Isn't it just bloody typical? I fly all the way to London stuck inside my male staff's suitcase with a pair of undies in one ear, a sock in the other and a toothbrush up my bottom passage, and what do I find? Wills and Kate are on honeymoon, doing whatever weird stuff humans do on honeymoon and weren't able to meet me at Heathrow airport. The disappointment was devastating. My staff had to console me with an extra large piece of lettuce and the promise of more when we got to my staff's Mum and Dad's house.
What's England like? Well, it's almost as peculiar as Singapore. For a start it's both hot and cold at the same time. This time of year if you stand in the open you get simultaneously blasted by a cold wind that feels like it's come straight off the North Pole and burnt by a surprisingly hot sun. It's like standing between an air-conditioner on full blast and a single bar electric heater. Anyway, it's a relief to be out of Singapore's humidity, but it's going to be quite some time before my fur returns to normal.
Well, pretty much the first thing I learned about England is that their politicians are as dopey as their Australian counterparts. One of the first things that David Cameron's Conservative/Liberal Democratic government did when they were elected was to cut police numbers. The second thing they did was to enact a whole lot of new motoring laws which makes offenders liable for on the spot fines for offences like tail-gating and driving a better car than the chief inspector. Of course the problem with these new laws is that there are now no police to enforce them, so they might just have well have made it an offence to urinate in your own kitchen sink, or to wipe bogies on the underside of your dining table. They're a good idea in principle but pretty pointless if there's no one around to enforce them. Parliament's time would have been better spent getting people back to work so that there is more tax revenue to pay for such boring things as policemen. But then what do I know? I'm just a guinea pig, a guinea pig with royal connections maybe, but still just a guinea pig.
This afternoon my staff took me with him to see his poorly Mum in horsepiddle. As soon as went through the door we were confronted by a female thing dressed in a white circus tent, with a face like Mike Tyson - only not as pretty. She yelled "You can't bring that filthy animal in here!" I replied that my staff is quite clean and that he in fact had a shower only a week ago before he left Australia. However, I then noticed that she was pointing at me. I was outraged naturally - speechless in fact. My staff just shrugged and said he'd leave me in the car. Once we were back outside the horsepiddle, my staff said not to worry and that he's smuggle me in. At that point he shoved me down the front of his trousers.
"Try not to bite anything." He told me. "And don't wriggle around, you'll arouse suspicion." Believe me, suspicion was the last thing I was worried about arousing. So we sat there chatting to my staff's Mum. My staff unzipped his fly so that I could breath and eat some of his Mum's grapes. I'm just glad that the savage nurse who first met us didn't see what was poking out of his fly, let alone the fact that he was feeding it grapes.
After a while my staff's Mum said that she was thirsty so he volunteered to go to the nurses station to ask for a jug of water. He zipped up his fly, leaving me with a small gap to peep through. He then approached the nurses station where several Mike Tyson lookalikes were seated.
"Excuse me," he asked one of them politely. "Would you mind getting my Mother a jug of water, she's a bit thirsty?" Well, all the Mike Tyson lookalikes looked up at once and fixed my staff with a look of disgust and contempt as if he'd just said "Excuse me ladies would you mind showing me your knockers?" Nevertheless half an hour later a jug of water appeared at my staff's Mum's bedside. The whole afternoon was jolly good fun and I hope I can go to the horsepiddle again tomorrow.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
A Human Teenager
My male staff has been to Singapore a million times, so you'd think he could have warned me about it. The moment he let me out of his suitcase the humidity was like being constantly slapped in the face with a hot, wet towel. My fur immediately went limp and flopped in a greasy, lank curtain over my face so that I looked like a human teenager - not at all attractive.
The whole place has a strange smell too. It's a potent combination of decaying vegetation, diesel fumes, clove cigarettes and over-boiled rice. Singapore is about as crowded as Pamela Anderson's bra too, and nobody looks where they're going. They're all far too busy talking on their cell phones or madly texting. I'm amazed that they're not constantly crashing in to each other, and yet they don't. It's almost as if some invisible magnetic field is keeping them apart. Just as one texter is about to collide head on with another, something repels them like opposing poles and they spring to one side at the very last moment and continue texting safely. It's truly astonishing.
We're staying at an ultra-modern hotel in Little India. I guess windows must be old fashioned in Singapore because our tiny room doesn't have one. The room's so small that I'm not really sure what to do with all my bush chocolate as there isn't an unused corner of the room in which to deposit it. Consequently my staff keeps treading in it and it then sticks to his bare feet to be transferred neatly into his bed. Never mind, it'll be a nice surprise for the maid when she comes to change his sheets in the morning after we've checked out.
Little India's interesting. it's full of swarthy little men who sidle up to my staff and say "Pssst." It's a passable impression of a leaky blow-up doll - not that I have personal experience of blow-up dolls, leaky or otherwise you understand. Anyway my staff just ignores them and eventually they either give up or deflate altogether.
So, all in all I'm not at all surprised that many Singaporeans are a little odd. (See http://pemery.blogspot.com/2011/03/killer-ibis.html and http://pemery.blogspot.com/2011/04/best-friend.html ) All that humidity must seep into their ears and short circuit something in their brains. So anyway, tomorrow morning it's back into the suitcase for me for a flight to London to see Wills, Kate and my male staff's poorly Mum. I hope she's not allergic to guinea pig fur.
The whole place has a strange smell too. It's a potent combination of decaying vegetation, diesel fumes, clove cigarettes and over-boiled rice. Singapore is about as crowded as Pamela Anderson's bra too, and nobody looks where they're going. They're all far too busy talking on their cell phones or madly texting. I'm amazed that they're not constantly crashing in to each other, and yet they don't. It's almost as if some invisible magnetic field is keeping them apart. Just as one texter is about to collide head on with another, something repels them like opposing poles and they spring to one side at the very last moment and continue texting safely. It's truly astonishing.
We're staying at an ultra-modern hotel in Little India. I guess windows must be old fashioned in Singapore because our tiny room doesn't have one. The room's so small that I'm not really sure what to do with all my bush chocolate as there isn't an unused corner of the room in which to deposit it. Consequently my staff keeps treading in it and it then sticks to his bare feet to be transferred neatly into his bed. Never mind, it'll be a nice surprise for the maid when she comes to change his sheets in the morning after we've checked out.
Little India's interesting. it's full of swarthy little men who sidle up to my staff and say "Pssst." It's a passable impression of a leaky blow-up doll - not that I have personal experience of blow-up dolls, leaky or otherwise you understand. Anyway my staff just ignores them and eventually they either give up or deflate altogether.
So, all in all I'm not at all surprised that many Singaporeans are a little odd. (See http://pemery.blogspot.com/2011/03/killer-ibis.html and http://pemery.blogspot.com/2011/04/best-friend.html ) All that humidity must seep into their ears and short circuit something in their brains. So anyway, tomorrow morning it's back into the suitcase for me for a flight to London to see Wills, Kate and my male staff's poorly Mum. I hope she's not allergic to guinea pig fur.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Guinea Pig From Hell
Well, I've just returned from deepest, darkest Africa. Once again I was stuffed into my male staff's suitcase, only this time it wasn't nearly as cosy because I was surrounded by dirty socks and underwear. At least I didn't have put up with the appalling service and inedible food meted out by the airline. I had a good supply of lettuce and a lot more legroom than my staff, who's complaining could be heard even above the noise of the engines.
As promised by my staff we went bush once he's finished his business (Guzzling wine and stuffing his face with biltong.) in Durban. We stayed in something called a lodge which was in something called a game reserve, though I didn't see any games. Here I wasn't confined to our room and was able to go on "game drives" with my staff. (Still didn't see any games.) I did see lots of strange animals though including a large, lumpy faced thing with tusks that looked like a guinea pig from hell. We were told it was a warthog. There was something called a lion who looked very friendly and cuddly, but my staff refused my invitation to stoke it. Then there was a big, grey wrinkled thing with ears the size of a bed sheet and an enormous floppy nose - no not my male staff. Best of all was the rhino which I had been looking forward to seeing ever since we arrived. I was disappointed not to be met by one at Durban airport and even more disappointed not find one in town. Nevertheless, it was worth the wait. We were told he was a black rhino, though he wasn't, he was grey. I think the guide might have been a little colour blind. Maybe the name simply refers to the animal's wonderful sense of rhythm.
On the way back to Durban airport we passed a cluster of round buildings that were supposed to represent a traditional zulu village of bygone times. I was surprised because I had no idea that the zulus of previous centuries were so sophisticated. There was a traditional zulu casino with traditional neon lights, a traditional zulu petrol station and a traditional zulu car park full of traditional zulu cars. Funny, I don't remember Wilbur Smith mentioning any of these things.
So now I'm back home and suffering from what my staff calls jetlag. I keep wanting to sleep in the middle of the day and I wake up in the middle of the night and start yelling for my breakfast only to be told that it's two in the morning and that I should go back to sleep unless I want to be deported back to Africa and fed to a warthog - charming! Nothing much has changed while I've been away. Badger is fatter and has been perfecting his psycho stare, which I must say is coming along nicely. The budgies still chirp all day and disturb my beauty sleep, which I have to confess I don't really need and my female staff still goes out to work in a health field even though the weather is getting quite cool now and all the recent rain must be making the field very muddy.
My male staff has to go to London next week to see his Mother who is very sick in horsepiddle. He's promised to take me, and I have mixed feelings about that because while I'd like to see the Queen and Kate and Wills and the rest of the Royal gang I'm not so sure about entering a horsepiddle. It seems as though anyone who goes into one of these places gets sick. Look at my female staff's Dad for example. He went in about three weeks ago and got so sick he still hasn't come out. Wish me luck.
As promised by my staff we went bush once he's finished his business (Guzzling wine and stuffing his face with biltong.) in Durban. We stayed in something called a lodge which was in something called a game reserve, though I didn't see any games. Here I wasn't confined to our room and was able to go on "game drives" with my staff. (Still didn't see any games.) I did see lots of strange animals though including a large, lumpy faced thing with tusks that looked like a guinea pig from hell. We were told it was a warthog. There was something called a lion who looked very friendly and cuddly, but my staff refused my invitation to stoke it. Then there was a big, grey wrinkled thing with ears the size of a bed sheet and an enormous floppy nose - no not my male staff. Best of all was the rhino which I had been looking forward to seeing ever since we arrived. I was disappointed not to be met by one at Durban airport and even more disappointed not find one in town. Nevertheless, it was worth the wait. We were told he was a black rhino, though he wasn't, he was grey. I think the guide might have been a little colour blind. Maybe the name simply refers to the animal's wonderful sense of rhythm.
On the way back to Durban airport we passed a cluster of round buildings that were supposed to represent a traditional zulu village of bygone times. I was surprised because I had no idea that the zulus of previous centuries were so sophisticated. There was a traditional zulu casino with traditional neon lights, a traditional zulu petrol station and a traditional zulu car park full of traditional zulu cars. Funny, I don't remember Wilbur Smith mentioning any of these things.
So now I'm back home and suffering from what my staff calls jetlag. I keep wanting to sleep in the middle of the day and I wake up in the middle of the night and start yelling for my breakfast only to be told that it's two in the morning and that I should go back to sleep unless I want to be deported back to Africa and fed to a warthog - charming! Nothing much has changed while I've been away. Badger is fatter and has been perfecting his psycho stare, which I must say is coming along nicely. The budgies still chirp all day and disturb my beauty sleep, which I have to confess I don't really need and my female staff still goes out to work in a health field even though the weather is getting quite cool now and all the recent rain must be making the field very muddy.
My male staff has to go to London next week to see his Mother who is very sick in horsepiddle. He's promised to take me, and I have mixed feelings about that because while I'd like to see the Queen and Kate and Wills and the rest of the Royal gang I'm not so sure about entering a horsepiddle. It seems as though anyone who goes into one of these places gets sick. Look at my female staff's Dad for example. He went in about three weeks ago and got so sick he still hasn't come out. Wish me luck.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Comedy Class
This post is coming to you live from Africa. My male staff decided at the last minute to take me with him to an African travel trade fair in Durban. It was a comfortable flight for me at least. He packed me into his checked-in luggage along with his clothes, so I was very cosy thank you very much, and I had a virtually unlimited supply of lettuce, though I didn't appreciate the somewhat rough handling dished out to my bag by the baggage handlers. Going round in circles on that bloody conveyor belt made me feel pretty queasy too. Not as queasy as my male staff will feel when he finally unpacks and finds twenty hours worth of bush chocolate amongst his clothes.
Okay I've been in Africa a whole hour and not seen a single rhino yet. I thought I did once but it was just a fat geezer with a big nose. I'm not sure what the plan is for this afternoon. Hopefully my male staff will have a shower and change his clothes. He smells worse than a hyena on heat. Not that I know what they smell like but I imagine it's not good. The wrinkles in his clothing make him look like the back end of an elephant, so I'm hoping he'll change them too, if he can find some that aren't smeared with bush chocolate. Ah! The joys of travelling. At least he has my company now. Apparently a fat, oozy chick sat next to him on the plane, squishing him into a corner, so that every time he moved his hand during the night he came up with a fistful of lard. That'll teach the cheapskate to fly comedy class.
I've been watching the hotel telly while my male staff has been out all day at the trade show. Thought I'd better not watch any of the adult movies because my staff might not appreciate the cost. I have however been watching an American evangelical preacher, which is almost as good. This guy was waving his arms about in his crisp white suit, yelling that when humans go to heaven they will be stripped of their clothes by St Peter at the pearly gates because God did not intend humans to wear clothing. All I can say is that I hope I don't end up there. It won't be a pretty sight at all and the chances of bumping into Marilyn Monroe are somewhat overshadowed by the likelihood of running into a fat wrinkly dead dude like Winston Churchill.
finally today I'd like to relate a conversation that I happened to overhear while waiting in the bar at Brisbane airport. It was a bit muffled of course because I was packed away in my male staff's bag with a sock stuffed in one ear and a handkerchief in the other. A young chap had obviously taken a liking to a girl in the bar. I heard him say. "You're very beautiful. I bet you're an airline hostess aren't you?" The girl seemed to ignore him but he persisted. "Okay", he said. "Will you talk to me if I can guess which airline you work for?" Still no answer from the chicky babe so he continued. "I'll say a few airline slogans and you nod if I get it right. Singapore girl, you're a great way to fly." Nothing. "The world's favourite airline." Nothing. "Fly smooth as silk." Nothing, but then suddenly the chicky babe spoke up.
"Look you creep. What the fuck do you want?"
"Ah ha!" the young chap exclaimed. "I knew it! Qantas!"
Okay I've been in Africa a whole hour and not seen a single rhino yet. I thought I did once but it was just a fat geezer with a big nose. I'm not sure what the plan is for this afternoon. Hopefully my male staff will have a shower and change his clothes. He smells worse than a hyena on heat. Not that I know what they smell like but I imagine it's not good. The wrinkles in his clothing make him look like the back end of an elephant, so I'm hoping he'll change them too, if he can find some that aren't smeared with bush chocolate. Ah! The joys of travelling. At least he has my company now. Apparently a fat, oozy chick sat next to him on the plane, squishing him into a corner, so that every time he moved his hand during the night he came up with a fistful of lard. That'll teach the cheapskate to fly comedy class.
I've been watching the hotel telly while my male staff has been out all day at the trade show. Thought I'd better not watch any of the adult movies because my staff might not appreciate the cost. I have however been watching an American evangelical preacher, which is almost as good. This guy was waving his arms about in his crisp white suit, yelling that when humans go to heaven they will be stripped of their clothes by St Peter at the pearly gates because God did not intend humans to wear clothing. All I can say is that I hope I don't end up there. It won't be a pretty sight at all and the chances of bumping into Marilyn Monroe are somewhat overshadowed by the likelihood of running into a fat wrinkly dead dude like Winston Churchill.
finally today I'd like to relate a conversation that I happened to overhear while waiting in the bar at Brisbane airport. It was a bit muffled of course because I was packed away in my male staff's bag with a sock stuffed in one ear and a handkerchief in the other. A young chap had obviously taken a liking to a girl in the bar. I heard him say. "You're very beautiful. I bet you're an airline hostess aren't you?" The girl seemed to ignore him but he persisted. "Okay", he said. "Will you talk to me if I can guess which airline you work for?" Still no answer from the chicky babe so he continued. "I'll say a few airline slogans and you nod if I get it right. Singapore girl, you're a great way to fly." Nothing. "The world's favourite airline." Nothing. "Fly smooth as silk." Nothing, but then suddenly the chicky babe spoke up.
"Look you creep. What the fuck do you want?"
"Ah ha!" the young chap exclaimed. "I knew it! Qantas!"
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Osama bin Hiding
The big news today is that my male staff is about to venture out to do the weekly shopping. This is sure to put him in a foul mood, firstly because it means spending money and secondly because it means spending hours in a supermarket checkout queue with all the other old, fat people. As usual his return from the shops will be accompanied by muttered curses and the slamming of doors and then either Badger or yours truly will be dragged from our comfy bed to be stroked until his blood pressure returns to normal. This usually takes a couple of hours and it's a miracle that Badger and I have not got great bald patches from being over stroked.
The other miracle of note in the news this week is the one supposedly performed by Pope John Paul II. He cured a Nun of Parkinson's Disease and it now looks like he's being fast-tracked to sainthood. Saint? Good grief! This is the man who swept countless instances of child abuse by the clergy under the holy carpet and refused to sanction the use of condoms even if it meant millions of people could be spared the misery of a slow death from HIV/AIDS. Perhaps he could be made the patron saint of paedophiles. Whoops! Did I say say all that out loud? Never mind. Nobody will ever hate me with a face like mine.
The third important news item this week was the death of Osama bin Hiding or whatever his name was. The US military attacked his luxury mansion and shot him in the head. Now we in the West will have to look for another bogie man. Maybe that's why we're currently having a pop at Gaddafi, or am I being too cynical a piggy? Anyway, no wonder it took ten years to find him. We searched every cave in Afghanistan and Pakistan only to discover that he's been slumming it in a million dollar villa next door to a Pakistani military base, watching re-runs of Seinfeld, sloshing back gallons of Budweiser and playing basketball in the backyard with his bodyguards and senior Pakistan military offices.
I got into dreadful trouble with my staff last night when I ejaculated on Badger's back, although I fail to see why this is such a sin. Why do they think is fur is so glossy? I think I would have got away with it but my male staff decided to pick Badger up for a cuddle before his fur had dried and became immediately suspicious when he stroked Badger and received a sticky, wet hand for trouble. I have to admit that this may have been a tactical error on my part and has probably called into question the future of my testostricles once again. Well, I suppose I'd better get off the computer before my male staff returns from his shopping expedition. If he finds me tapping away on his laptop he may start to suspect that the reason behind his recent excess download bills are due to my piggy porn viewing. I can thoroughly recommend http://www.cavychicks.com/ , http://www.piggybabes.com/ and http://www.randyrodents.com/
The other miracle of note in the news this week is the one supposedly performed by Pope John Paul II. He cured a Nun of Parkinson's Disease and it now looks like he's being fast-tracked to sainthood. Saint? Good grief! This is the man who swept countless instances of child abuse by the clergy under the holy carpet and refused to sanction the use of condoms even if it meant millions of people could be spared the misery of a slow death from HIV/AIDS. Perhaps he could be made the patron saint of paedophiles. Whoops! Did I say say all that out loud? Never mind. Nobody will ever hate me with a face like mine.
The third important news item this week was the death of Osama bin Hiding or whatever his name was. The US military attacked his luxury mansion and shot him in the head. Now we in the West will have to look for another bogie man. Maybe that's why we're currently having a pop at Gaddafi, or am I being too cynical a piggy? Anyway, no wonder it took ten years to find him. We searched every cave in Afghanistan and Pakistan only to discover that he's been slumming it in a million dollar villa next door to a Pakistani military base, watching re-runs of Seinfeld, sloshing back gallons of Budweiser and playing basketball in the backyard with his bodyguards and senior Pakistan military offices.
I got into dreadful trouble with my staff last night when I ejaculated on Badger's back, although I fail to see why this is such a sin. Why do they think is fur is so glossy? I think I would have got away with it but my male staff decided to pick Badger up for a cuddle before his fur had dried and became immediately suspicious when he stroked Badger and received a sticky, wet hand for trouble. I have to admit that this may have been a tactical error on my part and has probably called into question the future of my testostricles once again. Well, I suppose I'd better get off the computer before my male staff returns from his shopping expedition. If he finds me tapping away on his laptop he may start to suspect that the reason behind his recent excess download bills are due to my piggy porn viewing. I can thoroughly recommend http://www.cavychicks.com/ , http://www.piggybabes.com/ and http://www.randyrodents.com/
Saturday, April 30, 2011
This Mortal Coil
Badger and I settled in comfortably on our staff's laps the other night to watch the Royal Wedding. We both had a great pile of lettuce to work our way through and lots of strokes to absorb, so it was quite a busy night. We were both impressed by the stupidity of many of the ladies' hat and I'm proud to say that the stupidest of them all belonged to Julia Gillard - our esteemed Prime Minister. The whole hat thing reminds me of a story Badger told me the other day. Stop me if you've heard it before.
It seems that Prince Charles had been invited to open the new library in Cooroy. It was January, the hottest, most humid month of the year in Queensland. During the ceremony His Majesty was standing outside with the other dignitaries and the Mayor couldn't help but notice that the Prince was sweating madly under a heavy fox fur hat.
The Mayor was curious. "Excuse me Sir," he said deferentially. "I was just wondering why you are wearing a fox fur hat when it's 90 degrees in the shade, with 90 percent humidity."
"Well," replied the Prince. "When I received this invitation I had no idea what I should wear. So I sought advice from Mummy. I said, Mummy, I've just been invited to open the new library in Cooroy. What do you think I should wear. Mummy looked up from mopping up a corgi do-do and said. Cooroy? Wear the fox hat."
Just lately I've developed a very useful skill. I can do a very passable imitation of a dead guinea pig and if I pass bottom wind at the same time I even smell like I've been dead for some time. I lie very still and flat on my straw bedding, eyes wide open and unblinking. I've managed to fool my female staff a couple of times already. When she sees me in this position she gasps and calls out "Oh Billy darling! Are you alright?" Then just as she reaches in to the cage to pick up my cold furry corpse I leap into the air and shoot into my little red shelter, where I sit in the doorway, laugh and say "Ha! Gotcha!" Look. It may sound cruel but it gives the poor old girl a little excitement. God knows she gets little enough being married to my male staff who's been told by the human vet that he has to do something about his cholesterol, whatever that is. Apparently if he doesn't "do something" about this cholesterol thing he won't have to pretend to have karked it because he'll be doing it for real. Then my poor female staff will have to dig a really big hole under the tree where Tiki and Wiggles the budgies ended up when they shuffled off this mortal coil.
Interestingly, the term "Shuffled off this mortal coil" comes from Shakespeare's play Hamlet. What does a guinea pig know about the plays of the great Bard? Quite a lot actually. It's a little known fact that he kept several guinea pigs as pets and that many of his plays were actually written about them and the titles were changed later to appeal to a wider audience. Romeo and Juliet were actually his two favourite guinea pigs.
He also wrote "The Taming of the Guniea Pig", "Much Ado About a Guinea Pig", "Two Guinea Pigs of Verona", "King Cavy", and my personal favourite "The Merry Guinea Pigs of Windsor".
It seems that Prince Charles had been invited to open the new library in Cooroy. It was January, the hottest, most humid month of the year in Queensland. During the ceremony His Majesty was standing outside with the other dignitaries and the Mayor couldn't help but notice that the Prince was sweating madly under a heavy fox fur hat.
The Mayor was curious. "Excuse me Sir," he said deferentially. "I was just wondering why you are wearing a fox fur hat when it's 90 degrees in the shade, with 90 percent humidity."
"Well," replied the Prince. "When I received this invitation I had no idea what I should wear. So I sought advice from Mummy. I said, Mummy, I've just been invited to open the new library in Cooroy. What do you think I should wear. Mummy looked up from mopping up a corgi do-do and said. Cooroy? Wear the fox hat."
Just lately I've developed a very useful skill. I can do a very passable imitation of a dead guinea pig and if I pass bottom wind at the same time I even smell like I've been dead for some time. I lie very still and flat on my straw bedding, eyes wide open and unblinking. I've managed to fool my female staff a couple of times already. When she sees me in this position she gasps and calls out "Oh Billy darling! Are you alright?" Then just as she reaches in to the cage to pick up my cold furry corpse I leap into the air and shoot into my little red shelter, where I sit in the doorway, laugh and say "Ha! Gotcha!" Look. It may sound cruel but it gives the poor old girl a little excitement. God knows she gets little enough being married to my male staff who's been told by the human vet that he has to do something about his cholesterol, whatever that is. Apparently if he doesn't "do something" about this cholesterol thing he won't have to pretend to have karked it because he'll be doing it for real. Then my poor female staff will have to dig a really big hole under the tree where Tiki and Wiggles the budgies ended up when they shuffled off this mortal coil.
Interestingly, the term "Shuffled off this mortal coil" comes from Shakespeare's play Hamlet. What does a guinea pig know about the plays of the great Bard? Quite a lot actually. It's a little known fact that he kept several guinea pigs as pets and that many of his plays were actually written about them and the titles were changed later to appeal to a wider audience. Romeo and Juliet were actually his two favourite guinea pigs.
He also wrote "The Taming of the Guniea Pig", "Much Ado About a Guinea Pig", "Two Guinea Pigs of Verona", "King Cavy", and my personal favourite "The Merry Guinea Pigs of Windsor".
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Aussie Rules Rules.....OK?
Twitter is a weird and wonderful place. I regularly tweet with humans, other guinea pigs, rabbits, dogs, capybaras and even a gecko. Talking of reptiles, there was a wonderful tweet on Anzac Day/Easter Monday by a certain Jim Wallace - the Managing Director of the Australian Christian Lobby. His tweet went like this. "Just hope that as we remember Servicemen and women today we remember the Australia they fought for - wasn't gay marriage and Islamic!" What an extraordinary thing for a man of God to say on a day that is supposed to celebrate those who sacrificed their lives for the Australian ethos of tolerance and a "fair go" for all. In one fell swoop Mr Wallace proved himself to be a bigot and an utter twat. A semi-literate one at that. It makes me proud to be an atheist.
Like most Peruvians, Badger is Catholic and as such does not believe in contraception - condoms are right out. He does believe in spreading HIV/Aids as rapidly as possible, filling the world with unwanted children and banning the clergy from sex so that they go half mad with frustration and start molesting children and sheep, at the same time as telling the rest of us not to have a quick naughty outside of marriage even if we are consenting adults. It makes my fur stand on end. Then again I might just be bitter and twisted because my staff won't let me near Badger's bottom these days.
Badger and I watched our first Australian Rules Football match on the telly the other day. It seems to me that the word "Rules" is a bit redundant, because as far as I could tell their weren't any. It was great fun to watch though, in a homoerotic sort of way. There were lots of scantily clad men sloshing around in the mud chasing a ball that seemed to have been coated in butter prior to the game. It was like watching a lot of grown men fighting over a bar of soap in the shower. The game itself is played on a large oval field upon which at any one time there may be a hundred or so participants, including players, umpires, trainers, doctors, physiotherapists, paramedics, helicopter evacuation crews - complete with helicopter, policemen and a drunk wearing nothing but a silly hat.
It is a hybrid of rugby, soccer, Gaelic football and gay porn. At either end of the field are four evenly spaced posts. The idea is to kick the ball (Which isn't a ball at all, but a big pointy egg.) between the middle posts, for which the successful team is awarded six points. However, if the ball misses and goes between the outer posts the umpire awards one point for trying in case the kicker gets all upset and goes home in a huff. I did actually manage to decipher one rule, that is that you can thump a member of the opposing team in the head, so hard that he has to spend the next twelve weeks sucking pureed steak and chips through a straw, and get awarded a free kick because you tripped over your victim's unconscious body. Yet if you accidentally touch an umpire's shirt you will be jailed for several years and are made to apologise to the Prime Minister for disgracing the nation.
At the end of the game the winning team has a group cuddle and sing the team song as loudly and tunelessly as possible before heading off to the showers for another game of hunt the soap. Meanwhile the losing team trudge miserably back to the changing room where they sit about the floor in various stages of undress for hours until it is safe for them to leave the stadium without getting beaten up by their own supporters. Yes, it only took one game for me to become a convert. Now, like millions of Australians, Australian Rules Football is my true religion.
Like most Peruvians, Badger is Catholic and as such does not believe in contraception - condoms are right out. He does believe in spreading HIV/Aids as rapidly as possible, filling the world with unwanted children and banning the clergy from sex so that they go half mad with frustration and start molesting children and sheep, at the same time as telling the rest of us not to have a quick naughty outside of marriage even if we are consenting adults. It makes my fur stand on end. Then again I might just be bitter and twisted because my staff won't let me near Badger's bottom these days.
Badger and I watched our first Australian Rules Football match on the telly the other day. It seems to me that the word "Rules" is a bit redundant, because as far as I could tell their weren't any. It was great fun to watch though, in a homoerotic sort of way. There were lots of scantily clad men sloshing around in the mud chasing a ball that seemed to have been coated in butter prior to the game. It was like watching a lot of grown men fighting over a bar of soap in the shower. The game itself is played on a large oval field upon which at any one time there may be a hundred or so participants, including players, umpires, trainers, doctors, physiotherapists, paramedics, helicopter evacuation crews - complete with helicopter, policemen and a drunk wearing nothing but a silly hat.
It is a hybrid of rugby, soccer, Gaelic football and gay porn. At either end of the field are four evenly spaced posts. The idea is to kick the ball (Which isn't a ball at all, but a big pointy egg.) between the middle posts, for which the successful team is awarded six points. However, if the ball misses and goes between the outer posts the umpire awards one point for trying in case the kicker gets all upset and goes home in a huff. I did actually manage to decipher one rule, that is that you can thump a member of the opposing team in the head, so hard that he has to spend the next twelve weeks sucking pureed steak and chips through a straw, and get awarded a free kick because you tripped over your victim's unconscious body. Yet if you accidentally touch an umpire's shirt you will be jailed for several years and are made to apologise to the Prime Minister for disgracing the nation.
At the end of the game the winning team has a group cuddle and sing the team song as loudly and tunelessly as possible before heading off to the showers for another game of hunt the soap. Meanwhile the losing team trudge miserably back to the changing room where they sit about the floor in various stages of undress for hours until it is safe for them to leave the stadium without getting beaten up by their own supporters. Yes, it only took one game for me to become a convert. Now, like millions of Australians, Australian Rules Football is my true religion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)