB

2005-05-07T20:51:00.000+08:00

Ok, so what exactly is it about me that screams “bogan” (or “westie” for our brethren in the Eastern states)?

So it’s Friday afternoon and I’m in some wanky overpriced faux-European pub in Perth with a few workmates. Think $6 for a stubbie of Cascade Light beer and unpronouceable ales from the Eastern Bloc served in fucking wine glasses for $10 a pop. And before the geo-political lectures commence, let me first say that I do realise that Belgium is not and never was a Communist state, but by that same token must also confess that I don’t really know or care where the fuck it is. Their beer is shit and expensive. Enough said.

So I’m serving tenure at the bar, waiting to invest the meagre remainder of the “Sydney Fund” with my otherwise-occupied ale-slinging bartender Murray, and am restless and distracted enough to start up a conversation with the gentleman standing beside me.

Turns out to be a bloody Scotsman, of course. Like all people in Perth – or to be precise, those who weren’t born or raised here - he didn’t seem to know exactly why the hell he was here, but was certain enough to state for the record that out of all the places he had been in Australia, it had to rank as the most soulless and boring of the lot. A statement which would otherwise have seen him lynched on the spot by a posse of Perth locals hepped up on Euro-trash beer and small-town parochial fervour, had he not been speaking to a similarly lost and bored expat from Sydney, who shared his feelings of bewilderment and exile.

So we chat as we both continue our lengthy wait for Murray – gunning hard for the title of “World’s Least Dynamic Bartender” – to attend to our orders before heading back to our respective beer drinking buddies.

Turns out that my Scottish companion had been living in Coogee back in Sydney, and asked me where I was from. So I told him that I had been living in and around the Inner West for the last few years – Newtown, Leichhardt, Camperdown – and he nodded his appreciation for the region.

So I’m choking back the tears as I’m reminiscing about Toa - my erstwhile bartender from the Annandale Hotel - pulling me a fast and cheap VB from the tap, when completely out of the blue, my Scottish friend asked me if I was from Blacktown.

What the fuck!?!

I’m still fucking speechless, even now. I got fucking outed within the space of three minutes. The guy was spot on, yes, but where does a Scotsman get off spotting my bogan roots from over 4000kms away? It led me to start thinking, what exactly is it about me that screams “bogan”? I’m smart, I’m, literate, I’m articulate – and I wasn’t even wearing my Meatloaf t-shirt!

Sure, so I say the word “fuck” more often than may otherwise be deemed necessary, I’m a smidgin rough around the edges and I tend to speak loudly and without refinement, but I have a job, a future and a full set of teeth.

I still don’t get it.

Though I have to say in all honesty, that I’m secretly proud of my working class roots. It gives me a fabulous arsenal of ammunition to fuck with the heads of pretentious twats from private-school leafy-suburb backgrounds. Me with my parent’s pristine collection of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and $90 a year public education. And a university degree paid for with riches accumulated slinging sausages in a butcher shop (managed by my Dad) for five years. The very same fertile environment which gave birth to my love of VB. Fuck the smart bombs. I’m a smart bogan.

Say it loud, I’m a Westie and I’m proud.

Now bring me a beer so easy to pronounce it’s fucking abbreviated!

Man that post sucked. Too much cheap wine and too many hyphens.

MELLIPOP: NOT A GENIUS, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD TO THE CONTRARY

2005-05-05T16:52:00.000+08:00

OK, so I was bored and uninspired last night, so - in lieu of having anything remotely witty or eventful to post on Mellipop - I sought to boost my flaccid self-esteem by doing a totally kosher on-line IQ test.

I wanted to feel clever and superior, see. I needed external reinforcement to support my own innate claim to uncontested genius. Plus, it was multiple choice. I had it in the bag. What I didn't actually know, I had at least had a 20% chance of successfully guessing.

I couldn't possibly fail. I was going to yank that fucker right off the scale. Bell Curve my arse! They'd have to create a whole new paradigm of intelligence to process my score.

So it turns out that I am only marginally Above Average.

I clocked 116. The average is 100.

According to their IQ scale, I am neither Gifted nor Genius, which completely fucks with my self-concept. If nothing else, it means I’ll need to have new business cards made up.

It was the goddammed puzzles that did me in. I have no spatial intelligence. This confirms the testing done on me as a “volunteer” psychology undergraduate. Essentially, I’ve been denied genius status by a series of puzzles, dice and triangles. These things mean nothing in the real world, for at least three reasons that immediately spring to mind: 1) We do not live on the fucking set of Tron 2) No-one uses IUDs anymore 3) Mr Squiggle never did return to our screens following that unfortunate pedophilia scandal in the late 80’s.

Fucking puzzles.

And the bollocky number series questions. What is WITH those?

Q: What do the following set of numbers have in common?

4859 5949 3850 0184

A: Nothing ! Everything ! Who the fuck cares ! I just made the fuckers up, you morons ! For all you know it could be my fucking VISA card number !

The thing is, Numbers are to Religion like Statistics are to the Bible*. You can manipulate numbers in an infinite variety of ways, to support any harebrained theory you could ever care to devise. Numbers don’t mean anything – they are completely arbitrary and random!

And - more importantly…. This skill will not help you survive. This skill will not make you the much-sought-after conversational centrepiece at dinner parties. This skill will not get you into bed with the ladies. This skill does not make you a genius. It may in fact reveal that you are a dribbling autistic.

The only numbers that ever really matter in life are:

Number of sexual partners you have ever had :
** (a lady never tells)
Number of your “call in case of emergency” person:
02 9671 ****
Number of days before debt collectors turn up on your doorstep: 47
Number of times today you wish you hadn’t said what you actually said: 14
Number of minutes before your partner comes home with cigarettes: 36
Number of beers left in the fridge: 0

Being a seasoned psychology undergraduate/drop-out from way back, I know how shonky attempts to measure human “intelligence” are. But it still pisses me off that there are people out there scoring HIGHER than me. And some of those fuckers are just guessing! Guessing!

Sigh… I guess you can’t argue with standardised testing. I’m categorically, quantifiably, AVERAGE. Even though some anonymous internet IQ arbitrator told me I was Above Average, the fact that it would deign to use the word “average” at all is depressing enough.

I’m special. I really am.

* The grammatical form of this pointlessly inflammatory statement is taken from the IQ test itself (used satirically, in this case).

Genuine sample question: Water is to Ice as Liquid is to…?

a) Solid
b) Dogs Bollocks
c) Venereal Disease
d) Beer
e) I don’t know

MELLIPOP FINDS HER NICHE IN THE POST-NUCLEAR WORLD

2005-05-03T19:17:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I have come to the really quite obvious conclusion that I have no practical worth whatsoever as a human being. I mean, I’m an interesting decorative piece, and like to think that I have a reasonable level of amusement value and all - in this frivolous era of contented capitalism - but in the harsh post-apocalyptic world, I’d be a bit of a nuisance really.

I am a massive fan of doomsday scenarios. One of my favourite morbid daydreams is to imagine what would transpire if word came of our impending annihilation at the hands of some nuke-wielding misanthrope. If, in such an instance, our doomed society had the time and werewithal to organise bunkers at the grassroots level, I don’t think I’d be terribly high on the list of “post-nuclear desirables” – those chosen few ushered into relative safety underground to ensure that the human race survives.

I’m thinking that the competition to be one of those “chosen few” selected to escape certain death and re-build society would be fierce. And, frankly speaking, I’m not too sure that my CV would stand up to much scrutiny if called upon to save the human race. I mean, I was never even a Girl Guide, and know next to nothing about agriculture, medicine, engineering or architecture. Nor can I sing, dance or play an instrument.

In addition, more functional skills such as basic first aid, cooking, sewing and building things are definitely not my forte.

Having said that, I do know a lot about essentially useless things like feminist theory, literature, marketing, music and pop culture in general. Not much good in the bunker, I’m afraid. I’d just be a depressing reminder of life before the bomb. And no doubt I’d get beaten up for the marketing stuff and feminist ranting anyway.

Having said that, here is a list of all the essential qualities I would have to offer my bunker buddies, in our time of mutually-assured doom.

* I am a healthy female with reproductive fertility, loose morals and low standards.

* I can dig holes. Well, I haven’t dug a hole since Year 9 agriculture, but I reckon I can still remember how it’s done. Though I’d have to outlive environmental radiation to impress everyone with that particular skill.

* I can write satirical commentaries on post-apocalypic life - though not many laughs in that, one would assume. Wholly dependent on the existence of stationery, of course.

* I can recite all the words to Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” and “Bust a Move” by Young MC. As "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" by Homer were to the Ancient Greeks, so will these two modern masterpieces become the basis for a new post-apocalytic oral tradition. The hero's epic struggle to get a root in Young MC's in "Bust a Move", echoes the themes of the Iliad, which is based on a couple of cities warring over some slag called Helen, because there a couple of blokes who both want to shag her. Vanilla Ice's narrative of rolling the streets of LA in his 5.0 with the rag-top down so his hair can blow, looking for ho's is very similar to the epic journey of Odysseus, in his quest to kill his father and fuck his mother. Or something... Wait, no that's a song by The Doors. In the bunker, it won't matter anyway.

* I have excellent delegation skills when it comes to allocating general chores. My fair and precise managerial techniques will be sorely needed in the bunker, to stave off riotous anarchy.

* I am quite content to sit around doing nothing for very long periods of time. Hence I would engender no restless boredom amongst my fellow castaways during the lengthy period of our enforced seclusion.

* I don’t take up a lot of space, physically. Though I do eat a lot for my size and talk very loudly. Maybe not so desirable in confined spaces with limited resources.

* I don’t believe in God, and could thus reassure my spiritually shattered bunker buddies as to the true nature of divinity. Given time, I could eventually convince them that I was their only worthwhile object of worship. Everybody needs to have faith in something. I am loving, benevolent and capricious. But I can also be vengeful, unforgiving and judgemental. The transition will no doubt be fairly seamless.

And that, essentially, is it. I think I’ve found my niche. Having soundly established the fact that I couldn’t possibly serve any practical function in terms of basic survival, within the post-apocalyptic confines of the bunker - with no escape or retreat - the Goddess cult of Mellipop will thus be born.

So worship me or die, my pretties, for the end is nigh….

MELLIPOP GETS DESPERATE

2005-05-02T18:03:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I need to rip the udder off the sacred TV cow and sociological phenomenon that is Desperate Housewives. Am I the only person in the world who thinks this show is a rancid pile of steaming cow shit?

So I was reading an article on the SMH website that was rhapsodising about how “liberating” Desperate Housewives is for women over 40.

Sure. Liberating. The only thing remotely liberating about the program is that Teri Hatcher - the show’s main star - looks like she has recently been “liberated” from Auschwitz. Has this women not eaten anything since “Lois and Clark” was axed ten years ago?

Has anyone taken a good look at these women? Have we all forgotten that sacred phrase – “mutton dressed as lamb”? Did we not used to think that women of this ilk were both infinitely embarrassing and worthy only of our most unrelenting scorn?

Apparently, there is a new term for this emerging breed of over 40’s woman – the DISCO woman. According to some new gee-whiz marketing paradigm they’re “Discerning, Increasing years, Stylish and Comfortably Off”. Though a more honest assessment may otherwise suggest that that our over-40 DISCO chicks are “Desperate to look 25 again, Impossibly Skeletal, Cosmetically-enhanced and Over-dosed on Botox”.

Is this is what we are to aspire to, ladies? Conquering old age by indulging in a dangerous Dorian Gray fantasy in which childbirth, metabolism and life in general never impact on our face or figure. You too can look like Desperate Housewife DISCO dollies - all it takes is excessive dieting, over-exercising, cosmetic surgery, air brushing and good lighting. Simple!

And, of all people, the article name-drops Liz Hurley as some new feminist freedom fighter for the over 40’s. This is a woman most famous for wearing an ingeniously designed dress made of nought but a couple of safety pins and a clean white hanky.

A women who is better known for a) her boobs and b) the men she has been involved with, than for any actual talent. Dating first Hugh Grant (who shagged some black hooker for a decent handful of booty), and then some nameless rich cad who impregnated her, dumped her and then moved on to Nicole Kidman (no doubt reassured he won’t be making THAT little “mistake” again).

A woman who’s crowning achievement was to drop 20 kilos a couple of weeks after giving birth - by literally starving herself - and then parroting on to the press about it like she had just cured cancer or brokered peace in the Middle East. When all she had done was to reclaim her middle-aged midriff for future Austin Powers sequels.

A woman who is currently designing her own swimwear range, the latest in that proud lineage of has-been ex-models before her. Though no doubt she will also eventually break innovative new ground in the woefully untapped celebrity lingerie market.

So essentially, the new feminist icon is a post-menstrual skeleton with her own swimwear range. Or hammy sitcom star with a starvation fetish and "frequent buyer" card at her local cosmetic surgeon. Either way ladies, if you can’t see your ribcage in the mirror and can still form a facial expression or two when you hit 40, you just haven’t made it darling.

Ok, so I have actually seen an episode or two of Desperate Housewives. It really is utter shite.

FREE TO GOOD HOME

2005-05-02T16:28:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I get home again today and that fucking demon dog has, FOR THE THIRD DAY STRAIGHT, RIPPED THE BED UP AGAIN......

Anton is the last one to leave the house in the morning. One quick phone call determines that he thinks that he "may not have closed the bedroom door properly" this morning.

Quite so..... Grrrrrr.........

(Counting to ten very slowly and breathing deeply helps here)

I have already begun to mentally compose the classified spot for this weekend's paper.

FREE TO GOOD HOME - Male Staffordshire Bull Terrier, six months old, pedigree with papers. Best suited to a household that contains no furniture and is tenanted by a veterinary science professional who enjoys long walks, doesn't wear any underpants and kips on the floor in a sleeping bag made from Kevlar.

The rest writes itself....

THE LITTLE FUCKER DID IT AGAIN!!

2005-04-30T10:43:00.000+08:00

OK, so I'm pottering around the house this morning, iPod strapped on and cleaning to the Cat Empire (great housework music!).

I go into the bedroom to start tidying up and there's Tonka on the bed ripping the fucker to shreds - AGAIN. We flipped the mattress over last night, see, thinking we had scored nothing if not a logistical victory over the little bastard.

NOW HE HAS DESTROYED BOTH SIDES OF THE MATTRESS IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS!!!

And, as you'll see in the pic, the bastard has been chewing on my knickers again too.

That little fucker.

MELLIPOP COMES HOME

2005-04-29T18:13:00.000+08:00

Ok, so I get home today and the fucking dogs have eaten the bed.

I was angry until I opened the mail. I got a cheque for $630 for a freelance gig I did a while back for a new organics magazine. This made me happy. The article I did was really quite crap, and I'd given up the idea that it might ever be published. No publish. No pay.

Suckers.

Now I'm riding high on my seeming success with posting pics.

THE CULPRITS

2005-04-29T18:09:00.000+08:00

Ok, so these are the little buggers that did it.

Oh yes. It's all smiles until someone's bed gets eaten.

And we can't even sleep on the sofa bed.

That's been Staffy Shredded as well, to much the same effect. The Manche Monster took care of that one last year, in yet another of a long succession of incidents of stupid puppy hysteria. Mind you, her stupid owners were the ones who left the sofa bed folded out during the day while we were both at work. We thought she might like to snuggle up on it that day. Little did we suspect that she would otherwise choose to spend her time shredding the motherfucking mattress to bits. The whole house was covered in foam.

I think we have to be slightly mad to have two of the buggers.

In a seriously hilarious moment reminiscent of Manche trying to poo out the ingested tampon, Anton had to pull a poo out of Tonka's bum the other night.

So Tonka comes in from outside (thank God the little swine is toilet-trained now), having done his business. However, he brought in with him what we both whimsically refer to as a "budgie tongue". There's no delicate way of defining that term, suffice to say that it is in essence, a bit of poo still stuck to the dogs bum.

So Anton swoops in with a Kleenex, ready to wipe the dogs arse. So he grabs hold of the poo-let with a tissue, while I am at the other end keeping a tight grip on the pup so he doesn't jump up onto the couch. He starts pulling this thing, and it just keeps on coming.....! It turns out to be a rather long poo-coated strand of carpet thread the dog has ingested, having spent the day systematically tearing the hall-runner apart.

So we're both pissing ourselves laughing and gaping at each other in hysterical disbelief while Anton is standing in the middle of our lounge room with a dazed look on his face and a long strand of fecal matter hanging from his hand.

Sorry Gray. We were thinking of you buddy ....