Miracles in my kitchen...

I think I need to call the Vatican, because I'm pretty sure I just witnessed a miracle in my kitchen.

Of course I can't be sure, I'm no expert in these things.  A couple of years of Catholic pre-school and the odd Easter service hardly qualifies me for this sort of decision.  But considering the unlikeliness of this happening, I'm going to go with divine intervention.

Yep, not just one but TWO double yolkers! 

It's an abundance of riches!  I'm actually embarrassed by the generosity of the chicken that laid them.  It almost seems a shame to eat them.

But maybe I should hold off before having it declared a miracle.  If I'm not careful, I could end up a Saint or something! I don't have any objections to it per se, but I'm not sure if I'd be a good choice for it.  I really don't have the cheek bones to carry off a stained glass portrait.

And I have to be honest, I think I'd get sick of the pilgrims after a while.  I'm sure I'd try to be hospitable, but there's only so many glasses of savings brand cola you can offer before you start to get a little testy about having your kitchen overrun by religious travellers.  What with all the genuflecting and the asking for blessings and the stealing kitchen implements to take home as religious souvenirs. 

As for the responsibility involved, I don't think I'm up to it.  Aren't Saints supposed to be models of moral decorum and religious peace?  Aren't they supposed to smile calmly and give vague, non-committal answers to questions?  I'm pretty sure I'd have a hard time keeping a straight face, and I don't think the Vatican wants a Saint that is continually saying "Oh, I'm a Pagan.  I don't believe in all that Bible stuff.  It's an interesting read, but it totally sucks as a primary historical source".

Perhaps it's best if we just keep this between us, hmm?  But I promise, if I find myself walking on water or raising the dead or anything like that, I'll make sure to let you all know. 

Flexing my literary muscles...

I'm not sure if I've ever told you all why I started this blog.  No?  Well, I think like most of us, I'm using it as a writing exercise.  Flexing my literary muscles, so to speak. 

It's been a while since I've written anything longer than a short story or article (I gave up on the longer projects while was was finishing my Uni degree), so when I realised just how much I missed it, I decided it was time to get my ass in gear and get cracking.  I've always got a few story ideas floating around in my head, and I decided that maybe it was time to haul a few of them out, dust them off, and start in again.

Of course, that's easier said than done.  I could have dozens, even hundreds of ideas, but without the discipline and sheer bull headedness to keep plugging away at them, I'd never get anywhere.  And, to be completely honest, my determination was decidedly out of shape.

And that's where the blog came in.

I suppose I'm looking at this as a literary exercise regimen.  I'm hoping that by building my stamina back up telling you all silly stories, I'll be better prepared to tackle those projects I've had on the back burner.

I'm not going to go into details on any of them ... you're all too busy doing your own to want to read about mine ... but I just felt the need to put it out to the universe.  I guess I'm hoping that by saying it out loud (figuratively speaking), I'll be shamed into pushing through when I want to give up.

One thing I am looking forward to is a colaborative project I'm going to start with a friend.  We've decided we need something fun, something without pressure, to get our writing juices flowing.  And because I can thing of nothing more fun than erotica, we're going to write us some smut!

I'm sure it'll be just awful, full of the usual stereotypes and far too many uses of the expressions "Ghosting hands" and "Spit slick fingers", but I don't care.

I'm going to write me some ooh er, I say Vicar, naughty, rumpty pumpty shenanigans. 

Wish me luck!

My descent into arachnicide...

Guilt.  Today I'm feeling crushing, overwhelming guilt.  I'm a murderer ... and not one of those redeemable murderers who, sure, did something awful, but you can totally understand how it happened and they're only human so lets cut them some slack!  Oh no, I'm the murderer who killed someone who trusted them, someone who had lived with them for months.

Today I killed the huntsman spider that took up residence in my bathroom when the cold weather started to set in.

At first he was small, barely bigger across than a twenty cent piece.  He wasn't hurting anyone and seemed inclined to stay out of my way, so I named him Alan and let him stay.  But as time has passed he's grown.  I was willing to overlook his squatting tendencies as long as he was small and didn't look like he wanted to jump on my face or run up my leg.  But with him getting bigger, I knew it was time to do something.

So, with guilt settling in the pit of my stomach, I grabbed the Mortien tin and a roll of paper towel, and went to murder Alan.

He must have been so confused!  I'd never shown any signs of aggression towards him before.  He just hung out in the corner while I took a shower, explored the light bulb while I brushed my teeth, perched on top of the shower rail while I ... well, we don't need to go into all the finer details of what I do in the bathroom, do we?

Probably as far as he was concerned, we were happily cohabitating.  The feline flatmate wasn't giving him grief, I wasn't forcing him back into the cold, wintery outdoors, I'm sure he thought life was good!  That we were tight!

Then I come in with a tin of bug spray and a bad attitude, and the next thing he knows his life is being cut short by a psychotic woman who just seemed to snap out of the blue.

I'm sorry, Alan.  I didn't want to kill you, but I just couldn't take it any more.  The fear of you running up my leg while I was in the shower was just too great.

Sparkly vampire heartbreak...

For those of you who have spent the past week living with your fingers in your ears, not reading any newspapers, watching any TV or surfing any current affairs sites, then you might not be aware of the fact that we've had another one of those celebrity break ups that make me feel like an old woman.

This time, it's Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart.

Yep, that's right, Edward and Bella are splitsville.  Apparently she cheated on him with her Snow White And The Huntsman director, Rupert Sanders.  Seriously?  That guy's like twice her age!  Maybe it's a Daddy kink thing?  I don't know, I've always been pretty strict in my age limits when it comes to dating.  My philosophy is if he's old enough to realistically be my father, then no deal.

Sorry Liam Neeson, I guess we were never meant to be ... and you've got such a cute accent too...

Apparently Kristen got caught in the act by the paparazzi and then poor Rob found out when the photos were published.  Sheesh, poor guy.  That's one sucky way to find out you're being cheated on.  And the, rather than apologise to him personally, she apologised in a statement to the press.  Umm ... maybe it's a famous person thing?  Maybe that's how celebrity couples communicate?

"My client would like to announce that she's going to be late home this evening as she is picking up a bottle of milk.  She hopes that her husband remembers to feed the dog."

But to be fair, she's only twenty two.  Hell, if I was held accountable for all the stupid shit I did when I was in my early twenties, let alone had it plastered all over the media, I'd probably have to go live in a cave somewhere to hide from the shame of it all.  No doubt it was a dick move on her part, but it does seem rather harsh that as punishment she's now going to have every teenage girl in the free world sending her death threads written on Hello Kitty stationary.

As heart breaking as this seems to be for a lot of the fans ... some of the reaction videos are frankly terrifying ... I personally see this as a good thing.  I can't wait for the release of the final Breaking Dawn film.  The press interviews are going to be exquisitely awkward for everyone involved!  It's going to be awesome!

Fifty Shades: a musical tribute...

Like everyone else in the English speaking world, I've heard a lot about "Fifty Shades of Grey".  I can't give an opinion on it as I haven't had the chance to read it yet.  I'm saving it for my next holidays, a time when it's considered totally acceptable to read badly written smut of the non-fanfiction variety.  Although, given its origins, some would argue that Fifty Shades pretty much IS fanfic.

But even though I haven't read it, I could still appreciate this little musical tribute to the biggest thing to happen to cult literature since the Twilight series.  There's something in it for everyone!

No, don't thank me.  I'm happy to serve by seeking out these delightful time wasters.  I troll Youtube so you don't have to, kids!

The Vegemite Experiment: findings from Sporkgasm...

Okay kids, we've finally reached the end of our little experiement!  After receiving mixed results from NellieVaughn, and an unequivocal no from Just Keepin' It Real, Folks!, the utterly adorable Sporkgasm has provided us with her findings.

Sporkgasm chose to record her findings via video, so that means we're lucky enough to get to watch as she experiences her first ever taste of the Black Peril!  Poor thing, she looked quite daunted as she spread the Vegemite on her carefully prepared piece of toast, but like the trooper that she is she forged ahead and took a generous bite.

 Her conclusion?  It tasted like salt.  With extra salt.  And not in a good way. 

Yeah, that's probably true enough.  I'm fairly sure that about 75% of all heart disease in Australia is caused by Vegemite, it's that heavy on the sodium.  I think it's one of those "if it doesn't kill you it'll make you stronger" things.

Sporkgasm plans to use the rest of her tube to make a dessert she saw on one of those cooking reality shows, so I wish her the best of luck!  I'm not sure how Vegemite fits into a sweet dish, but I'll be waiting eagerly to see if they're more palatable to American taste buds.

I think what I've gotten from this whole process is that I'm glad I was born and raised in Australia.  The thought of not liking Vegemite!  Of not having it for breakfast every day!  Horrifying!

There's no vintage Vegemite commercial today, I'm afraid!  Instead, I have a response that was crafted by Youtube's Communitychannel to an American vlogger who had besmirched Australia's good name due to our love of Vegemite, boomerangs and, strangely enough, apparent lack of a national anthem.  I think Communitychannel's reply said everything that all us Australians would have if given the chance.  Not to mention, she's freaking hilarious!

So it looks like a consensus has been reached.  I'm going to have to say, based on the results of our three intrepid guinea pigs, that it is highly unlikely someone not raised eating Vegemite will enjoy it if they're given some to try. I think most of us were expecting those results, but it's nice to have the data to back it up.  Makes it all legit.

I'd like to take the opportunity to thank our three brave scientists!  Your sacrifices for our amusement were greatly appreciated!

Did we learn nothing from Isaac Asimov...

I think we all had a toy in our childhood that we wanted desperately, but never got.  For me it was a toy robot called Maxx Steele which, if the commercials were to be believed, could bring you drinks, clean up your room, and talk to you.  Of course now I realise that it was just a glorified remote control car with a few key phrases saved on a tape deck, but what can I say!  It was the 80's, and I was only 8 years old!

I remember asking my mother if I could have it, and then I remember the laughter and the incredulous looks.  Apparently she didn't think that $350 was a good deal for a child's toy.  I suppose in hind sight I can see where she was coming from.  With the rate of inflation, that was about $800 back then!

So I gave up my dreams of owning a robot that would put my toys away for me, and over time completely forgot about Maxx Steele.  That is, at least, until I was reading the news this morning.

Apparently someone in Japan was also denied the pleasure of owning a robot when they were little, because now they've gone and built one.  And holy shit, but that's a terrifying looking machine!

It weighs 4 tonne, cost more than 1.3 million dollars, and ... this is the most terrifying part ... has a freaking gatling gun attached that will shoot six thousand bullets a minute if the controller smiles.  Seriously, if he smiles!  Tell him a joke, and he could cause that behemoth to spray bullets everywhere.  For gods sake, don't even think of a Knock Knock!

I'm not even sure WHY they'd want to tie the robot's actions to the controller's facial expressions.  What else?  It goes forward if he frowns?  Does the robot dance if he makes a surprised face?  Maybe they should make it so it does things only for the really weird facial expressions.  It shoots only if the controller makes a fish face, perhaps?  It's sure as hell got to be a better idea than the whole giggles equals gun activation thing they've got going on.

So parents, next time your little darling asks for some ridiculously expensive gadget, heed my warning!  THIS is what happens when you stop a bunch of kids from owning futuristic robots when they're little!  They grow up and build them themselves.