Can I have a Horn please?

Call me dirty, but I see that as quite the euphemism. Or the opening line in a very, very mediocre porn. Which is why I, the sensible, well mannered, wholesome fun-loving Australian, refrain from using it in conversation as much as possible. And quite frankly, you would think that in normal everyday conversation, this sentence would be very unlikely to come up.

Last week happened to be one of those screw you probability days.

I'm at Corica, with Ali, and she wants a custard horn. She in fact looks at the display and says 'Ooooh custard horn!'. No problems so far. But then I look at the tag and it simply reads 'HORN $2.80'. My brain starts to put the words together my mouth needs to say...

Jase's Brain: Okay... "Can I have a horn please?'. Sounds grammatically correct to me. Send it down lads!
Jase's Euphemism Cortex: OMGWTFBBQSAUCE?!?!
Jase's Mouth: What the hell is taking so long?! We're standing here looking like a fool!
Jase's Euphemism Cortex: Fix that up pronto tonto!
Jase's Brain: Why am I everyone's bitch?

And so, I eventually spout out 'Can I have one custard horn please?'. Oh boy did I dodge a bullet there. I looked at her thinking to myself, I just saved us an awkward silence and me doing a lot of looking at my shoes. Thank me later sister. Her response?

Corica Woman: You mean one horn?
Jason: Wow, my shoelaces are looking pretty worn these days.
Corica Woman: Sir?
Jason: Yes, one horn please.

Ahhh crap.

Stay cool dudes and dudettes.

Going for the shittiest tri-fecta ever

I just realised this is the second birthday running where I've been sick.

As a birthday gift I'd like nothing more than hayfever manifested in the form of a pinata. I get a baseball bat and beat the living bejesus out of it a solid 2 hours (gotta make sure the bitch is dead). While it dies a slow horrible death on the ground, guts spilling onto the green grass, my baseball bat transforms into a flamethrower and I incinerate the last remaining remnants of hayfever forever.

If you can get it to me by tomorrow the sun shall shine on you forever*.

Stay cool dudes and dudettes

*sun shining on you forever may or may not be me following you around with a 40W light bulb for the rest of your life.

Thought of the day

'I screwed up my courage and...'

A phrase that has never made sense to me. Why would you want to screw up your courage? I'd like my courage to be nice and neat so I use it properly. Anyone care to venture an alternative perspective?

Stay cool dudes and dudettes

Thrusty McThrust

I'm a bit late posting this on here but well, there's a fine line between a pat on the back and a kick in the pants so let's dance! I don't get it either... moving on.

My experience at the barber's (real men call them barbers, not hairdressers) a few weeks ago. After a rather terrible cut at ol' Ali Baba's, I decided the hunt was on for a new barber. (Note: when your barber barely speaks a word of english and has a quite brutal perm himself, you should be very cautious no matter how cheap their student prices are). My search eventually led me to Top Image in William Street Shopping centre. I'd actually gotten my haircut there before and I was pretty happy with it, so back I went.

So in I went and after a quick look around, I realise the woman who cut my hair last time wasn't working that day. Oh well, I'm sure everyone else working here just as well as she does, maybe even better! Oh optimism, you cruel double edged bastard. I seat myself down at one of the waiting chairs. While waiting I witness a few things: a girl walks out of the back room with ruffled hair, rather scrunched up clothes and a slight smile on her face. Mr. Fobby Fobulous then walks out not long after sporting a similar look about five minutes later. The five minute gap does nothing to dispel the idea of what kind of hanky panky was going on in there.

Secondly and probably more relevant to myself was the quite snappily dressed and clearly gay Japanese guy cutting another male's hair. Let me state for the record that I have nothing against gay people. As Jerry Seinfeld says: 'Not that there's anything wrong with it.'. However, even I have a threshold for PDG (Public Displays of Gayness). I'm not talking about the high school kind of 'gay' either. This particular PDG involved said haircutter legs spread wide open while more or less thrusting said haircuttee. Oh, and when I say more or less thrusting I mean like IN AND OUT AND IN AND OUT. I sniggered in my head at this unfortunate sucker being violated by quite possibly the worst violator of non-consensual PDG ever. Reminds me of Hard Gay actually.


Watch for the Soup and Noodles guy, and that's the kind of level of PDG I'm talking about.

The PDG offender even happened to be Japanese as I could tell when he asked the guy 'Haircutto isu gooddo?'. However, it was then that a dreaded pang of realisation set upon me: the other girls were all busing dyeing people's hair or snipping away. I shuffled nervously in my seat. As I watched the Gay Haircutter take the money from the violated (but with quite swish looking hair) guy, a quick glance around saw no-one free to cut my hair. Nothing but despair filled my head.

But I was saved! Just as they were saying their goodbyes, one of the girls (one of the cuter ones might I add) came over to me and seated me down. I'd escaped the jaws of uncomfortable thrusting into the arms of a cute girl! I was thinking of some one line zingers that would get her laughing. I was, right up until the point I heard a male voice with a particular strong Japanese accent say 'Howu wouldo you raiku haircutto?'. God damn bitch lied to me.

Not only were the next 15 minutes of my life consigned to the doom of being thrusted to death, but he also tried to strike up a conversation. Now, in no way am I averse to conversing with a gay man, but when he starts things of with 'You habu bery rongu eyerashu' the conversation is gonna be awkward and very, very short. I thought about whipping out the awkward turtle, but quickly retracted the thought. Whipping out anything in front of this guy probably would've just made things worse.

Mercifully, it eventually ended and as I left, he yelled out 'Camu backu agein!'. Well, at least it was memorable.

Stay cool dudes and dudettes

The Emasculation Diaries Chapter 1

Yet another series that I intend to start on this blog (one which I'll probably keep going... which I'm not sure is a good thing). In particular, this will document the continuing episodes in which I manage to demonstrate how much of girly-man I really am.

So yep, I've gone from the frying pan of assignments into the fire of exam study. Joy. But hey, even in the confines of my room I'll need a break every now and then. And what does one Loveable Loser do during said breaks might you ask? Well actually, I pump weights while simultaneously polishing off a slab of VB and watching V8 supercars.

Or... not. Even though I had you fooled I actually ended up... cleaning my room. Oh yeah. Just saying that made my stubble grow an inch. I decided to re-arrange my room which would hopefully encourage more study unlike the mess I had before. It all sounds boringly sensible.

Eventually I had to tackle the beast that is my clothespile. I maintain that every healthy 20-something should have a clothespile. Nevertheless, there is a point where it can get outta control. A quick look at my own clothespile and it seemed as though I was miles past that point. I think my guitar was being chewed by the pile. Really.

And so led to my training in the forbidden Japanese art of errr... folding shirts.

BEWARE: Intense training is very intense.

After 38 seconds of the most intense, brutal, sweat-inducing training ever, I was ready to tackle my clothespile. And you know, after an epic 15 minute battle: VICTORY. But that wasn't the most satisfying feeling. Sure, my room was a lot cleaner. It was however the thrill of learning the ability to fold shirts quickly was the best feeling I've had in quite a few weeks.

That's right ladies. I've got arms the size of pythons (well... baby pythons) and I also can fold shirts really quickly. One at a time please.

Stay cool dudes and dudettes

For my fellow SF geeks out there...

Gotta love The 'Rog.

Stay cool dudes and dudettes

I'm too old for this sh... STUFF! I said stuff...

Another Saturday, another night/morning at Met... Met... Metr.... God I can't even say it. That place where my skank-o-meter goes haywire. Yeah that's it.

Thankfully though, James '#3' Hopkins got me in for free, so I at the very least I didn't end up spending any money. But now that I think of it, if I did pay the $15 entry fee, what would I be getting for it?

Well, let's have a look at what did happen...

Upon walking up to said fine establishment, I notice a guy telling a girl to look sober while she seems to be stumbling about. Said girl then says:

Sure, no problem.

Said girl then proceeds to throw up not two metres away from me. Charming.

Heading in, I am greeted by guys with middle-part bowlcuts (very 90's asian gangster... hang on, I meant LiL bBy AzN GanGsTA...*vomit*) and a glare that says 'I gotta look tough because I'm overcompensating for that fact that I sleep with a night light on'. And then the girls... we have the drunken stumbling ones, the caked-on makeup ones, and the 'Does this dress come any shorter?' ones.

On a further note, everytime one of the 'caked on makeup' girls' faces brushed against my shirt, I swear half their face smeared onto my jumper. Really really.

There's the awful music. Bass overdrive to start with. And THEN they decide to turn up the bass even more. Not to mention they ruin classic by mixing them with dance tracks. And any decent R'n'B classics they do play, are mixed out after 30 seconds. Ironically, I know the DJ goes by the name of 'DJ Headache'.

Then there's the inescapable stench of sweat. Seriously, it followed me everywhere I went. And no, it wasn't me. Then you have the people who attempt to pass drinks to each other over your head, and you look up right at the moment when their alcohol finally gets to their motor cortex and they spill it on you. Brilliant.

Subsequently, drink on face and shirt requires a trip to the mens lavatory. Immediately you are slapped in the face with the most INTENSE stench of urine you've ever smelt. And then you realise that entire floor is actually moving. And also a bit too shiny. And then you realise you should really stop being so observative.

And all of the above that I've described comes in at a modest $15 of your hard earned money. I mean, why would you want to be anywhere else?

Stay cool dudes and dudettes