Category Archives: about things that are not fun

Unicorns VS Spam in a fight for World Domination

I just tried to reply to a Spam email for fun, but Yahoo wouldn’t let me, so here is an open email to all spammy people. (When I wrote ‘spammy’ it just autocorrected to ‘spumy’. That’s fucking awesome. What the fuck is a ‘spumy’?!)

From: Jorge Alberto Betancourt Delgadillo <zeratul95@hotmail.com>

Dear friend:
I am sorry to disturb you!
We are a big Retail and wholesale company who mainly sell electrical products,We can supply best service and reasonable price with high quality. To celebrate the coming of Christmas, thanks to new and existing customers for their support and love!
company will  organize large-scale Discount activity!
All registered users can enjoy VIP price.
All the goods price provide VIP price for you!
Come on Friends, choose your favorite!  selected products into gift for your family, your friends, your Beloved people!
There are a lot of surprises! We would like to give a surprise to you and your friends!
Do not waiting!  Contact Us!  Just do it!
Note: limited number , limited time
web site: www. Xmasdiscounting.com
Take good care of yourself.^o^..

My reply:

Dear Jorge

Thanks for your email about electrical products. As you mentioned the ‘coming of Christmas’, I can only assume that one of your electrical products is a time machine. I’m pretty excited about this, as I have always wanted a time machine.

Are you able to tell me exactly what models you have in stock, and how much they are with the Christmas discount? I’m particularly interested in London during the Georgian era, so don’t worry about models that only have a 100-year limit each way in time.

Thanks so much in advance, and I hope you enjoy this picture of a unicorn that I have attached.

Regards

I don’t give a shit about your fucking electrical products. xox

PS: Please note that I do not actually own this picture of a unicorn. I Googled-Imaged it.

PPS: I chose this picture as it reminded me of a My Little Pony, and I love My Little Ponies.

I’M ALIVE! and incidentally, so is the man next door

Haven’t had internet in forever because Telstra are like pigeons. Useless and makes me want to vomit.

So the other day, when I’m all stressy and gross because of my lack of internet and the fights I’m having with Telstra and racking up an astronomical phone bill, I hear what can only be the sound of a smoke alarm battery dying.

We’ve all heard it. That infernal ‘beep’ every 30 seconds that wiggles inside your head and makes you want to stick your head in an oven.

I knew it definitely wasn’t mine because I had taken the battery out when I first moved in which is probably illegal but then isn’t suicide in some cases? So this beeping was Definitely not in my house. But because I live in a stupid unit, I can hear stupid everything from my stupid neighbours. And yes, they are all stupid. And all seem to have about 100 children each.

So I spend the next 20 minutes trying to find the source of the beeping by standing outside each unit one by one, listening, and looking really dodgy.  I finally track it down to the little old man two units down who hated on my scones.

So I knock on his door and say in my best Neighbour Voice, (it’s very mature and kinda perky) ‘hi there! Sorry to bother you, but I think your smoke alarm is running out of battery! I can hear the beeping!’

Little Scone Hating Man flatly refuses to believe it’s his alarm. Even though as I’m being all perky and neirbourly I can actaully see the infernal thing flashing and beeping away on the ceiling above his head. He refuses to believe this because he is deaf and he can’t hear it.

Him: Well now, I don’t think it’s mine. I can’t hear anything.

Me: I’m fairly certain it is yours. I can see it flashing. Oh, yes, and it just beeped again.

Him: No, didn’t hear it.

Me: Lucky you!

Him: I don’t think you would be able to hear it from your house, if I can’t hear it from mine.

Me: I think you’re just going to have to trust me on this one. I can hear it. Every 30 seconds. In fact, in about 7 seconds I’m going to hear it again.

BEEP.

Then he tells me that even if it is his, there’s nothing he can do about it until Thursday when his daughter comes to visit because he is much too Old and Frail to go hunting after beeping noises.

So that’s how I ended up on a chair with a broom whacking at the damn thing trying to bring it down. After I while, I did. It fell off the ceiling and bounced on the floor, bouncing the battery out of it. Little Old Scone Hating Man stares accusingly up at me.

Him: YOU BROKE IT!

And THEN, he picks up the battery and tries to jam it back in.

And he manages to do this in such a way, I can’t get the battery out again without banging it against my knee and swearing while Scone Hater looks at me disapprovingly and starts talking about his hearing aid battery and how batteries are delicate and you shouldn’t ‘bang them about’.

But eventually, mission accomplished. Until I tell my mother this story and she gets all, ‘what if there is a fire now? and the little old man dies?’ So I explained to her it wouldn’t have made a particle of difference because clearly he wouldn’t have heard the alarm go off anyway. And it’s past Thursday now so I am telling myself the daughter arrived and re-batterised the damn thing. And I’ve just discovered I didn’t invent the word ‘re-batterised’ because when I wrote it just now, no red squiggly line came to tell me it wasn’t a real word. But it does when I just write ‘batterised.’ WHO KNEW?

Don’t cheat on your hairdresser. You will look stupid.

When I first started Sophie, I wrote about a wonderful hair salon experience I had at Mieka Hairdressing.

So why I cheated on my hairdresser today is something I’m still asking myself. That’s right. I cheated. I went to another hair salon near where I now live. Don’t.Go.There. Ever. I now look like I have a small stripy cat on my head. The type of cat that gets left behind at the pet shop because it’s so ugly and not as cute as the other little cats and then before you know it the little cat is an actual cat and it gets sent off to the cat farm where they kill it, skin it, and then send the fur to hairdressers to use as a colour swatch to show unsuspecting people who are paying a retarded amount of money to get their hair dyed.

That last sentence got a little bit too creative, because I wasn’t shown a colour swatch of stripy cat like hair, I was shown a picture of a blonde bombshell and then I was told I would look Exactly Like The Blonde Bombshell In The Picture and I was all happy and smiley and then somehow when they were mixing the colours out the back, that’s when they obviously got confused and mixed the stripy cat colour.

Then they put it on my head.

So, naturally, as they were drying my hair and it was dawning on me that my hair did not, in fact, look blonde or bombshelly, I was a bit um… huh. It looks a bit… um.

And they’re all oooohing and aaaahing and calling me ‘babe’ (for anyone who read the other post on hairdressers, you know I hate this) and saying stupid crap like ‘you look so fierce!’ Well of course I do. I look like I should have claws. And possibly fangs. And like I should be swapped with a zoo in Japan to mate with their male stripy animal and then have a baby animal that will be put in a special exhibit and the public will get to name the baby animal and they’ll choose a stupid name that people like because it sounds kinda African and they can pretend the zoo is actually a scene from The Lion King.

So I go home. And I look at my head in the mirror. And I’m like, yes, this is all stupid. So I do the grown up thing and call and say yeeeeah, hiiiiiiii, looooook… I got home, and I’ve had another look at my hair and I’m not entirely happy with it-

‘What’s wrong with it.’ (I omitted the question mark there on purpose. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.)

‘Well, I think it’s a little too dark. And I’m afraid the ends are a little… blocky.’

‘You mean stripy.’

‘Well. Yes.’

‘Look. I just talked to Bonnie, (who the frack is Bonnie??) and she agrees that I am always really careful with my foils and I never do a stripy colour.’

Well that’s just great. Bonnie doesn’t have a cat on her head, does she? Well, she might have for all I know. I still have no idea who Bonnie is. And then stupid hairdresser girl tells me that she can’t do anything about it because if she puts any more colour in my hair it will damage it too much. So apparently I’m supposed to either have damaged hair, or a zoo animal on my head. Well isn’t that just keen. She offers to have a look at it ‘next week sometime’ if I’m still unhappy but she is very doubtful she can do anything with it. But she could try ‘if I want’.

No. I do not want. I don’t want you anywhere near my head again you masochistic cow.

So I’ve called the lovely Sarah at Mieka who has booked me in on Tuesday to fix me. I should never have cheated in the first place. I will go in wailing with apologies and love and maybe she’ll give me a free treatment or something. Doubtful, because this is my fault and I cheated on her, not the other way round. But I know she will fix me.

I still have to live through three days of having stupid hair though.

People are weird and creepy.

Some time I ago posted this, commenting on the fact that weird tags generate blog hits when weird people look for weird things.

I don’t think I’ve seen more charming proof of this then when I looked at my stats today and saw that someone had been led straight to Sophie after searching for this little gem:

dog.animal.sex.porn.

EW.

My rolling is better then your rolling. Get your hand off my shoulder.

The other day I was meeting George and I was running late because I had spent far too long in my little sister’s shop looking at pretty clothes that I couldn’t afford to buy but bought anyway.

So I’m walking briskly down Chapel St and I’m at the corner of Chaps and High, happily dragging on some sweet, sweet nicotine and waiting for the lights to change when a man approaches me and asks if he can roll himself a cigarette when we get to the other side.

Well no, I say, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.

He looks a bit taken aback at my refusal and says, come on man, it’ll only take 3 minutes.

At this point I think to myself, 3 minutes? are you serious? You suck at rolling cigarettes you stupid wannabe roller wanker, I can roll a cigarette in under 20 seconds while walking and a strong wind is blowing and it’s raining and I’m toting an inside out umbrella and I know this because I’ve been TIMED and that’s not even my PB and you’re telling me to hover on the other side of the street while I wait as you dip your grubby who knows where they’ve been fingers in my tobacco for three whole minutes?

Fuck.Off.

But I smile politely, and say, no, look, I’m really sorry, but indeed I am in a big hurry and really have to bolt down this street as soon as the lights change.

He then puts his hand on my shoulder. I barely repress a shudder. In fact I don’t repress it at all and shudder quite obviously. He says, with what I think he believes to be a winning smile, that he would really appreciate it.

I remove his hand and tell him, again politely, that I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

The lights are still red.

It’s at this point I realise how hard it is to look like you’re in a hurry when you’re standing still. So I try to overcompensate with lots of heavy sighing, obsessive pedestrian light button pushing, clicking of my tongue, and shifting my weight from leg to leg and looking, no doubt, like someone who really, really needed to wee and this whole time this man is staring at me with a sulky look on his face.

I’ve realised that if I was a non-smoker, scabby people bothering me would be cut down by half. I would still be accosted by junkies asking for 50c so they can get back to their kids in Frankston though.

Meet me in the ring Political Correctness, I’ll take you down biatch

A little old lady used to live in my house. I know this because the bathroom and toilet are absolutely riddled with disability aids. You know those metal bars that are in the disabled toilets to hang on to. Well there’s one in my bath, my toilet, and my shower. This is need to know information. Because the other day I was in a Super Hurry to meet George and I had about 17 seconds to have a shower and catch a train.

As everyone knows you should never hurry in the shower because that means either a) you murder a member of the animal kingdom, or b) you drop the soap. It’s like a rule that you drop the soap in the shower when you’re in a hurry.

So I drop the soap and I’m like fuck, only 13 seconds to catch the train now and I bend down to pick it up and on my way back up from bending down, I manage to straighten up into the disability bar and my head and the disability bar join as one in a real fuck-oh-fuck-you-mother-fucking-cunt-of-a-disability-bar-i-fucking-hate-you kinda way. I hit it so hard that it clanged and the noise reverberated around my bathroom in a somewhat satisfying way because it justified the pain that was shooting through my brain and making me feel like I had a bar shaped dent in my head.

Now here is my query: Who the fuck disables themselves on a disability bar? That’s like falling over a wheelchair and breaking both your legs. Fuck you Alanis Morissette. I take your stupid song and raise you a bar shaped dent in my head.

These examples look suspiciously plastic to me. Well my ones are made from good old fashioned mined metal materials.

***

I have since Googled ‘disability aid’ and apparently I’m supposed to say ‘mobility aid’. Well that’s stupid. The whole point is to aid non-mobile people, not shove it in their faces. “Would you like a mobility aid? Yes, that’s right, it’s designed specifically for people like you who aren’t mobile, we just put the word ‘mobile’ in the name to make you feel like shit because no one uses the word ‘disability’ anymore. Want me to say it again? Moooobiiiilleeee. Sounds good don’t it? JEALOUS?” Yeah, thanks asshole. That’s like the retards who put an ‘s’ in the word ‘lisp’. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? “I have a lithp.” That’s just MEAN. And did I just say ‘retard’? BITE ME.

How Murders Happen—My Story (nb: did not get murdered, or murder anyone)

THE WEB OF DEATH

I was on a train destined for Thornbury. What happened in the first five minutes of finding my seat can best be illustrated by the three texts below that I sent to George in quick succession, in response to his text asking where I was:

I’m on the stupid train waiting for it to leave the station at flinders! And trying to avoid eye contact with the creepy man sitting opposite me!

OMG HE JUST ASKED TO SIT NEXT TO ME!

Aaaaaaaaarggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then this happened:

Omg omg omg he just came over!!! Ew ew ew he’s talking to meeeee!!! Epping train wants to kill me!!! He’s asking me if I’m texting my friend and wants to pass on a message. I don’t know what it is yet.

At that point, two young guys, maybe late teens, got on the train. They took in my desperate situation at a glance and promptly started smirking. This set off the worst case of giggling hysteria I’ve ever had.

I will never know what message Crazy Man wanted to pass on to George because at that point I was shaking with laughter with tears streaming down my face and gasping, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I. Can’t. Talk!’ while he looked at me with crazy eyes asking for the forth time where I’m heading to. Then he says:

Don’t laugh at me.

O.M.G. I’m dead. I’M DEAD. My youthful protectors vanish at Clifton Hill. I start mumbling apologies interspersed with hiccups.

Then he offered to drive me to Thornbury if I alighted with him at the next station.

YOU ARE JOKING.

This is how dead bodies in ditches happen my friends.

Shorts Are Not My Friend

Today it was very hot so I decided to be brave and wear shorts. This is brave because I am pasty white like a vampire, and not even Hot-Vampire-Pasty-White, just stupid pasty white like a person who never tans. And I try and get all superior about it and say ‘eeew, tans, so bad for you!’ but this is because I don’t have one.

But I thought I would practice wearing shorts and get over the whole pasty white thing and then I realised that pastiness was the least of my worries because every time I sat down my thigh rippled like a golf ball. And in case I am drowning in metaphor too much here (get it!?) what I am talking about people is CELLULITE. And there I am on the train rippling and trying to spread my bag all over my lap to cover it up and failing miserably and feeling terribly self conscious especially when a bunch of girls got on said train looking all annoyingly un-pasty and toned. Bitches.

I realise I was probably the only person in the whole world who noticed my golf ball thigh. But this is not the point. One person is enough to notice and so what if that person was me.

Luckily I was only going to my parent’s house, and it’s kind of the rule that parents think you look beautiful no matter what you look like, but I don’t think I’m going to manage shorts around anybody who is not immediate family anymore. It just stresses me out too much.

Sophie Was a Dog: leading you not into temptation and delivering you from evil every day

So earlier in the week I wrote about my friend Helen’s blog, ‘Scream Under Streetlights.’ When I told her about this she typed what she thought was Sophie’s address in the little bar up the top of the screen there to check it out.

This is what she typed:

http://www.sophiewasadog.blogpsot.com/

Which, as a Blogspot address, doesn’t exactly lead to here. But it does lead to SOMEWHERE!

This is what she got:

You may not be able to see it properly so I will try my best to explain. I don’t know if I can do it justice though. It’s about the Bible. Like a LOT. Click for a bigger image. But that’s not the best bit! It comes with your very own DOOMSDAY CLOCK!!!!

See that? Ticking away to our DOOM. Well it’s not actually ticking per se, it’s more just a picture of a clock. Like a clipart type effort. Which is a little slack I think, as I was all excited to see how long we all had left, but it’s really just a teaser saying it’s limited time, but no one really knows how limited, so better get in now just in case. Kind of like an infomercial. Infomercials are full of limited things.

It also has a handy Google Images picture of where Doomsday is apparently taking place and actually  looks like a lovely spot for a picnic.

So after the Doomsday clock it talks about Evil for awhile, and how every prophecy in the Bible has come to pass etc. And why accepting Jesus as your saviour and BFF is like, totally awesome. But before even THAT happens, to reeeeeally sucker people in to call now and get a free rosary or some shit, it has a testimonial!

IT MUST BE TRUE!

But the real question is…

How the HELL did they steal Sophiewasadog away from me. I understand there is probably some computer related explanation. I don’t want to hear it. It’s obviously on purpose. They are trying to make me read their site and make me one of them.

So sly.

I am a Murderess.

The other day I went to jump into the shower (note: who the hell ‘jumps’ into the shower? Don’t we all just step in? If you actually are a jumper, please let me know) and I see a Daddy Long Legs on the shower wall.

I’m a bit of a fan of a Daddy Long Legs. I’m not a Spider-Lover by any means, but I am certainly not a Spider-Hater. I’m a Saver not a Squisher. But I quite like the Daddy Long Legs because I think for a spider they’re pretty dignified. They never scuttle. They’re always pretty slow and chilled out and if a Daddy Long Legs was a person, I think he would be like an old man with a 25 year old scotch, smoking a pipe.

So I’m in the shower and I see him and I’m like, whoa little Spider-Buddy, you are gonna DROWN if you stay there! So I get out of the shower, wrap a towel around myself, find a glass, find a postcard (well actually it was just a bit of cardboard. The postcard sending days are really dying. Let’s just call it a postcard and pretend) and proceed to save Mr Spider.

This involves the tricky process of sliding the postcard under the glass which is usually okay for all other spiders but a Daddy Long Legs has really long legs and it’s really tricky to get them all under the glass and over the postcard without amputating a leg especially cos they’re so thin and you’re struggling with keeping your towel up.

But finally he’s in the glass and I take him outside (fully aware that my towel is now practically completely off and a hell of a lot of my neighbours can see into my back garden) and I sit him on the table with the sunshine pouring down and I’m all go go Daddy Long Legs go! Go and commune with nature or whatever.

I go back. I have my shower.

Afterwards, this time dressed, I wander outside for my post shower cigarette and I see Mr Spider still in his glass. Suspiciously still. Still as in not moving, not still as in he is still there. Although that would be correct also because he was still there.

So I shake the glass veeeeery gently to see if he’s okay.

He is not okay. Mr Spider Daddy Long Legs is dead. Dead. D.E.A.D. It could have been the sunshine, could have been that he was very, very old and he was about to die anyway but somehow I doubt it. I, trying to save Mr Spider Daddy Long Legs his very life, had killed him with the utter shock of my Relocation Program.

I am shattered.

Lessons in Smiling Politely

This evening I went to the service station across the road from my house to buy a family block of chocolate to eat All By Myself, which is a little wretched in itself on a Saturday night at 10.30pm.

So I’m feeling somewhat delicate and I go to the counter and try to look like this was a family block of chocolate I was about to share with a rocking party I was hosting or whatever so the service station man wouldn’t think I was as wretched as I was thinking myself to be. So I’m all smiley and whatnot like wooo rocking party at my house just ducked out to get some chocolate you know, and service station man says: “You are looking really, really great. Just great.”

At this point I’m all oooooh that is SO NICE but privately thinking I can’t BELIEVE that the only person appreciating my greatness right now is the service station man that I see every day who probably knows I’m not hosting a rocking party At All but whatever it’s still all nice and maybe I should just suck it up and feel good about myself and just as I was planning to do this he follows up with:

“But with golden hair – much better.”

FML.

The Reason for My Red Hair and how it Totally Fucked Up

Earlier I posted a photo like this:

As the reason I wanted red hair. And then I got red hair. And my other reason for my red hair was this: I wanted to corner a market.

You see, if a guy likes a redhead, he really likes a redhead, and I like to think I’m a pretty cute redhead. Not quite as cute as the one above but somewhat cute. So I’m all excited about really raising the stock price so to speak and coming out on top of the ranger game here.

AND THEN.

I get a Facebook friend request. And this isn’t MySpace people, as far as I’m concerned you don’t befriend people on Facebook unless you’re actually friends with them or at the very LEAST have met them. And I’ll be fair, I’m not, by any means, actual friends with everybody on my Facebook page. But at least I’ve met them and I do regular culls.

So I get my Facebook friend request and it’s some RANDOM guy who attaches the following message:

Oh gal, i love red hair, show me show me.. redheads make the best glamour photos!! show me already!!! heeh.. hi.

EW EW EW EW EEEEEEEWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know what’s worse, what he wrote or the grammar he used. Probably what he wrote.

The moral of this story is that I attract creepy men no matter what colour my hair is.

I have learned my lesson.

But still love my hair.

Why Ladybugs are Evil.

An evil ladybug hatching secret evil plans to take over the planet.

I am scared of, and hate with a passion, ladybugs. They trick you. They crawl on your arm, and you’re like, heeeey ladybug, let’s put you on this little leaf here. And so you do and you go inside, and you open the fridge to get like, some milk or something, and you look down and the ladybug is back on your arm. And you’re all, that’s so weird, the ladybug is back, I was pretty certain I put him on leaf just a minute ago. So you put down the milk and go outside and you put the ladybug on ANOTHER leaf feeling all virtuous that you’re ‘saving’ this ladybug and making him happy all chilling out on the leaf and shit.

And then you might leave your house, and get on a train or something, and you go all the way across the city and you get off the train and you feel a tickle on your arm and you look down and SOMEHOW THE LADYBUG IS BACK.

What. The. Fuck. The above is an Actual True Story.

Ladybugs are evil. They are just another bug that looks pretty and this is on PURPOSE so they can manipulate the human race. Don’t trust that shit.

Why Waxing is the Silliest Thing. Ever.

On occasion, I will go get a wax. I’m talking about a punani wax. Sometimes you just have to do it, especially if you’re going to go on a tropical holiday which I did recently, or, if you’re feeling generous, sleep with someone for the first time.

I think everyone should neaten up their nether regions, and this goes for boy nether regions also, and whether that’s done by a fine toothed comb and a pair of scissors or by some masochistic bitch with a pot of hot wax and a pair of tweezers is your call. This is what I don’t appreciate:

Being told to ‘make yourself comfortable’. What the fuck? You’re about to pour hot wax on my VAGINA and you’re telling me to get comfortable. How comfortable am I supposed to be here? This is the same useless sentence doctors say before pap smears. You’re about to have what feels like an umbrella being opened up your lady bits and you’re being told to ‘just relax’. Sure thing. Because a plastic scraper up my coochie is what I do to feel relaxed all the time.

However, this is not as bad as being offered a paper g-string. Uh huh. Before my last wax my beauty therapist (let’s call her Tiffany) asked me if I would care for a paper g-string. Why? Apparently this makes Tiffany’s clients feel more comfortable. How is a paper g-string, of all things, supposed to make you feel comfortable? And what is the point? You’re about to be spread eagled in front of a female wielding hot wax and tweezers and a paper g-string is supposed to make you feel better? What the fuck is that about? How does this work? What does this do?

My favourite part is after the wax, when your eyes are streaming with tears as a result of pubic hair being pulled out by the roots, and Tiffany comes after you with pointy little tweezers to ‘get the strays and even things out.’ If you thought the wax was bad, try having tweezers pluck out hairs one by one on skin that’s still burning and a small blonde girl who is a good 10 years younger then yourself smiling at you telling you she’s a perfectionist. Well that’s just great sweetheart. But I hardly think the next lucky guy who’s gonna get a glimpse of this wax is going to compliment me on the symmetry of the hair left over. It’s seriously like they get out a spirit level to make sure that it’s even. I once had Tiffany tell me she’s not letting me leave until it was perfect as she would be too embarrassed for me to have a wax that was less then perfect. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Who the FUCK is going to see it that’s going to judge the remaining landing strip and make sure it’s at perfect right angles?

Any girl who says she waxes for herself and not the benefit of a lover is lying. LYING. NO ONE would put up with the pain and the inane chit chat of an 18 year old solariumed blonde for the sake of feeling good about themselves. No one.