Turkeyrangadooderup Day

We’re prepping for an Ameralian Turkey Day here, at our home, for ALL the family, tomorrow.

CrazyCatLady has, naturally, diva-like and dramatically usurped the role of Center of Attention and is cooking the turkey, stuffing, and candied yams.

Yes, I told her the latter is disgusting and noone really eats them, but she’d already loudly called Wife a “dickhead” when asked if she’d make the gravy too, so I sat and stroked one of the only cats I like over there whilst absently picking tufts of fur off my shirt.

Me and my preggolatious wifeage shopped today, South of the river in the more White Trashish section of town. There’s nothing quite like a change of scenery, and getting back to our WT roots.

Plus, and Yes I’m saying it out loud, I like to compare myself to some of the unfortunates around me and make myself feel better. Fuck it, we all do it, man up and admit it.

By that same token, sometimes I do it simply for the freedom of being “one of them” and let my asscheeks vibrate violently while emitting ducklike noises in the middle of a busy store.

It makes Wife giggle, it makes me smile that oh-so-satisfied-with-yourself-smile and it makes other people uncomfortable and somewhat grossed out. Sweet.

My feet are now propped up and resting, with the promise of a rub or two, after I’ve created, from scratch, two pies.

Crust and all, Pecan is cooling and Pumpkin is waiting to come out.

No Fucking Shit. From Scratch.

I’ve already had two today, but I SOOOOOOOO deserve some serious Sexing right now.

Tell me again why I’m typing this?

P.S. I’m Thankful. So fucking thankful.

I’m writing for the sake of it in here anymore, not for novels, but DAMN, I could go on and on.

I’m thankful, and tell them, every day, for my wonderfully sensitive and capable boy, who may be the most perfect child ever created. For my girlchild, who can be the Naughtiest Shit Ever, but loves like it’s never been done. For the belly resident, who does a disco every time she hears my voice and/or I touch her mum’s belly.

I’m Thankful for all good things and good people. You know who you are.

Go. Hug something and pretend it’s from me. Now.


Thorpie Says ‘I Fully Quit!’

The Thorpedo retired yesterday and that’s what I came up with on my own, making Wife blow a little bit of the clear kind of snot out her nose.

And I’m not even FROM here. Heh.

NO, I’m not linking and all that. You can look ‘im up.

Faaawksakes. Here:

The champion swimmer announced yesterday that he has quit the sport at just 24 years of age.

It brings to an end a remarkable era in Australian swimming, Thorpe having dominated events on the national and world stage for the best part of a decade.

The career tumble-turn began during his recent stint in Los Angeles, where he says he started to look at his life in a new light, and decided that swimming is no longer the top priority.

The Olympic champion told a packed news conference it was a difficult decision to make but conceded ‘swimming was no longer a top priority’ and said he wants to concentrate on other challenges.

Thorpe’s list of achievements include; five Olympic gold medals, ten Commonwealth Games gold, 11 World Championship titles, and nine Pan Pacific gold medals.

He’s also set 21 World Records.

That’s NewsieSpeak for “Yet another Aussie who whupped him a whole lotta ass.”

And my kids love his cereal.

I think.

Or maybe his is the one that’s got more chocolate and honey and syrup and shit in it. Crap, I forget, but it’s the one with his picture and quote on it and we make more fun of it than we do “Tang”.

Stuck in muffuckin traffic this morning and late for Weekly Company Meeting only to find out that Boss was late too and meeting was postponed.

Wrote to Wife, “T’ain’t Fair.

Huhuh, ?T’ain’t Fair? sounds like lots of wrinkly patches of funny-looking skin walking around eating Cotton Candy, riding Roller Coasters and trying to win Teddy Bears.”

I fkn kill me.

Tired of thinking about writing a Final Goodbye for this diary.

Tired of thinking that I need to write a freakin’ novel every time I’m on here.

Funny shit gets said and thought of and whispered across pillows and yelled through the shower steam. Every. Damn. Day.

Why not write it down and share it?

Mebbe even make some snot blow out. Not the big ones either, that bounce when they hit your pant leg, but the kind that’s clear and a bit runny and people only notice when you try and wipe it up.

Buddy casually walks up to Wife and says, “Guess what.”

Not as instinctually inclined as myself to shoot back a quick “Chicken’s Butt!” she simply asks, “What?”

“Bunnies,” he even-more-casually replies, “that’s all” and then walks away.

That’s my Boy.

Trick. Or Treat.

Through the seemingly constant cries of “but we’re NOT American!” we did it. Me and my boy braved the cold and cruel elements to do our part for the propagation of my cultural identity.

We went Trick-or-Treating.

And by ?cold and cruel? I mean… um… ha ha, it?s Spring here.

Wife had a few rows with some e-folks about the origins of the celebration of Hallowe’en (which is why I now spell it “correctly” after ResearchGirl sprung into super action) and I was prepared for the worst to greet us. I figured we’d get a few “we don’t celebrate that” or “you’re not in America anymore” or even “only freaks and pagans scoop still-steaming goat entrails onto their heads whilst screaming at the moon and rubbing themselves in poo… and we’re not them.”

I understand that it’s a Consumer Culture, which can sometimes be construed as an all-devouring beast hell-bent on World Domination. I understand that there’s a difference between wanting to be like America for the cool shit, like 35 Cent and his G Unit and the ways that he carjacks and fires an Uzi, and NOT wanting to be like America for the dumb shit, like… well… the same shit really.

The hypocrisy is not lost on me though, when I am told in one breath that Burger King is called Hungry Jacks and the signature food item of this entire continent, Vegemite, is owned by Kraft, an American company, then in another I am told that “We’re NOT American, so we don’t celebrate Hallowe’en” (though they don?t spell it properly when they say it).


I almost officially renounced my country after the recent announcement concerning the ?V? stuff. Seriously. What the fuck?

I don?t give 5 shits if customs comes to my house and GW himself mispronounces some words while arresting me, I stowed some of that wonderfully pasty brown stuff in a package to Mom just yesterday.

It?s awesome and one of the 3 Best Ways to start the day aside from coffee and sex. Almost in that order.


I listen to an extremely popular radio DJ poke a bit of fun of the ?holiday?, saying that it?s not exactly necessary to glom on so wholeheartedly to the American bullshit right fucking before he plays a song by The Fray (whom I frickin? LOVE, don?t get me wrong, and are even from Denver) that gained overnight popularity of insane proportions from a TV show.

An American TV Show. About doctors and drama and sex ?n shit.

The Morning Show DJs take this show, which had some serious dramatastic finale the night before, and TALK ABOUT IT ALL FKN MORNING. Then, when they play the song, it?s got lines from the show interspersed throughout it.

The Song. On the RADIO. HAD TV IN IT. The AMERICAN Song had AMERICAN TV in it.

But you?re too fucking hotshit for Hallowfuckingwe?en. Gotcha.

I’m not the warrior that Wife is, so I simply stated my argument against this line of thinking as “I AM American… and lollies… I mean, candy.” I?d like to thank my sis-in-law for that line, coz really. Loll… crap, Candy.

Free Candy.

Jeezus-H-Crickets-stuck-in-a-Roach Motel, is there anybody who doesn?t like dressing up and pretending to be something else?

And Free Fucking Candy?!?

My little girl had previously decided to be very naughty and blatantly ignore some very steadfast rules, so she missed out on the fun, but Buddy had a freakin? great time.

While sorting his booty in the kitchen, he quietly and earnestly told Wife that he really liked Trick or Treating, ?I was a bit shy though? he admits, ?but I got used to going to other people?s houses.?

Testament to the Wonder that is this child, his first instinct for the first 3 houses was to give THEM the candy. He honestly thought that the whole idea was to go door-to-door and give out candy, as that?s what we do when people knock on our door.

Heh, though we only had 4 visitors, they came in a group, and they weren?t wearing anything other than their school uniforms. The red-headed, heavily freckled one carrying the skateboard was wearing his backwards, Wild Man that he is, and he busted out some of the best Human Beat Box that I?d heard in a while. Seriously, my inner Talent Scout wanted to sign him to a contract.

The only redeeming thing that I heard from the radio talent was a story exactly like that, where he?d heard that in America they spend weeks planning and decorating houses and children, and when doors are banged upon a loud screeching ?TRICK OR TREAT? is the cheer.

By a decent contrast, he received a trio of yardapes much like us, who were wearing nothing other than street clothes, and who greeted him answering the door with a shuffling of feet and a grumbling, ?got any lollies??

8 of the 20 houses later and the end of our ?circle? completed, we?d netted a bag of Smith?s Chips, a 2 dollar coin, some chocolates that we got to pluck from a tray that was obviously an Anniversary Gift, a couple of Cherry Ripe?s from the boho backpackers that had just come back from Craving Shopping, and yes… some lollies.

We made some friends, we met some of our neighbors close up, and got nothing but rave reviews for the ?little Ninja man!? even from the old Asian lady whose dinner we apparently interrupted and who had no freakin? idea what we were on about until I repeated (for the 3rd time) ?Happy Hallowe?en!?

So embrace some ?Merican Shit or don?t. But, if there is any reason to loosen your sphincter up and ditch that goddam hypocrisy about my culture, I can?t think of a better one right now than dressing up in something cool, visiting all of my neighbors, and wangling some free candy.

What?s with ME today? What?s with today today?

Ed: Attempted to post last night, but techinical difficulties in the form of a bottle of Madfish Wine prevented me from doing so.

A not infrequent occurrence in our household is to have a waking-up-way-too-goddam-early child unlatch our bedroom door and poke his little head in with a ?HiGoodMorning!? before gently clambering across Wife?s swollen belly and eventually my chest and/or junk.

This morning I was simply too close to recapturing that ever-elusive Last Bit O? Sleep before the alarm went off and just wasn?t in the mood for a cuddly, yet sharply elbowed, child to land on me. Door opened and boy made his way quietly in while I growled at him with a ?wazzdazzhimmin…? saw him say something to Wife and then scitter out the door.

?SherzamfegDERR!? I started to shout at the quickly vanishing curly brown head when Wife rammed her butt back into my mid-section while ordering me to ?shut up!? with a harsh whisper. ?BudeezsherzamfegDERR!? I argued, to which she answered once again with ?shut! up!?

My dismay and growliness apparently meant nothing to Wife. I wondered how she could be so insensitive, letting Buddy run rampantly in and out of our bedroom and waking me up on my… own… special… day?

This question was answered by Buddy stumbling back into our bedroom, labouring under the strain of a large, newspaper-wrapped, toolbox-looking item, and announcing loudly and happily (despite my grumpiness), ?Happy Birthday Daddy!?

My feelings of jackassedness lasted only as long as it took Pie to come bouncing into our bedroom and for the both of them to start helping me unwrap my spoils.

Grogginess gave way to raw excitedness for the simple and pristine beauty that lies within a tool as versatile, usable, and fuckincool as the Dremel…
only Cordless.

Wife treated ME to coffee in bed and children treated me to lack of pointy elbows in my crotch whilst playing on our bed, and a good time was had by all. Kids ate cereal that Buddy proudly prepared himself and Wife and I played TickleButt in the shower in preparation for our appointment with the TV Lady.

I?ve done some cool shit in my life. I?ve been a part of an assload of very noteworthy things. Too many to list, all I can be somewhat proud of, but nothing, NOTHING, can top this:

I think I'm real people and can kick my way outta here.

I helped make this.

TV Lady showed us this too:

Jackie Chan-ning mum in the bladder didn't work, so I will Evil Glare you from within

If you look closely…

at just the right angle…

and squint your eyes just right…

you can see that it?s a baby.

Wife informed bro-in-law D?d that he was about to be treated to yet another niece with this:

You'll see by this graph, that next year's profits show a decided LACK of doodle

Yep, gonna have me a little girl.

?Course, we?re only figuring on this because Mother-in-law CrazyCatLady pyschicicked it, both children tipped it that direction (though Buddy ?weewwy weewwy wanted a widdle bruvver?), Wife and Batgirl Visioned it, and because the TV Lady said so. Actually, TV Lady?s boss took over the TV show just long enough to tell us that baby is awesomely rockin? though she showed barely the slightest interest in the sex of the child-to-be.

I was a bit perturbed, but still too face-splittingly grinning to say something like, ?Can ya run that thing over the little squirt?s crotch some more? I don?t reckon I saw either junk or bits.?

I DID suggest that we shouldn?t fret too much over what we may or may not be seeing, as I proudly announced that any potential son of mine would leave absolutely ZERO doubt that he was a-swingin?. Wife gave me that all-too-familiar smile that suggests she?s overwhelmingly in love with me while thinking I?m a Great Big DoofusHead Tardigan at the same time and this may actually make her more in love with me.

We made a brief stop at home for some food before going back to pick up the pics from TV Lady, and Wife paused long enough to call CrazyCatLady in order to preempt the gloating.

CCL was not at her best. Auntie L has finally succumbed to the Big C we were told.

Mere days after we were made aware that it was SERIOUS and she is gone. Just like that.

I liked her. She wasn?t family in the technicalities of blood, but neither am I, and the two of us were always treated as if we were and more.

I?ll miss her.

There were some hugs. Lots of them. In a quiet and somewhat cold kitchen on my birthday, there were quiet hugs for a wonderful woman.

We grabbed TV Lady?s pictures and then our other little ones from CCL?s. I can?t help it sometimes, and something about my nature means that I have to hug those that are grieving. I?m not sure why, maybe it?s my own need to feel comforted by comforting, maybe it?s because I?m compassionate and noble, maybe I?m secretly a pervert and enjoy rubbing myself on others.

CCL grips me tightly before pushing me away and a little too loudly proclaiming through a choked voice and wet eyes, ?I?m holding it together!?

?Yep. Sure you are,? I thought to myself as I brought the room to the tantamount of distraction (another part of my nature) with the announcement to the kids of their future siblings gender.

Their reactions could not have been more different.

I mentioned before that Buddy was very much wanting a little brother but somehow Knew that it was a girl, but I wasn?t prepared for how hard he was going to take the news. Pie couldn?t have been more elated and, no shit, I haven?t seen a reaction like that from the new Tea Set, Just Like Me Baby, Christmas Bike, and Pillbug the Puppy combined.

She ran around in circles shrieking in excitement, he gently cuddled into my shoulder and sulked for a bit. He saw some of the pictures and is now convinced that he?s just cemented his place in history as the Ruler of the Yard Apes in our household. He?s over it I reckon.

I look back on today, a significant day for me, and choose now to reflect.

Par-for-course around here, NOW is when my newest daughter chooses to start her Baby-Fu Fighting in Wife?s belly again.

I felt it. I just felt that. And I helped make her.

Surreal. Simply surreal.

Brief Shot at Where I Belong

I?d like to tell you a little bit about this country I live in.

I could go on and on with social diatribes and any random, yet no less poignant, observation that I may have made since my arrival here. I?m not going to do that.

Hell with it, I?ll simply drop you into and out of a day in my life. Today, for example.

The news this morning was heavily-laden with the terrorist doings. Naturally. Then the newsies say things like, ?Um, Aussies… it can happen to us too, so don?t go anywhere for a while.? No long, drawn-out messages about traveling safely, what to consider when planning a holiday, who to scrutinize when getting on buses in the middle of Beirut… nope.

?Don?t go where they blow shit up.?

That?s the message. The rest is just fluff.

I get into the classroom with my son after stumbling late, once again, out of our house a mere 2 and a half minutes away. We are greeted with no less than 5 kids that Boy describes as ?brown people.? Though they may all be (in relative order) Indonesian, Aboriginal, Indian, Liberian, and Malaysian, he really only comments on their differences in light of the fact that their skin is darker than ours, and how much he loves when some of them speak ?Chinese? (because when you?re 5, every foreign language is Chinese).

While we read a book about a duck that?s learning to surf, I notice that, of the 15 children leaping randomly and flea-like about the room, there are no less than 9 different nationalities represented. This is only an estimate, of course, because I?m guessing that the slightly olive-complected boy named ?Kalib Hashnihakanahhakansomething? has roots from somewhere near the Middle East.

You?ll never hear anyone there calling it a ?Melting Pot? though. It?s just the Pre-Primary School.

I fought traffic whilst flipping through stations that are playing the same song at the same time (probably the same one you flipped from this same morning). There is some meaningless banter between the flamboyantly gay host and a footy star, which I pause on because I?m hoping for far less tolerance from the jock and more lisping and wrist-limping from the poof.

No such luck, and then I doze at a light while 3 people in a row try to sell me radio airtime, energy bars, and car insurance (which they neglect to tell me I don?t really need as it?s included in my licensing fees).

At work I talk to a guy on the phone with such a thick Romanian accent I start giggling and dropping Ali G references with nary a hint of suspected ridicule. I have a meeting with a couple of Poms that want to sell flowers online here in WA, but aren?t sure how many other online florists they may be competing against, but assure me that it?s ?absolute rubbish? that they can?t register their company name because it?s too close to an existing company that also sells… *gasp* flowers.

I entertain my coworkers with the same trick I do for my wife. I take ordinary, average, run-of-the-mill SPAM emails that want me to have longer lasting erections and eat painkillers by the handful, and read it like it?s a personal letter from family or a close friend.

My journey homeward involves more fighting of traffic, and the obnoxious and highly entertaining afternoon hosts are giving shit to Hugh Jackman for being so incredibly humble:

?Seriously mate, Harrison Ford doesn?t get in an interview and say, ?So, it?s a pretty good show, hope you go out and see it, the archeological stuff isn?t TOO heavy and over your head, and there?s some pretty good action too, with a whip and a cool hat thrown in.??

He takes it all in stride and ad-libs some theoretical lines from X-Men 4: The Musical.

Laziness rules out over DinnerPreparingness, and we feed the kids ?Baked Beans? which I recognize as the item I grew up calling ?Pork and Beans.? As Wife points out that ?Fruit Cocktail? always has a multitude of cherries on the label and there are freakin? 3 in a liter can (and they?re HALVES), I share with her that ?Pork and Beans? is really ?Baked Beans and a Square-Inch Hunk of Pigfat Potentially Construed as ?Pork?.?

I eat a Tim Tam as pre-dinner, and it?s still one of the finer compilations that Chocolate and Cookie ever did together. I won?t even go into Hedgehogs and Caramel Slices. Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus.

We read The Jungle Book, stick the kids in bed, and settle in to The 2006 MTV Movie Awards. While I?ve forgotten the reason behind a channel originally devoted to music videos (called ?film clips? here) hosting an award show that had more to it than the BIG ones (the ones with the little golden alien dude with the sword on the trophy), I did enjoy all the hooplah. And the fact that an Aussie won one award and a dude got another for kissing an Aussie dude. And they were COWBOYS. That?s realistically one of the only things that keeps the ?ew? factor as low as it is for me.

The highlight of my night arrives. Well, the other highlight that isn?t hanging out with my incredibly awesomely cool wife, bullshitting for hours about nothing and everything.

No, the highlight is a Toohey?s New beer commercial. If you?re here in Oz, you may have seen it.

A city, any city. It?s downtown inhabitants are using gigantic trebuchets to launch Volkswagen-sized bags of Malt, Barley, and Hops into a nearby cloudbank. They happily fling them from throughout the metropolis as folks in their offices watch them disappear into the vapour.

They all slow to a bit of a halt, and on a taller buildings rooftop an elevator dings, and those that were previously loading another ton?s worth of beer-brewins turn to stare excitedly at… a deer.

It took me a few times of watching this ad to realize that this is the same deer from the label on the bottle I was imbibing, but that changed NONE of the comedic impact of those beer-craving idiots leading that wide-eyed, innocent, impressive-looking creature onto the trebuchet and WHOOSH… off he flies stoically into the clouds.

Then, it starts to rain beer and every single living soul in that city is engulfed in pure rapture. That part gets me a bit teary… give me a minute… *sniff*

I love this country.

Hell, I left out the part from the longer version of that ad where they load a couple of Lauderdale-esque chicks onto the thingy and shoot ?em into the clouds too, giggling and hooting all the way.

It?s late now, and even though it?s Friday Night, I know that yet another beer and additional hours of non-sleep will only hurt me when it?s pre-dawn and two little yard-monkeys are clamoring for pancakes, because I may not actually be a grown-up, but I play one in the kitchen.

Good night folks. Love where you are and the ones you?re with.

Farts are Funny. I Don’t Care WHAT You Say.

Wife has accused me of letting them ?just fall out? wherever and whenever. My mother-in-law, CrazyCatLady, has quoted the Old Irish, ?Where ?ere you be, let yuir wind go free.

I love Ye Olde Irish shite, and I also love being unrestricted with my bodily functions. It?s a freedom unlike any other, and I relish teaching it to my children.

It?s not just around the house, as any man should feel free to puff his PJs in his own castle, it?s anywhere really (with the possible exception of the shower as somehow they get freakishly intensified in hot water).

I have many too. So many, of so many different varieties, that I must sample each and every one just for reference. It?s only a cupcake if you do it to someone else, if you grab a little handful and bring it cautiously up to your face, you can get a reasonable sample without causing any olfactory damage.

Then, if it?s quality, you can grab more handfuls and offer them up to your wife?s nose for her appreciation. She?s a real fan of this technique but only if I present them with descriptions such as ?Oooo, fruity,? ?Hey Fun!? ?This one is Spicy!?

If they?re foul, I mean really foul, you can grab them by the same handfuls and them throw away from you over your shoulder, out the car window, or even shove them under the couch to protect the innocent.

I?ve got the grab-and-throw down to a science, but one of the main problems with being so familiar with my own stench is that I fail to notice when one of these not-far-from-being-sentient-beings escapes from my ass with it?s sights set on nothing short of Global Domination.

I keep waiting for it to *gasp* offend or embarrass Wife, but the woman is simply unflappable. Seriously, my farts can?t flap her.

Case in point, we?re in the middle of the Hair Product aisle and I?d only just gotten finished giggling at the our daughter?s loud announcement of her gaseous emission…

Seriously, I hear a smallish b-r-r-r-p, and my little girl proudly gleams at me and says, ?I fahted… DADDY, I fahted.? Sensing that Wife was once again completely lacking in embarrassment, I smiled and calmly asked Pie-Pie, ?Great, did you sample it?? and began making hand motions to my face.

She grins and shakes her head while Wife smiles broadly and shakes hers as well.

… so Wife is looking at hair colouring again, I?m a bit bored and befuddled and I?m standing behind her making faces that a guy makes in that situation and one of them falls out.

One of the evil ones.

I stand there for a second, thinking about the possible wrongness that just left my butt, and decide to get rid of all the evidence right there with a few simple pats. Patting proved effective for the fleeing escapee, but unfortunately it also meant that this foul creature could all the more easily infiltrate my nostrils.

When you?ve perpetrated this kind of infraction on humanity, it?s hard not to recoil in raw terror and bellow at all potential victims nearby to ?Run! For the love of all that?s holy, RUN!?

I held it together though, simply made a face for a second, and held my breath for a bit, hoping it would clear. It didn?t.

It got worse.

I?m not sure how, but it gathered enforcements and attacked in full force, punishing all things sensory belonging to it?s creator in a clear display of impudent stinkyness.

I walked over to where Wife was now staring at the many varieties of toothpaste, her desire to redefine her lock colouring evidently postponed for the need to redefine our enamelly colouring. I grabbed a box off the shelf at absolute random, threw it hastily at the cart, and whispered through clenched teeth, ?We gotta go, Now.?

She made a slightly inquisitive noise, huffed through her nose, and followed quickly after me with an ?ohhhhh, honey.? I thought I might?ve finally gotten to her, but when she got to the cart and began examining the ?Extra Strength Citrus Cinnamon and Licorice Especially for Dentures? toothpaste that I?d thrown in, she was giggling madly. Still making a face and giving me a look of mild disdain, but giggling.

We?d made it a few aisles over when she told me that there was a woman who saw the whole thing and was howling with laughter. I feigned innocence and claimed that there couldn?t have been anyone that saw anything because there wasn?t really anything to see (although it was tangible enough that I wouldn?t have been surprised).

To prove her point, Wife chucklingly pointed out a young couple with their heads quietly together at the end of the offending aisle and began to really guffaw. I did my best not to grin sheepishly as I noticed the man?s crinkled nose and his wife gesturing in my direction.

He?d apparently just cruised the site of the famous ?Olfactory Murders? and was obviously Victim Number 3. My heart, as well as my nose, went out to him.

His wife, just like mine, was hooting with laughter.

Been a while. Yeah.

So, it?s been a while. Lots has happened. Overall though, things have been fairly quiet.

My laptop died, for starters (or at least the charger did) so I haven?t been writing because of that, and not because I?ve been too lazy or worthless AT ALL.

So we decided to quit smoking because we were thinking about trying to get preggers. Then, we decided to stop the Ol? Pill to see how long it would take to actual create a little human baby. This wasn?t that long ago and we figured that it wouldn?t be straightaway as the averages are quite a while.

I mean, we hadn?t even been married a year, hadn?t really planned for when we?d have us a little one, plus we had Wilbur and his lovely’s wedding coming up in September. We figured that since it takes most folks so long to get knocked up we?d have a little buffer zone for time.

We figured a little wrong.

Yep, slap shot right into the net on our first try.


He promises to be a big one, don?t ask me how I know this nor how I know it?s a ?he.?

I feel it in my waters (I?ve only recently heard that one and I like it).

I sat on one of the kids? little stools in the bathroom and watched the steam rise slowly from the water surrounding Wife’s lithe form. The candlelight from either side of her feet cast a warm glow across her body that was soon eclipsed by the smile that spread across her face as she said, ?I think he?s moving honey, just a tiny little bit.?

Though this early in the game that kind of movement is most likely something that only the mother can feel, she guided my fingers to the lemon-sized bulge in her middle and I swear I felt something. I can?t say if it was a kick or a headbutt or a massive far… um, abdominal wind, but I felt something and it was AWESOME.

Heh, we?re making a baby.

Work had a bit of a hiccup lately when I found no other way to tell my boss that I was done taking his shit than to walk straight out the door.

It wasn?t fun, and in fact was incredibly stressful and it wasn?t long before I rocked back and forth in Wife?s comforting arms freaking out about how to pay the bills and feed our kids. She soothed me, we hung out with wonderful sis-in-law and her fam for a few days to chill out, and I did my best to destressify while doing some minor negotiations with my former employer.

We negotiated, I threatened, he threatened, I softened, he caved. So I?m back at work under some improved conditions under a sort of, probationary period. Things have improved, so that?s a good thing, especially since it turns out we like stuff.

You know? Stuff? Like paying bills and buying brands other than Black & Gold. We even got some baby stuff too, like a stroller (?pram? as I?ve learned to refer to it) and a portacot (which looks like a little jail and I?ll probably end up calling a ?brig? before too long). Then we got Jo some stuff that isn?t ?maternity? yet will hopefully stretch and grow with her ever expanding tummy.

I even got some Bonds shirts that are just like Hanes or thermals along the lines of underwear-that-aren?t-under-and-are-now-apparently-trendy-though-I?ve-been-wearing-them-since-childhood. Much like my Chuck Taylor Converse, Camouflage cargo pants, or ripped up blue jeans, stuff can get spendy when everyone suddenly wants to wear it. Bonds is still cheap, and I dig it.

See? We like stuff.

Oh, and we purchased basically every cool thing that we saw that was ?our kids? related. West Coast Eagles footy apparel and little Chuck?s with skulls on ?em, plus plastic gadgets and sparkly stuff, we went out and consumed like the good consumers we are. I bid a fond goodbye to the bonus that I got for a couple of extremely lucrative projects I brought to the company and we are now basking in the glow of Retail Therapy.

I?m still kind of in the midst of figuring out what to do with the rest of my working life. I really only know that I want it to be as short as possible (the ?working? part, not the ?life? part) and to be fun while I do it. Not terribly original, I admit, but nonetheless absolutely true.

This job isn?t terribly fun at the moment, though I?m doing my best to change that, so we?re spending a considerable amount of our laying-in-bed-in-the-morning time daydreaming about where a new path may lead. We?ll come up with something soon, I?m almost positive, but have nothing but fairytales and rainbow-flavoured puppy dogs right now.

Speaking of dogs. We got us a little fat pillbug. I didn?t want a damn dog just yet. I was told we were going to adopt an old greyhound whenever we finally scored our own house and not to expect anything until then. Oh no, the brother-in-law?s girlfriend?s dog has a litter.

And they?re cute.

And there?s a runt.

And she?s adorable.

And no one wants her.

?No puppies. Puppies shit and chew and dig and are 3rd on the list of Biggest Pains in the Ass in the Universe. No.?

?Just meet her. Just spend a little time with her and go with your gut instinct.?

You can guess the rest.

She really ain't all that sweet, but I've only tasted the tail bit

So once again, life is good, though it always is. I suppose I just like to report that as much as I can.


How come nobody told me that all my images were all fucked up?

Yeah, I understand that I’m the web guy and all and I should know this shit, but I can’t be trusted to unwedge my head from my ass ALL the damn time.

FFS people. Sheesh.

Ed: Sorry for the above tirade, I actually should have noticed that my shit was broken and known how to fix it straightaway.

Know why?

Because I ignored the 36 fucking emails that dear sweet Andyroo sent me reminding me that my membership was expiring. I just didn’t take him seriously enough when he warned me that I had 9.6 days remaining to have images and stats and comments and shit.


I’ll have the domain name ship righted tomorrow beeches…

JUDDHOLE.COM will soon be something more than just capitalized in this sentence, you mark my words!

Don’t Forget Those Curls

My niece forgets things.

I have the most beautiful and wonderful little 8-year old niece on the planet…

Sionara Sweet Curls!

…but she is somewhat forgetful.

She writes me notes with things like, “Judders cho titi poop dose zebra bot-bot twitches. This guy is plering at you”, complete with a drawing of a happy face with his tongue out (“pler”). She forgets that it’s spelled d-o-e-s but knows it isn’t as funny that way. She forgets not to trust her mum and auntie so much when writing Uncle Judd notes and that he may not enjoy being called “Judders” as much as they are promising (nearly as much as he enjoys zebra bot-bot twitches apparently, fkn crazy chicks).

Over-exuberance and excitement aside, when she launches herself at me from a dead run, she forgets that she’s not a scrawny waif-like little woodland fairy anymore. She’s big enough to knock me off balance and into oncoming traffic… but maybe that’s her plan.

Happiness and cuddleations aside, when she decides that she needs to be in my lap, she forgets that I have stuff… in my pants. BOY stuff. And knobby knees and elbows aren’t nice to it. Maybe she forgets because she doesn’t have the same stuff, I don’t know.

Competitive nature and partyonnedness aside, when she embarks with us on an evening of fun, she forgets that her little body will shut down when it wants to, slipping her zombie-like into a sleep state almost against her will. This is regardless of whether or not it’s her turn at the board game or if someone happens to be drawing bloodstained scars on her face in neon marker (I tried to get Wife and Sis-in-law to stop, but I was helpless against the gut-wrenching laughter that had seized my body).

Miss Eight is a touch forgetful.

She said something about a year ago, a simple something that wasn’t necessarily repeated or reaffirmed over the year.

But she didn’t forget it.

Around the time that I was first in this foreign land and newly staring into the eyes of the woman I was going to marry, my then-soon-to-be niece was asking her mother if she could whack from her scalp her curliciously curly red locks in the name of The Battle Against Leukemia.* It was too late, or she was just being a freak, or something like that, but her mother told her it would have to happen the following year.

*I’m all about capitalizing anything that’s “A Battle of Something,” it’s proven that this makes it 20% cooler.

The year passed, with little mention of that gorgeous head of hair going the way of the winter wheat, yet when it rolled around this time she reminded her mother that she was still all about it.

She’s doing it to raise money, though fame seems to be tagging along.

She’s doing it because she’s got a bit of the crusader in her (much like her mother and auntie).

She’s doing it because her heart is too damn big for her little body.

She’s doing it because her little soul is so unbelievably beautiful that she needs a bald head to try and balance things out a bit.

She’s been warned that she’ll probably cry. I’ve looked her in the eye and told her that she might have a WickedCoolSineadHead or a Knobby McLumpington. She knows she’s going to look a bit funny. And she doesn’t care.

I’ve told her that she may have to start smoking so that she can pull off a more convincing Bruce Willis since she’s got no stubble. I’ve told her the blatantly obvious… it grows back.

I’ve told her that I’m so immensely proud of her I don’t have words.

I’m well aware that there are about 80 juddillion worthwhile causes out there and I would never attempt to sway anybody one way or another about what to do with their hard-earned money (other than Dude… stop with the fucking pre-worn jeans and PINK shirts for fuck’s sake, some of us live in the ass-end of the world and can only get shit that you fucksticks think is cool and it so fucking ain’t and I just want some regular shit to wear comfortably without looking like I openly question my sexuality or belong on a pre-teen soap opera… *pant pant* ‘kay done).

That said, the cynical asshole inside of me recognizes that there’s still hope for this one. There’s an actual, viable chance that she’ll extend her li’l soul out into the World… and it’ll pay her back in kind.

There’s the remotest of possibilities that this kid, one of my absolute favoritest of all time, will live her life knowing that people are genuinely good in their hearts, and when someone with a gimongous one opens it up for any manner of others, they get rewarded with all different kinds of love.

So go give her some love. I don’t care if it’s your moolah, though that’s preferred naturally as foot loofahs can’t come through the Intraweb, or if it’s just kind words, but throw a little of it out there, it’s good for the environment.

I’ve got some Triple-sized Judd-hugs for ya too, if yer game.

I said Game! GAME! JEE-AYY-EMM-EEE!!!!


Edited: Apparently I got a link wrong. Wife is the one that clicketyclicked our donation so that’s my excuse, and not that I’m a total fucktard who doesn’t know how to properly send folks to the donation site. Apologies and smooches.

I haven’t been slack, YOU’RE the one who’s slack.

About the same time that I started to feel all unloved and non-missed and wondering if anybody in the whole of the planet misses the Ol’ JuddHole I realized that I’d simply spilled my beer on my crotch. Once the feeling of bitter coldness worked its way out of my nether regions, I checked my email and was beseiged by the clamouring hordes to update.

So, here’s to all 7 of you. You Rock like Toohey’s New Ale on my balls.

Working now, every weekday, and it’s a bit fuckin’ crazy. I’ve now realized that being Management has nothing to do with simply getting more money for being smart and shit while still not caring. It means that the underlings can do their stupidlish things, and I get to stress about it while they pick their asses and say such profound things as “I don’t know, it should’ve worked… *wipes nose*”

Sigh. I miss the days when I picked my ass and shot Nerf Darts at my boss.

I’m all about being a father and a husband and a boss and an Aussie and all that.

And Life is So Damn Good I wanna burst.

Here’s a bit of what I been up to lately.

Two Peoples Bay, not Beast With Two Backs Bay like we did later

Went to visit that most wonderfullest of Teh Awesomestinest Sis-in-law and for Wife’s birthday I got her this beach.

I know, I know, I really shouldn’t have, but I’m all thoughty like that ‘n shit.

I be a clamdigger n shit

This is just to prove that I was there and didn’t just rip a brochure picture up and hand it to my bride for her birthday… like that shot of my junk I gave her for Valentine’s Day.

Bro-in-laws parties make me what mah shurt says. Wife hurled too, but I was fuckered up and passed out and couldnt make fun of her

Now that I’m working, we enjoy our weekends to the fullest.

They celebrate St Pattys too, but no kilts and not near enough drinking of anything green

And by “enjoy” I mean “drink Tequila til I throw up and Wife points out to me that my lip is pukeglued to the toilet seat.”

The Story of The Number Nine even started in Albany

This is a randomoddobscure reference to my other diary. The one I update. With pictures of my kids that I refuse to post here because I KNOW some of you sick fucks are waiting outside my son’s school and watching me teach him the finer aspects of the Farmer Blow and waiting to kidnap me and make me slap my buttcheeks together to the sweetsmoove rhythms of Kevin Federline (that’s for Disco, whom I’m too lazy to link yet love no less). edited: Bitch has some ballticklingly funny rappin shit, blows jizz on his face to teach Rubbers to Retards, and visits this CrapHole. He’s that fuckin’ awesome.

It may be a while before I’m in here again, and even longer until I’m bitingly sarcastic and even remotely close to anything resembling funny. I’d love to apologize for that, but that just ain’t my style. So piss off.

Love and Smooches.

Happy Half Australia Nekkid Thursday Day

As it means that I get to not only take nudey pictures of Wife, but also post them (on hers too), when she requested that we take part in Half Nekkid Thursday, I agreed in the same amount of time that it takes my synapses to send ExcitedyBoner signals from Big Brain to Little Brain.

It’s Australia Day here (in Australia… um… yeah, in case yer stupid) and I’m looking forward to it kickin’ the shitwaddins out of The 4th of July.

Shaddap, I’m an Aussie now, I get to say shit like that… and mean it.

Australia Day also means that our HNT was inspired by a swell of patriotism.

At least that’s what we called it this morning… heh.

Sweet Baby Jeebus She's Feckin' SMOKIN!

I can truthfully say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am the…