The Dissemination of Thought

Just because it's in print doesn't mean it's intelligent…

Posts Tagged ‘WTF?

Pondering life’s big questions, 375mL at a time…

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There are a myriad of questions in life that beg to be answered.  Will I ever find true love?  What’s the meaning of life?  Why do I keep reading The Dissemination of Thought?  Today’s TDoT post seeks elucidation on another of life’s mysteries.  A conundrum that has never been examined until 9:47am on 12 December, 2011.

Exhibit A: the can causing me the confusion.

This can of Coke is seemingly identical to the dozens of others that have resided in my refrigerator over the past 11 months.  It holds 375mL of sugar-saturated liquid and reminds me that had I purchased it in South Australia, I’d be entitled to a 10c refund.  The characteristic that differentiates this can from those that have gone before it baffles me.  It’s empty.  Logic would dictate that I must have put it back after I’d finished it, but my motive for doing so eludes me.

Why the hell is there an empty can of Coke in my refrigerator? 

What’s the strangest thing you’ve found somewhere that it shouldn’t be?

Written by disseminatedthought

December 12, 2011 at 10:29

3 things that should never be dressed up

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Everyone has a limit. A line that, if crossed, causes one to leap into action to try and right perceived wrongs. It turns out that my limit is faux reindeer antlers on cars. And trucks. And taxis. What the hell is going on? Why do people feel it’s necessary to adorn inanimate objects and innocent children with shit that they would never consider subjecting themselves to?

Let’s look at my top three:

1. Motor vehicles

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Honda Source: behurop.net78.net

I’ll try to make this as concise as possible. Decorating a car for Red Nose Day is a good thing. Garnishing your Prius with plastic antlers and a bulbous proboscis so it resembles an arctic mammal isn’t. Sure, it’s festive, but it’s also fucking ridiculous.

Author’s note: I know you’re going to click on the above link. While you’re there, please make a donation to SIDS research. To prove that I’m happy to put my money where my mouth – or at least keyboard – is, if this post gets 10 reader comments, The Dissemination of Thought will donate $25 to this fantastic cause.

2. Pets

I’ve already expressed my bewilderment at pet owners who dress up their pooches in tutus and tiny tuxedos. To those individuals, I offer this advice: the people peering over top of their chai lattes and mugachinos don’t think that Chi-Chi’s three-piece puppy suit is to die for; they’re actually weighing up the probability that you keep severed human heads in the freezer.

I’m sorry, but this is just disturbing. Source: cu2nite.com.au

3. Children

Just because it’s “adorable” doesn’t mean you should run with it. Source: socyberty.com

It’s bad enough that your little darlings have to live with you calling them Summer Raine, A’meelya or Tangerine. Don’t rub salt into a gaping wound by parading them around in stupid outfits for all to see. If you do dress them up and then produce the photos on their 21st birthday for laughs, they will suffocate you with a pillow while you sleep. Or firmly lodge a tangerine in your throat.

He’s not tired. He’s plotting your death. Source: blogs.smarter.com

Written by disseminatedthought

December 7, 2011 at 09:10

Diamond rings and perplexing things

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There is no prepared TDoT post today per se, it’s more of an impromptu reaction to a conversation I overhead on the bus this morning between a woman who became engaged overnight, and a friend of hers who wasn’t yet aware of the situation. Perhaps the bride to be is yet to update her relationship status on Facebook.

For ease of identification, we will call the one with the ring Miss Engagee. Her ashen-haired, nodding sidekick is Enabling Friend.

If it wasn’t already hard enough for guys to figure out what the hell women want, hearing the following exchange amidst a flurry of squeals and animated hand gestures raised the bar another four inches.

Enabling Friend: “Oh babe, you must be so excited!”
Miss Engagee: “I was thinking about breaking up with him, but this ring is beautiful.”
Enabling Friend: “You’d probably have to give it back if you split.”

With that sort of logic, what chance do we have?

Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry on my BlackBerry Bold 9700

Written by disseminatedthought

December 6, 2011 at 07:59

How to ensure that you never have to sit beside someone on the bus again

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If, like me, you utilise public transport to get you where you need to go, you understand the joy that a vacant adjacent seat brings. That feeling that comes knowing you won’t have to spend your journey sitting beside someone who believes that regular bathing is so 90s. The warming of your cockles when you realise that the dickhead who feels compelled to read the broadsheet newspaper during peak hour has decided not to take refuge next to you. That smug contentment that can only be achieved by convincing other commuters that sitting beside you would be a poor idea.

I must admit, I never really have a problem with people wanting to sit beside me: as a 6’5″ giant who is – as someone once eloquently put it – “two and a half pick handles across”, folks generally tend to avoid sitting beside me at all costs. Even if it means standing up for the trip and gazing longingly at the vacant seat beside me, much to my narcissistic mirth.

If you don’t have the physical characteristics – and some would suggest sociopathic disposition – to persuade other travellers that you’re a corporate version of Michael Myers, there are options to ensure that the seat beside you remains empty for the rest of your travelling days.

See, it works every time.

Strategy 1 – Be smellier than anyone who may attempt to sit beside you

This is a strong hand to play, as it requires you to potentially be more olfactorily offensive than the wannabe hippie who just got on. While this method may guarantee you peaceful passage to work, it’s also more than likely to also be catalyst for your impromptu meeting with HR upon arriving at the office.

For beginners, I suggest bluffing: as someone approaches for ass position beside you, take a whiff under your arms and feign mortified disgust.

Strategy 2 – Talk to yourself

By engaging in meaningful dialogue with yourself, you will give the masses a reason to avoid you. If you really want to ramp it up, try arguing with yourself, and be sure to include “I hate it when you try to tell you that you’re right, and you have to stop trying to convince us that our opinion is always wrong!” For added effect, turn your head to the left for one side of the conversation, and reverse when playing the other you.

Strategy 3 – Use the odd profanity

"Do you want to...VAGINA...sit here?" Source: fattita.tumblr.com

I’m not talking about going old-school sailor for the duration of your journey, I’m   advocating sitting in silence while looking straight ahead, occasionally blurting out a random “cock” or “clitoris”.  For Deuce Bigalow fans, you may wish to embrace bellowing “vulva”.

Author’s note: I’m writing this piece en route to Toowoomba, and I’ve just discovered that “clitoris” isn’t in the dictionary in my BlackBerry. How odd.

 

 

Strategy 4 – Scratch yourself constantly

No one likes a scratcher.  That person who continually attempts to scrape off the first few dermal layers, regardless of their surroundings, in order to try and ease the itch.  As such, my hypothesis is that no sane individual would make a concerted attempt to sit beside the aforementioned. The result?  You, ogling the fabric on the vacant seat beside you for the remainder of your trip.

If you really want to get into character for the charade, you can sprinkle itching powder onto strategic locations, including your head and nether regions.  I guess that you could always catch something of which incessant scratching and a rash are indications of, but as per Strategy 1, this may be a little dramatic.

Strategy 5 – Lick the window closest to you 

This one is pretty self-explanatory: who the fuck wants to sit beside someone who passes their time on public transport by running their tongue over glass that has had tens of thousands of dirty, sweaty heads, arms and miscellaneous body parts lean against it?

A vacant seat: no lightsaber required. Source: starwars.wikia.com

Written by disseminatedthought

December 4, 2011 at 15:49

500 views, puppets and boobs…

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At some stage this morning, someone clicked on The Dissemination of Thought for the 500th time. While it may not seem like an astronomical number in the overall scheme of things, it surprised me a little bit. When I originally began TDoT, it was meant to serve no other purpose than to record random – and often incredibly abstract – musings for my own benefit. But people began to read it, and the evidence would suggest that some of you actually enjoy doing so. Personally, I’m a little disappointed that we’ve reached five-hundred views without any hate mail or death threats. Given that we’ve come this far, I should probably celebrate by writing something worthy of a Walkley, but I’m not going to. Instead, we are going to discuss Sesame Street and breasts.

The argument about marriage equality reached a ridiculous new level this week, with the launch of an online petition, the main objective of which is to convince the powers that be at Sesame Street that Bert and Ernie have been living in sin for far too long, and that wedding bells should be heard in the not too distant future. While I strongly advocate same-sex marriage, this is farcical, and I’ve identified two main issues that stand in the way of a union between Bert and Ernie.

Issue 1: Bert and Ernie aren’t actually gay.

While everyone seems to assume that they are partners, it’s not actually the case. Sesame Workshop released a statement saying “Bert and Ernie are best friends” and that they were “created to teach preschoolers that people can be good friends with those who are very different from themselves.” Essentially, people have seen two characters of the same sex who are great friends, and decided that the gay label fits. Why? For some, it helps to promote a cause. For others, it’s just easier to throw an ignorant, blanket label on something, without determining whether or not the label is justified. People can infer what they want from how Bert and Ernie interact, but they haven’t been developed as gay characters, so in my book, they aren’t. Yeah, they share a bedroom, and at times, a bed, but that proves nothing. Hell, they don’t seem to have jobs, so sharing a small apartment with one bedroom is obviously going to be the most cost-effective way to live.

Issue 2: Has anyone noticed that they are puppets?

This is an important point, so pay attention. Bert and Ernie are fucking puppets. They spend their days with someone’s hand up their asses. While I’m sure that there’s an incredibly inappropriate joke in there somewhere, everyone seems to have lost sight of the fact that Bert and Ernie are basically nothing more than foam, felt and other puppety materials. Yes, I am aware that puppety isn’t a real word. No, I don’t care – it sounds cool. A puppet is a tool of entertainment, and more importantly, an inanimate object. As such, it doesn’t have a sexual orientation, unless it has been developed as part of its character. Had the creators of Sesame Street cultivated Bert and Ernie as being gay, I couldn’t wait to see Elmo be the ring bearer at their wedding.

Lisa: Dad, what’s a Muppet?
Homer: Well, it’s not quite a mop and it’s not quite a puppet…

When I’m wrong, I’m usually really wrong. When I wrote about the perils of amateur tattooing back in October, I naturally assumed that ”penis” and “tattoo” were going to be the strangest words that I ever got to use in the same sentence. And they probably would have remained so, had The New York Times decided not to publish a story about the octogenarian who got a boob job. Stop the press, we have a new winner. Apparently cosmetic surgery is all the rage amongst those enjoying their golden years, including Californian great-grandmother, Marie Kolstad.

In all seriousness, this shouldn’t be a newsworthy story. Apart from the shock value of picturing breasts from the era of penicillin discovery, who fucking cares what someone decides to do with their own body? How many breast augmentations are done daily without global media coverage? A twenty-something friend of mine had one performed years ago, and when she came out of surgery, there wasn’t a solitary journalist to be seen. So what’s different? Age. We can’t seem to embrace the notion that people of the same vintage as our parents and grandparents want to look good and feel great about themselves. If these older individuals want to seize – or possibly rediscover – their sexuality, more power to them – I’d just prefer not to read about or imagine it. Regardless of age, people have the ability to be viewed as sexual beings, with clearly defined sexual orientations, unlike puppets.

So here we are, at the conclusion of this inane post. You made it. One can only hope that when The Dissemination of Thought pushes past 1,000 views, we won’t be philosophising about puppet nuptials or repressing the thought of 83-year-old nipples. Speaking of the latter, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and assume foetal position in the bathroom with a bottle of vodka.

The boy in the bubble strikes again…

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I was going to start this post with a big “WTF?” I could have simply posted the link to the story, bookended it with huge question marks, and left it at that. But I can’t. Because when I read about the guy that held up a Gold Coast convenience store using bubble wrap to hide his face, I’m compelled to asked questions – questions that a single article can’t answer.

Question 1: Is this a real story?

In my defence, I imagine a lot of people asked the same thing. I imagine even more were fumbling for their desk calendars to confirm it wasn’t 1 April. I image a very small percentage of people actually tried making a mask after reading the story, just to see how productive they could be while wearing packing plastic.

Question 2: What was he thinking?

I’d like to say we’ve all been there, but I can’t. Who decides that a good old armed robbery will stifle the boredom at 9:45pm on a Sunday night? Based on the facts presented in the Greg Stolz article, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume the offender won’t be renewing his Mensa membership anytime soon. That being the case, perhaps we should give him bonus points for the forethought he showed by cutting breathing holes into the mask.

Question 3: How did he get away?

Does this question really need any elaboration? The guy was wearing fucking thongs, which hardly seems like the optimal choice in getaway footware. That said, if he had of had a thong blowout, he could have wrapped the mask around his foot, but one has to assume that the popping sound as he ran down the street would have made following him rather easy.

Question 4: What flavour Slurpee did he get?

See, I ask the hard questions that mainstream publications like The Courier-Mail avoid.

The police officer interviewed in The Courier-Mail story noted that the crime seemed “fairly opportunistic.” I’m trying to determine what led the Queensland Police Service to this conclusion – do you think it was the fact that the offender wore thongs, or that he made his mask out of polyethylene sourced from a random truck?

In closing, I have one final question: were they able to identify the type of knife used by the offender? If this really was a crime of opportunity, I suggest that the boys and girls in blue get any local Sizzler restaurants to do a quick audit on their steak knives…

If anyone needs me, I’ll be selling rolls of plastic to ski shops – I hear that the “Bubble Wrap Balaclava” is going to be all the rage this winter.

Tattoo customer gets the shaft

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Life’s full of surprises.  Some good, some bad, and some are a turkey slap in the face from left field.  My surprise for the day was that after almost 3 months without blogging, I’d get to use “penis tattoo” as a tag in my first post back.  The surprise I experienced probably pales in comparison however, to the surprise a 25-year-old guy felt when he realised he had a 40cm penis tattooed on his back.  Yep, you read right.  A dick.  The family jewels.  Meat and two veg.

According to the article in The Courier-Mail, the victim had requested a yin and yang symbol along with dragons incorporated into the design, had a falling out with the amateur tattooist and then proceeded to allow him to carry out the tattooing.  What the fuck? Perhaps I am not as trusting as the victim, but there is no way in hell I would allow someone I’d just had an argument with near me with a tattoo gun.  Come to think of it, I have a rule of not allowing anyone who carries out a professional service under the amateur banner from their house near me with anything sharp.  I include DIY dentists, orthopaedic surgeons and hairdressers under this umbrella.  Each to their own, but it’s a rule that’s served me pretty well thus far: as a result of adhering to it, I don’t have a huge tattoo of a cock and an apparently offensive slogan on my back.  Nor do I have any gaps in my smile where a problem tooth has been extracted with nothing more than a pair of fencing pliers and a shot of moonshine for anaesthetic.

In reference to the offensive slogan, it appears that the tattooist misspelled the key word. What that key word was is anyone’s guess, but my question pertains to whether the spelling faux pas was a deliberate act, or whether it was the result of one too many missed English classes in high school.  I would hazard a guess that it was the latter, but this is based on two fundamental assumptions:

Assumption 1

An artist’s professionalism is reflective of the environment in which they work.  Considering this artist was working in an environment where a zap in the microwave probably constituted tool sterilisation, one can only assume he doesn’t do much research on spelling prior to putting ink to skin.

Assumption 2

The guy actually got as far as high school.

What does this whole experience teach us?  Yeah, the tattooist is an asshole, but more importantly, it shows what happens when you have a brain explosion and decide to let a person put a permanent marking on you moments after you have had an argument with said person. In my opinion, the victim deserves to be the recipient of a Darwin Award.  Does anyone know a way to expedite natural selection?

I was going to try to sneak a cheeky Dragon Ball reference into this post, but figured after such a long absence I should kick things off on a somewhat higher level of maturity.  Let’s face it: the quality of jokes and innuendo is going to hit rock bottom again before too long.

It’s good to be back.