There's this site on the net where you can read reviews of most of the restaurants in your state. One time when I had a job I sat in front of the computer for a few hours and flicked through endless pages of crappy reviews while drinking watery filter coffee. It quickly became apparent that most reviews were either submitted by complete douchebags or dudes called "Ron" who have a penchant for steak. Actually, almost all the reviewers talk about steak. "I ordered the steak/ we had the steak/ hubby had the steak". Steak, steak, steak. It's what the proletariat want.
It seems like the majority of reviewers also want to be semi- pro writers.
" I always ask myself, when does a $14 asian meal such as Sechuan Chicken become a $28 meal?
Answer, Freshly and carefully cooked ingrediants with great attention to presentation and detail, excellent service, a warm inviting upmarket decor, and a kitchen that looks as clean as the staff. "
I'm not sure what Bob 145 above is getting at. Is it some kind of slur? "Let me see your fingernails waiter! Hmmm... not bad, not bad. Well maintained cuticles and your ears look clean as a sea shell. Let me sniff your pits! I need to sniff them. Then, and only then, will I place my order. For steak. I need steak."
There's even reviews for Sizzlers.
"The only downfall we have with our repeat dining experiences at Sizzler is eating too much of the salad bar and the bloody dessert bar is a killer too if your not careful! You have been warned people!
You have been warned! Holy shit! The bloody desert bar.I imagine these people saying "LOL" all the time and having stuffed toys on the dash of their car. Why the fuck would anyone review Sizzler. It's the equivalent of reviewing your meal of meat pie and choc-chill from the service station.
"The service was pretty good.The waiter seemed attentive and made a joke about me being hungry at this hour. The pie tasted delicious. I really appreciate the way they microwave it until the pastry sogs up like warm playdough. I could tell that the gravy was made from the highest low-grade powder available. The ambience was somewhat ruined by the guy in tracksuit pants shuffling through the Picture magazines and the chap out the front scratching his face and smoking cigarettes he'd found on the ground. All in all, good value for money. I'll be back. Hopefully with a girlfriend. May even try the desert. I hear the Bubble-O Bills are to die for! "
In closing, how good is the word "stiffy"?
Amazingly good.
Reminds me of being twelve.
Gastr
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Corn King Christ Mite
I saw an ad in the local newspaper of a drunk looking woman. She was wearing a plum coloured dress and it looked like the shot had been taken in someone's backyard or at an expo with free drinks. She had lots of make up on and a bit of that ruddy cheeked booze glow.
What is this ad for? I thought. In my brain.
Podiatry! Of course. It's podiatry. If I go to a podiatrist to have a few grams of corns sanded off my little toes I want to know what the podiatrist looks like. There's no way I fronting up to find that the foot doctor is a red head or other undesirable character. I expect all podiatrists will start including head shots. If you're working on feet, you need a head shot. It's pretty much the rules.
Some people have foot fetishes.
What is this ad for? I thought. In my brain.
Podiatry! Of course. It's podiatry. If I go to a podiatrist to have a few grams of corns sanded off my little toes I want to know what the podiatrist looks like. There's no way I fronting up to find that the foot doctor is a red head or other undesirable character. I expect all podiatrists will start including head shots. If you're working on feet, you need a head shot. It's pretty much the rules.
Some people have foot fetishes.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Petroleum Ambergris
The other day I was looking through the motoring section of the paper. This is not something I would normally do but I was trying to look tough.
While flipping through the 'petrol pages' (do people say that? 'Course they do. Bloody petrol pages. Find a new gas bucket or some shit!) I saw this BMW for sale. I noticed that most ads in the for sale section said things like "low kms, new tyres, big donk". This ad said "BMW. Smells like new".
Smells like new!
This is what I look for in a car. Does it smell like new or does it smell like a shitty disposable nappied two year old has gummed to death a couple of chicken nuggets in the back and then peed in the ashtrays?
It smells like new?!
I will buy it then. I can look past the dents in the front where you mowed down a couple of kids on your desperate way to the hand job parlour, or the jesus fish sticker and the semi-lunar smudges from your 'baby on board' suck-a-sign on the rear windscreen, or the black smoke that coughs out rust whenever you change gears. I couldn't care less about these slight imperfections. The car smells like new.
It smells like you've gone down to an auto shop and bought some of that 'new car smell' spray and skunked a whole load of it all through the interior. Oh the pleasant waft of chemicals! It smells like plastic and adhesive and a change in fortunes and carpet and real estate and 'get out of my fucking way!'.
New car. New car smell. Difference?
None!
Holy fuck. My car. My actual car. It's not doing so well. Smells like cooked carpet. The temperature guage punched above it's weight. And it's rusted like country acne.
Country acne?
Not sure exactly what that is.
While flipping through the 'petrol pages' (do people say that? 'Course they do. Bloody petrol pages. Find a new gas bucket or some shit!) I saw this BMW for sale. I noticed that most ads in the for sale section said things like "low kms, new tyres, big donk". This ad said "BMW. Smells like new".
Smells like new!
This is what I look for in a car. Does it smell like new or does it smell like a shitty disposable nappied two year old has gummed to death a couple of chicken nuggets in the back and then peed in the ashtrays?
It smells like new?!
I will buy it then. I can look past the dents in the front where you mowed down a couple of kids on your desperate way to the hand job parlour, or the jesus fish sticker and the semi-lunar smudges from your 'baby on board' suck-a-sign on the rear windscreen, or the black smoke that coughs out rust whenever you change gears. I couldn't care less about these slight imperfections. The car smells like new.
It smells like you've gone down to an auto shop and bought some of that 'new car smell' spray and skunked a whole load of it all through the interior. Oh the pleasant waft of chemicals! It smells like plastic and adhesive and a change in fortunes and carpet and real estate and 'get out of my fucking way!'.
New car. New car smell. Difference?
None!
Holy fuck. My car. My actual car. It's not doing so well. Smells like cooked carpet. The temperature guage punched above it's weight. And it's rusted like country acne.
Country acne?
Not sure exactly what that is.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Haircuttus
I went to the barber again today. Yep that's right, a professional haircut on my head. I'm wearing one.
As I waited for my turn in the swivel chair I listened to the barber talk to some old mingers about swine flu and the free vaccination being offered by the government. From a small survey, listening to two old guys in a barber shop, I can safely say that the majority of the population believe that swine flu will "probably kill you but something is going to kill you and cancer will probably get you first". They both had colds. One said that he had the "90 day virus that was going around" and the other said that he got sneezed on in the supermarket. They both stressed to the barber that they did not have the pig mucus. Getting sneezed on is probably one of the worst experiences ever. A constellation of warm wet lung butter spittle all over your eyes, nose and lips. It's enough to make a man drop to his knees and pray for a stinging yellow dettol rain cloud to cleanse all pores and wage mass germicide.
Anyway, at the barber there's a massage chair. A big leather thing that probably uses the same things that makes a mechanical bull buck. I thought they were only bought by chronic masturbators who watch motor sport/Australian Idol and crank the sucker to rough road as they journey to jerky-town. There's a sign that reads"Not for pregnant women or children under 16". That's serious massage. It costs $2 for 5 minutes. The barber said that a guy came in "and put 22 bucks in and sat in the chair until it broke. He was a big fat guy and he was leaning hard into it. You gotta sit forward! Not back! He was happy though. He'd bought 60 bucks in two dollar coins and said it was still cheaper than getting one down the road". There's a place down the road called Bikini Girls. It's a massage parlour. I wonder if that's what he meant. Probably. He sounds like a perve. Who gets a massage for and hour at the barber? This country is full of creeps.
As I waited for my turn in the swivel chair I listened to the barber talk to some old mingers about swine flu and the free vaccination being offered by the government. From a small survey, listening to two old guys in a barber shop, I can safely say that the majority of the population believe that swine flu will "probably kill you but something is going to kill you and cancer will probably get you first". They both had colds. One said that he had the "90 day virus that was going around" and the other said that he got sneezed on in the supermarket. They both stressed to the barber that they did not have the pig mucus. Getting sneezed on is probably one of the worst experiences ever. A constellation of warm wet lung butter spittle all over your eyes, nose and lips. It's enough to make a man drop to his knees and pray for a stinging yellow dettol rain cloud to cleanse all pores and wage mass germicide.
Anyway, at the barber there's a massage chair. A big leather thing that probably uses the same things that makes a mechanical bull buck. I thought they were only bought by chronic masturbators who watch motor sport/Australian Idol and crank the sucker to rough road as they journey to jerky-town. There's a sign that reads"Not for pregnant women or children under 16". That's serious massage. It costs $2 for 5 minutes. The barber said that a guy came in "and put 22 bucks in and sat in the chair until it broke. He was a big fat guy and he was leaning hard into it. You gotta sit forward! Not back! He was happy though. He'd bought 60 bucks in two dollar coins and said it was still cheaper than getting one down the road". There's a place down the road called Bikini Girls. It's a massage parlour. I wonder if that's what he meant. Probably. He sounds like a perve. Who gets a massage for and hour at the barber? This country is full of creeps.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Soap Milk Madagascar (Jesus cream)
There's some hand cream next to my computer. Sounds pretty dodgy huh? Well it's not. It just happens to be there. My girlfriend bought it. It's not so I can grease my flute whilst speedily flicking through Round, Brown, and Oily. It just happens to be there.
It's called"No No" but it seems more like "NNOO" as the letters are arranged to look like a palm. Once again it's not for internet whack fests. It's been on the table since my girlfriend opened the package in which it arrived (notice how I have said I have a girlfriend. This is to prove that I in fact have a girlfriend. I'm being casual and just throwing it around. Many of you may think I'm a lone wolf, a young man with no time for the fairer species, a man that spends every waking hour honing his skills and bettering himself and those around him. This is not entirely true. I have made time in my schedule to fit in the companionship of a femal human. Where I find the time I just don't know. Lord knows my ranking on a certain online surfing game is starting to suffer, but sometimes you need to forget about business and concentrate on family - also, she's not my sister).
Anyway, I have just eaten a lamington.
"Satisfactory?" you ask.
"Not really" I reply.
"Why did you eat two?" you ask.
"I had to make sure. I'm a forgiving man. Like Jesus."
"You know what would get that taste out of your mouth?" you ask. Questions. Lots of questions. You're asking them.
"A drink?" I say. Answer a question with a question. That's how you win an argument.
"Not exactly" you say. "Hand cream. That hand cream that is sitting there. It's wasting away. GET THAT HAND CREAM AND SQUIRT IT IN YOUR MOUTH. DO IT NOW. DO IT FUCKING NOW!!!!!!!"
And so I do. It tastes like shampoo. It kind of burns. Now it's all through the pores of my tongue. I've got a soapy slick irritating the back of my pallet. You are not a nice friend. You do not have my best interests at heart. I would do anything for your affection and you know and exploit this.
Actually, lamington taste gone. Good advice.
If I die in a few hours/minutes - you know why. Please play a sweet song at my funeral. One that will make everyone cry and remember how cool I was.
That is all.
It's called"No No" but it seems more like "NNOO" as the letters are arranged to look like a palm. Once again it's not for internet whack fests. It's been on the table since my girlfriend opened the package in which it arrived (notice how I have said I have a girlfriend. This is to prove that I in fact have a girlfriend. I'm being casual and just throwing it around. Many of you may think I'm a lone wolf, a young man with no time for the fairer species, a man that spends every waking hour honing his skills and bettering himself and those around him. This is not entirely true. I have made time in my schedule to fit in the companionship of a femal human. Where I find the time I just don't know. Lord knows my ranking on a certain online surfing game is starting to suffer, but sometimes you need to forget about business and concentrate on family - also, she's not my sister).
Anyway, I have just eaten a lamington.
"Satisfactory?" you ask.
"Not really" I reply.
"Why did you eat two?" you ask.
"I had to make sure. I'm a forgiving man. Like Jesus."
"You know what would get that taste out of your mouth?" you ask. Questions. Lots of questions. You're asking them.
"A drink?" I say. Answer a question with a question. That's how you win an argument.
"Not exactly" you say. "Hand cream. That hand cream that is sitting there. It's wasting away. GET THAT HAND CREAM AND SQUIRT IT IN YOUR MOUTH. DO IT NOW. DO IT FUCKING NOW!!!!!!!"
And so I do. It tastes like shampoo. It kind of burns. Now it's all through the pores of my tongue. I've got a soapy slick irritating the back of my pallet. You are not a nice friend. You do not have my best interests at heart. I would do anything for your affection and you know and exploit this.
Actually, lamington taste gone. Good advice.
If I die in a few hours/minutes - you know why. Please play a sweet song at my funeral. One that will make everyone cry and remember how cool I was.
That is all.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Deep Sleep Eat
Last night my girlfriend was talking in her sleep. She was talking a lot. I decided to join in and influence her dreams. This way she will never leave me.
She said "I think we'll put you up for transfer". She's an intern and I think she thinks about her job at the hospital all the time, it invades her dreams.
"Will they have baked beans there?" I ask. "I love baked beans". In hindsight I could have come up with something a little more interesting, perhaps encourage her to let me eat soup whenever I feel like.
She responded in her best bedside manner "Oh, I'm sure they will." It was almost condescending. She'd worked out that I was a tricky patient and that baked beans were a sweet enticement to get me to lie down and submit to a catheter or a ward transfer.
She went on talking through out the night and each time I would say "These baked beans are delicious!","These are some expensive baked beans!", "I love baked beans". I think this constant repetition helped established my character as a dedicated bean fan. I imagined myself as a bald headed mole-man sitting upright in a hospital bed scooping beans straight out of the tin. "Beans, lovely beans"
After a while I thought "this is probably abuse" and stopped.
She said "I think we'll put you up for transfer". She's an intern and I think she thinks about her job at the hospital all the time, it invades her dreams.
"Will they have baked beans there?" I ask. "I love baked beans". In hindsight I could have come up with something a little more interesting, perhaps encourage her to let me eat soup whenever I feel like.
She responded in her best bedside manner "Oh, I'm sure they will." It was almost condescending. She'd worked out that I was a tricky patient and that baked beans were a sweet enticement to get me to lie down and submit to a catheter or a ward transfer.
She went on talking through out the night and each time I would say "These baked beans are delicious!","These are some expensive baked beans!", "I love baked beans". I think this constant repetition helped established my character as a dedicated bean fan. I imagined myself as a bald headed mole-man sitting upright in a hospital bed scooping beans straight out of the tin. "Beans, lovely beans"
After a while I thought "this is probably abuse" and stopped.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
24 non stop, I don't stop, can't stop, won't stop
You know when the coffee runs out and you start drinking tea and you think 'I like this tea' but really you're like ' I want coffee' and you could go to the shop and get some more but that would involve doing something and you've already walked the dog and that basically counts as doing something constructive and besides you've got to beat this Brazilian kid who calls himself Tuj Burrow and keeps pipping you by a fraction of a point on an online surfing game?
Me neither. I've been getting things done. Logged some serious time researching things. For instance I looked up 'fingering' on Yahoo!Answers. Man, time well spent. Results:
roma12 asks:
Fingering ?
i became close to a girl a couple months to a year ago and I ended up fingering her, I washed my hands after wards but why do i seem like I "can't use" those fingers anymore because i think there is stuff there. can this be a form of ocd? Cause I feel like I cant touch food or anything else without thinking something bad will happen? What are some ways I can overcome these thoughts? Serious answers please!
please don't smoke answers:
Sounds to me like a case of "coyote ugly". She may have not been someone you really found attractive. While in the act did you feel a bit squeamish as though something wasn't right?
Typically if shes healthy and attractive and your on fire over her, you would not want to wash your hands after wards. There seems to be an issue with her not being very clean.
Take some alcohol and pour it over that hand, it kills everything and this will correct your mindset and you'll be able to move on. Good Luck.
So pretty much didn't waste any time.
I also spent time putting awesome combinations of swear words into a Japanese translation to hilarious effect:
So yeah, things are non-stop here. I'm getting stressed out.
Me neither. I've been getting things done. Logged some serious time researching things. For instance I looked up 'fingering' on Yahoo!Answers. Man, time well spent. Results:
roma12 asks:
Fingering ?
i became close to a girl a couple months to a year ago and I ended up fingering her, I washed my hands after wards but why do i seem like I "can't use" those fingers anymore because i think there is stuff there. can this be a form of ocd? Cause I feel like I cant touch food or anything else without thinking something bad will happen? What are some ways I can overcome these thoughts? Serious answers please!
please don't smoke answers:
Sounds to me like a case of "coyote ugly". She may have not been someone you really found attractive. While in the act did you feel a bit squeamish as though something wasn't right?
Typically if shes healthy and attractive and your on fire over her, you would not want to wash your hands after wards. There seems to be an issue with her not being very clean.
Take some alcohol and pour it over that hand, it kills everything and this will correct your mindset and you'll be able to move on. Good Luck.
So pretty much didn't waste any time.
I also spent time putting awesome combinations of swear words into a Japanese translation to hilarious effect:
Hakuso must eat my fuck. Then I listen to the Misfits
So yeah, things are non-stop here. I'm getting stressed out.
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