49 Dumbass Questions That I Enjoyed

Two posts in one day. The second gets a D grade from me though as really, who cares? (Me!)

1. Your name spelled backwards: sixarp oruen
2. Where were your parents born? 10 Downing Street. Both of them. Loooong story.
3. What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? Smut. No, not smut. Um. My laptop is dead and my firewall in work is resistant to downloads. In the way that the pants I am wearing are resistant to flame. Flame retardant pants. For slow-mindeds who might burn themselves.
4. What's your favorite restaurant? Curry
5. Last time you swam in a pool? It was...in Offaly. In some hotel that left a free biscuit in my bedroom.
6. Have you ever been in a school play? Have I? You bet your bottom euro I have. I wowed children and grown-ups alike in my roles as the lion in the Wizard of Oz and the narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. I was so tall for my age in the latter that all the parents thought the school had hired me. Post show, my friends' parents asked me, "So, do you do this for a living?" Cue me shrugging and running off to play Mosh.
7. How many kids do you want? Depends what for? And what colour?
8. Type of music you dislike most? Cat
9. Are you registered to vote? Once a week
10. Do you have cable? Around 2 metres
11. Have you ever ridden on a moped? Only on a motorbike. I was 14. He was 40 and not a relative. This is true.
12. Ever prank call anybody? Hello, is that the Adams family? Yes? Can I speak to Morticia please? Hello, operator. I'd like a Big Mac and large fries please. And can I have that to go, I'm in a hurry. Hello Samaritans? I'm thinking of killing myself lol
13. Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving? What day is this happening?
14. Furthest place you ever travelled? This is such a stupid question. Furthest from where?
15. Do you have a garden? Yes it is on my windowsill, it is rosemary in a pot.
16. What's your favorite comic strip? Don't like manga porn.
17. Do you really know all the words to your national anthem? Doesn't it go, let's shoot some British soldiers, la la?
18. Bath or Shower, morning or night? Shower in morning - this is not a preference.
19. Best movie you've seen in the past month? Driving Lessons, yeah!
20. Favorite pizza topping? Paperclip
21. Crisps or popcorn?Ahhhh, this is tough. I am the Savoury Queen. Popcorn *if* and only if it is homemade and smothered in melty butter. Otherwise, crisps every time, particularly chilli flavoured ones. Oh. Oh.
22. What color lipstick do you usually wear? Sexist! I use some sort of clear stuff - Juicy Lips or something. Despite its cheap tart name it's quite dear.
23. Have you ever smoked peanut shells? What?
24. Have you ever been in a beauty pageant? I don't think you've seen me.
25. Orange Juice or apple? God, would you be consistent with your capital letters?
26. Who was the last person you went out to dinner with and where did you dine? I don't know, I wasn't paying attention. No wait! I went out to dinner with 14 relatives and we ate in a restaurant in Westport and I ate a burger that was bigger than my head.
27. Favorite type chocolate bar? Curry
28. When was the last time you voted at the polls? Shut up.
29. Last time you ate a homegrown tomato? Probably at the same time that I was sewing together a patchwork quilt and making my own bread.
30. Have you ever won a trophy? Yes, for being the best at everything.
31. Are you a good cook? If by good you mean bad, then yes.
32. Do you know how to pump your own gas? No, but I can put petrol in a car. In theory.
33. Ever order an article from an infomercial? I actually did once. I wish I hadn't.
34. Sprite or 7-up? Whatever you're serving: I'm not rude. "Oh, sorry, no thanks kind host, I only drink the other leading brand which tastes the same and is actually made by the same company."
35. Have you ever had to wear a uniform to work? Sweet Mary, yes I have. The days of waistcoats and aertex shirts with retaurant logos are far behind me, praise Allah.
36. Last thing you bought at a pharmacy? Cough sweets for my boss. She embarassingly insisted on giving me money for doing this.
37. Ever throw up in public? Ah yes. the fabled days of the whooping cough, when neuro puked on all things and people indiscriminately for many weeks, including her own clothes, which can be seen in many family photos. All the cousins and neuro: in her knickers with a bit of sick on the side of her mouth.
38. Would you prefer being a millionaire or find true love? I believe that the former bringeth the latter. Or is it the reverse? Either way I'l take the cash - not risking a booby prize, thanks.
39. Do you believe in love at first sight? Oh piss off.
40. Ever call a 1-900 number? What's this now?
41. Can exes be friends? They can be ex-friends?
42. Who was the last person you visited in a hospital? Mona! (bun in oven)
43. Did you have a lot of hair when you were a baby? Not after they shaved me.
44. What message is on your answering machine? "Hello, you have reached the morgue. If you have died and would like to be refrigerated, please press 1. If you would like to leave a message for neuro, please press your own bellybutton which will make a beep sound. Then say stuff."
45. What's your all time favorite Saturday Night Live Character? This no mean much me.
46. What was the name of your first pet? Scotch (cat) and Ted (dog) were both around at the same time. I don't know who came first. I know who died first though. Granny.
47. What is in your purse? Do you mean handbag? Again, sexist. Answer: the usual. Plus a lot of litter.
48. Favorite thing to do before bedtime? Ooh, naughty!
49. What is one thing you are grateful for today? My ham sandwich.

Like A Whirlpool; It Never Ends

It's been one of those weeks that kind of crushes you and nourishes you all at once. It's been a week of drama, and not of the election-frenzy-fulled variety. (I predictably voted Green.) But I don't have a clue how to blog anymore. It seems that the older I get, the broader the category of "Stuff That Can't Be Discussed On The Internet" widens. (Remember my heady college days? With endless accounts of the mundanities of my life, delighting generations of middle class children for half a century?) It's been an exhausting week: it involved the tasty combination of shocks, tears, laughs and live music, creating a confusing pie on which I feasted with weary jaws. Ah ha ha ha! I love my own mixed metaphors. That's cheered me up nicely now. This morning, after a goodbye forever at the airport and a breakfast with old friends by the sea, I retired to bed and the television today to bask in the unusual sweetness of a Saturday without obligations.

Clearly exhausted

SAFE TOPICS

This week I enjoyed the spectacular talents of the Dave Matthews Band (in the Point - boo hiss) and Duke Special and his team of clever music monkeys (in Vicar Street - calloo callay etc.). Aside from the soul-enriching delights of being in the same room as mighty musicians and thousand of their fans was the pleasurable knowledge that I didn't buy any of the tickets - they were gifts. Thanks to Mullen and Wylie for the love. :) Duke Special even came down into the crowd and taught us a sailor song. I was so close I could have pulled his dreadlocks, and it may or may not be true that I did in fact give his dreadlocks a little tug when the security guard wasn't looking. I might also have cupped a Nordie buttock. You can't prove it was me though.

This week I also had my first experience of wandering Dublin's strange but oddly pleasing IFSC quarter, where I encountered these handsome fellows and ate in a really cheap Italian restaurant where the pizza sauce tasted like ketchup. I was forced to pelt the ridiculously beautiful Italian waitress with my ketchupy meal but I think it worked out ok because we left before the police arrived. Nifty: that's me.

So today, the husband unit and I have been watching the 2006 smash hit (ha ha ha!) Alien Autopsy which has given me the chance to relive my childhood crush on the delectable Declan Donnelly. By-ah Grove, anyone?

Gwan - give us a quick round of the theme tune. I believe it went a little like this:

Oh yeah. That's what it's all about baby. I enjoyed Alien Autopsy though, in spite ot the hideous reputation that preceded it. It's a genuinely fun recounting of a mysterious tale. If we were together in person I'd make a spooky noise and wave my hands about a bit here. As it is you'll have to just imagine me doing it. Sorry.

I'm glad that the June bank holiday weekend is approaching, as I am feeling the need for festival and in its absence, bank holiday is the next best thing. I know I am in need of a bit of fun when I find myself planning what I'll buy my mother for Christmas or what I'll dress up as for Hallowe'en. (I have to admit that even where our office might go for our Christmas party has crossed my mind.) I am planning an end-of-term party for my colleagues that won't involve a Wild West or Hawaiian theme, but might involve a lot of food and the unending amusement of watching stiff academics turn into floppy gossips with mouths full of tapas and plonk. I'm the sober one with the camera collecting the taxi fares. So we're thinking of trekking down to a magical house in the secluded woodland of Leitrim for a lot of beer and barbeques and perhaps we'll catch the musical wonders of Liam McDermott who is in some kind of inexplicable song competition in the nether regions of Drumshanbo. Not exactly the mardis gras but distinctively Irish and I'm all about reclaiming the heritage and all that crap.

We also watched a great documentary on the discovery of lithium as a use for bipolar disorder in the forties. Maybe you saw it too? It got me thinking what I could discover simply by injecting a lot of urine into the abdomen of various domestic animals: cats for example. I don't have a cat as the husband unit is allergic to them (nerd) and I'd love to have one and apart from the urine injections I swear it'd all be cat-treats and belly-rubs. What else could you inject into a cat - brown sauce? This might help cure AIDS. Might as well give it a bash. Don't think I don't love animals though - I went to Dublin zoo on Sunday and fed cheesy puffs to all the animals and birds I could reach.

neuro-praxis -- It's Tuesday, It's Fat, And That's Quite Enough of That

Have You Any Idea Where This Poor Creature Is?

Almost on a daily basis now I enjoy strange little occurrences in my life and I note to myself (loudly), "Must blog that." Sadly I am too lazy or forgetful or both to make it a reality. But that's no good for you now, is it? I'll save you some bother: the answer to that little rhetorical question is no.

So I've been doing a little temping in another department in my building. Their unwillingness to do any work has left them with a frighteningly vast backlog. My first day was somewhat of a shock. Compared to my department, this office is what you might call a dungeon: dark, dusty and full of instruments of torture and old bones. My keyboard is full of fingernail clippings and food: my boss looks like she's nigh on ninety and straight out of Tales From The Crypt. Her reputation as a nasty piece of work preceded her but I must say she has been rather nice, if a little odd.

I am known round my office for being well-organised: I have good systems for managing gazillions of duties (gazillions being the technical term, you understand) and occasionally in this super-ordered pursuit I use paper-clips. You know. For clipping one document to another. Firm, but without the messiness of Sellotape or the potential finger scratching of a staple. Amidst the dirt and chaos on my temporary desk I could find none. I had a root in the stationary cupboard but still: no joy. I was weeping for the lost paper-clips when my temping boss tottered alongside.

Me: Hi, old woman. Where can I find a box of paper-clips?

OW: Paperclips? <narrows eyes> What do you want paper-clips for?

Me: To clip some documents together.

OW: We don't use paper-clips down here.

And that was the end of my silly notion that I could use paper-clips in the dungeon. Now I use elastic bands and Sellotape like all the others. It's really great.

So, anyway, with my naive enthusiasm fresh from my clean and airy office filled with sunlight and modern art, cool spring water and smiling faces, not to mention the streams of paper-clips to swim in, I lashed into the dungeon's backlog of work, only to be told at the end of the first day that I was "going too fast". I was urged in a conspirational whisper to "go slower". WELL HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. What am I here for if not to help you bash down that almighty pile of work you've gathered while you were taking fifteen coffee breaks a day (not to mention the fags)? Mark my words: they'll all be dead of lung cancer in a month. Lucky I've got a killer pair of black stilettos for the funerals.

So in other work-related news: I've applied for another job internally for which I interview on Friday, which if I get it, will bring my current number of jobs in the same building up to three. I'm impressed even with myself there. Of course I don't yet know if I'll get the job but between you and me and the internet I'd say I have as much of a chance as the other applicants, except for the ones with more experience, you know what I'm saying? I'm pessimistically hopeful. Presumably if I flash a bit of leg at the interviewer it'll do me some good. However, I do happen to know the interviewer and she's female and straight, got engaged last week and has the sense on humour of a plastic hammer. So maybe I should just brush up on my lying, like always.

I am sick for the fourth time in 2007. I took my sorry ass to the doctor this time and he gave me some Pinaclav (which tastes and smells like vanilla) and a sick note, of which I am availing while I convalesce. I might as well: I feel like a soaked and squeezed machine knitted pullover, trun on a dirty bathroom floor, probably owned by dirty students (trun being the Dublin word for thrown); noisy pretentious students whom I HATE. I have had no sleep at all - I've been far too busy hacking up yellow loogies into strips of toilet roll while my husband tosses and turns next to me. It has been a fabulous bank holiday weekend - one to remember for sure. However it has given me the chance to read a super novel - The Testament of Gideon Mack; a fabulous tale about an atheistic Presbyterian minister who falls in a river and meets with the devil. My co-worker saw it on a bookshelf and immediately thought of me. I don't know why: perhaps my Presbyterianism comes across as contrived? Maybe it's simply the devilish glint in my eye? Whatever the reason, she purchased it for me with great kindness and I lurched upon it like a literature fiend who has been forced to read Mills & Boon novels for a number of years and devoured it in a couple of days. You ought to do the same, and quick. I hear the world will be ending sharpish and as we all know, the afterlife is nothing but sitting chubby and naked on a cloud: no time for novels about satan then.

neuro-praxis -- Part Wallace, Part Rabbit

It Seems This Blog Had Faith

Well, I've been putting this off. You know it and I know it, and those of you who understand my fickle nature have been checking back here every day to see if I would return. Well, I did. Are you HAPPY now? I am. Zoomtard plied me with beer so I am back to say some things. Those things are, at the moment, as much of a mystery to me as they are to you. A DRUNKEN mystery! No, I am not drunk. Could a drunk person ever have such good grammar? Now excuse me while I read and re-read the previous paragraph, save what's legible of it and continue this post tomorrow.

Back. No! That was a hastily prepared joke. I am not writing this tomorrow, I am writing this tonight, as I was when I began. I apologise for messing with the time space-continuum. I should leave that until Sunday night when we ARBITRARILY CHANGE THE TIME ON OUR CLOCKS in order to gain an hour. I don't CARE if it gives us more daylight - messing with clocks will bring on the RAPTURE ! I think the question on all of our minds tonight is, are you rapture ready? I know I'm not. For one thing, my bathroom, the limescale.

I went away from the blog for a number of reasons:

1. A lack of focus
2. A lack of anything to do other than sit in my pyjamas and watch daytime tv. (There are only so many times you can write about the fascinatingly complicated and absurdly adulterous lives of midget/minority/teen mom American talk-show participants.)
3. A lack of self-discipline
4. The sin in your life

But now that I have gotten a job and you have given your life to the Lord, neuro-praxis entries may resume. Now. NO TALKING. Just let me get on with this.

So. Having gone through the long and demoralising process of job hunting and interviews, I can safely say that I have not grown as a person. I remain at the embarassing stature of five feet and eleven inches. Although, one of the more torturous interviews did involve a good stretching on a rack, all I was left with was a little pain, extra suppleness and zero dignity. Which does not the bills pay. See how I altered the syntax there for effect? I'm telling you - this woman* will go far.

Well then. I am experiencing an unorthodox feeling of contentment, and not just because it is a lazy Friday night spent watching trashy movies, eating pizza, drinking beer and setting the world to rights with K. I like my job. It is an unusual feeling. I don't even mind the commute. I haven't been paid yet, but they promised to pay me, so I am hoping that they are not liars, or that this is not a pretend company where they set up for a few weeks in your locality to trick you into two months free labour. I am also hoping that this job that I enjoy is not a candid camera scenario of some kind, where soon a man (perhaps Ashton Kutcher) will jump out at me and announce that I have been PUNK'D (evidently these Hollywood types are too busy to add that silent E). These things would be bad, and there is no guarantee that I am safe from such outcomes. I deal with these fears by keeping the head down as my old mother never did say.

More to follow. For now, I rest. It has been a relaxed and pleasant week and I need to recover.

neuro-praxis -- From Death Arisen; From Life Abducent

*me

Today's 12 Point Agenda

Hello shoppers. It's me, Mom.

The wedding with the choir went so fantastically well that we are considering going into business together and charging other hapless couples a few grand for our musical bonanza. Seriously, we are that good. I have been thinking about taking up singing professionally for a while now, what with it being my only talent. All I need is a harpist who'll do what I say and we can make big bucks in the corrupt wedding industry. Meh. We all know that I am sitting by the phone waiting to hear about my last interview. They still haven't called. Somebody play a sad tune as the tears drip from my oversized eyes. That's right. I am made of plastic. I suppose you think that's funny. Well it's not. You may have realised this before me, I don't know, I'm not a scientist.

So, we went to visit my rich parents in their enormous house where we ate bars of gold and drank only pure oil. When we weren't stuffing our faces with precious elements we were folk dancing in the lashing rain in the front garden. If you could even call it a garden, it's barely half the size of Cork. It was great, except for the single beds and the emotional and physical abuse (they're still angry about the euro changeover). In a rare moment of weakness in the midst of the visit, they gave us a bushel of money (belated wedding gift! I like those!) which we used today to buy the biggest, most fabulous mahogany bed ever known to man, no exaggeration. We purchased the booty, along with two matching lockers and a mattress that even a nun would put out for, at a low low price from my friend's brother, who owns a furniture shop. At last! A comfortable bed! That doesn't scream when you move about on it! I have said too much.

What else did we do? We walked on the beach (twice in one month? soon we will be no more than common fishermen!) and ate in a Burger King "restaurant". We saw a couple of rubbish movies, You, Me and Dupree" (a gritty drama about a would-be cop gone crazy from shell-shock) and Harsh Times (a delightful romp about a crazy friend who moves in with a couple and causes mayhem!!) That was about it. We also drank some maple coffee that Teragram brought from Canada, and I contemplated making doughnuts. Contemplation is still in progress. Oh and we lost our very expensive digital camera. All in all a regular week.

My beer machine, which will yield many litres of free beer, arrives tomorrow! Soon I will have a reason to get up in the morning. Now, I have to go, because some people are coming over tomorrow night for dinner and I need to think up some clever phrases to say to them while they are here. These are the front runners:

1. Adults have much less bones than children, because they all grow into one big bone, probably because of milk.
2. Do not get too close to the swans, they can break a man's arm.
3. Thomas Edison was dyslexic and it didn't stop him inventing the runaway train.

neuro-praxis -- Style And Comfort For The Discriminating Crotch

May The Fourth Be With You

Nobody has laughed at my geek joke, not even the major geeks, like ex-housemate Cian. I have gotten a basketful of small slaps and loud groans instead. This hurts my already injured feelings. First UCD send me that poem created by a random poem generator, suspiciously in the same vein as many a random poem generator poem produced by me, might I add, and now THIS. All a girl wants is a little ACCEPTANCE for [GENERIC SWEAR WORD]'s sake. Wise up!

So, can you believe it? The delectable Jimlad went off and got himself married to Curly Dee! That was on Saturday. I sang for them during the service, and I enjoyed that. That cheered me up a bit. Singing is good for the heart. Not literally of course. If you eat nothing but butter but sing your guts out you'll probably still get clogged arteries and have to have a triple bypass at 28. Well, that's the dream anyway. So, yes. It was a lot of fun. And we ate a lot of beef and we drank a lot of wine and champagne and we made very merry, and I even danced a lot to a bunch of Abba songs with some Dutch guys. As an afterthought, I would like to make it clear here that I was actually invited to participate in the wedding service; I didn't just stand up and join in, like that time at the National Concert Hall. In fact, the whole day was a marvellous and joyous event from top to bottom, with only one exception, being that I gave my left leg the mother of all cuts when shaving my legs that morning before we left. Luckily it's bloody torn-ness was obscured from the general public. I guess that's what happens from time to time when you regularly scrape your skin from hip to ankle with razor blades, eh? The scab is itching as I type.

Well, today is my father's birthday. He is one hundred years old.

K spent the entire day making love to computers on the kitchen floor of our house. I arrived home to find my zen-master calm state thoroughly disrupted by computer components, spread far and wide, and squirrels. For company, he said. Well, I can tolerate a lot of things, but squirrells pooping in the egg carton is the final straw. I took those squirrells and one by one I booted them up the hole and out the back door. They didn't come back. The incident got me thinking on a philosophical level about how squirrells are like little furry men, and I was sorry I had booted their holes. But what choice did I have? It was either faeces omlette or bye-bye bushies. Sometimes you've got to make tough decisions in life, and sometimes you've got to harm God's creatures. I took the road less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.

neuro-praxis -- I Can Make Your Wish Come True

Get Them On The Telefón!

Here is the thing with sentences. All sentences are potentially funny until Ed Byrne gets his oar in and butchers them. Poor Ed. He should have been a civil servant and not gotten so above hisself. At least he's grown his hair back, thank God. He was reminding me of my ex-boyfriend for a while there who had a do á la un champignon. And I don't like to be reminded of that. I haven't been able to eat a garlic mushroom since the day I left him. THANKS A BUNCH ED.

Speaking of much disliked comedians, we're planning (that's the royal WE by the way, not K and I - we don't believe in socialising together) to see that fine young man Des Bishop in Vicar Street this Christmas. His unique brand of smutty japery combined with his array of Cork accents should make for a delightfully chuckly evening. HA HA! I may say. HO HO INDEED! I may vociferate, holding onto my shaking belly. HEE HEE HEE! as a tear is wiped. And so on.

I went to an Italian restaurant tonight and ate some Italy food. It was tasty gorgeous. The sexist waitress handed the bill to my husband, who hadn't a bean. Not a bean! I paid for it all, in spite of the fact that I am a WOMAN who is not worthy of being handed the bill. I AM TOO LOWLY TO BE THE ONE WHO MIGHT PAY. The best thing about the bill was the message at the bottom. It read:

PLEASE COME BACK SOON!!!

Rather enthusiastric for such a stiff place. As we waddled out the door, full of suppli and cappricciosa, K and I immediately looked at each other and with excessive smiles and eyes a-bulging yelled, "COME BACK SOON!!!" A good bit of nodding and leaning in may also have occurred, but the police made no record of this.

BED TIME!!! (Yes, yes yes!! Oh it is!)

neuro-praxis -- A BIG BIT SLEEPY!!!

Suppa wine fer the babby

Yesterday was one of the worst days I've ever had in my life in a job. Nothing to do with my job, rather more to do with a bullying young twenty-something woman who came in and verbally abused me for twenty five minutes. I coped for about fifteen of those twenty five minutes, then I became cutting and eventually asked her to leave. The whole experience was traumatic and when she had gone I felt deeply upset and as though I had sunk to her level, or at least taken a step towards her. Today I am left with the residual bad feelings...that kind of knot that comes with deeply unfair and unproductive conflict. It's one of those times when you've got to ask yourself where your sense of self-worth lies. Oh dear. Let's hope I feel better by Monday. By then she will be making a complaint about me to my boss. That's ok, though, I like my boss. She's a reasonable person.

I sort of stumbled out of work and decided to go to the supermarket. I find supermarkets calming and therapeutic. Perhaps it's how clean and tidy they are. Perhaps it's how comforting they are...with all of those provisions just waiting to make my life more convenient. I did a full shop, taking my time, sort of pathetically hoping I would run into a friend, which is so unlike me. It wasn't that I wanted to moan about my day, rather that I wanted to see a face that wasn't hostile. Instead, I saw something rather more surreal.

I had my trolley packed and ready to go when K called. I sat down to take the call on a seat across from an empty checkout. As I was bemoaning my sorrows, a girl of about twelve sat down at the checkout with a bottle of wine, a jar of peanut butter and a box of teabags. Presumably her life was too busy for her to queue and she had decided to take care of matters herself. She persistently pushed buttons and scanned things, but nothing really happened. She resorted to pulling streams of paper out of the receipt dispenser. Eventually a nervous and incompetent member of staff said, "Pet, you're not supposed to be here." Without a word, she literally skipped off the seat and went to her mother, who was two aisles down.

I feel the need to say

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH THE BEHAVIOUR OF CHILDREN?! WILL THERE BE CHILDREN IN DAMN GOVERNMENT NEXT? WHY ARE PARENTS AFRAID TO SAY NO? WHY DO CHILDREN RULE HOUSEHOLDS AND PARENTS ACT LIKE ARSETARDS? WHY IS MY BLOOD PRESSURE SO HIGH? AND DO I HAVE TIME FOR A SHOWER BEFORE I GO OUT THIS MORNING?

NEURO-PRAXIS -- ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND MORE

And The Rain Runnin' Down

You have been waiting so long to no longer see that sperm drugs message, haven't you, and now your days of arduous clicking and hoping and clicking and hoping are ended. Let the victory party begin. First let us have a lesson from an onion in how we ought not to set our wives on fire indoors.

Calcutta Fire Marshal: Many Indian Homes Lack Bride Extinguisher

CALCUTTA, INDIA—Failure to own or use a bride extinguisher results in millions of rupees of property damage in India annually, Calcutta fire marshal Prasad Chandra said in a press conference Monday. "This tragedy occurs far too often when well-meaning husbands, attempting to collect on a dowry, ignite their brides indoors. The damage is often compounded when a burning bride attempts to escape and spreads the flames to other homes," Chandra said. "If you absolutely must burn your bride, avoid additional destruction with an affordable bride extinguisher. And, if possible, confine the burning to your backyard bride pit." He also recommended that homeowners install and periodically test marital smoke detectors.

That's the kind of practical advice we ought to be getting at church, none of this nonsense about spirituality.

Speaking of spirtuality, I wonder if my housemates would be angry if I scanned their passports and put the images on the internet.

So they're leaving me and going to India like the inconsiderate self-focused bastards that they are. What if I need somebody to talk to while K is at work?! What if I need a lift and my car is in use? What if I cook enough food for four and there are only two people to eat it? Their precious Indians are all dying of starvation while they leave two plates positively piled with the most expensive caviar right here on the table in Ireland. Their selfishness surely knows no bounds.

Right. Let's get to the bottom of business. Has anybody noticed how crap it is having a full time job that just goes on and on, day after day, week after week, month after month? Being a two month veteran managing an office in an obscure monkey procurement industry, I have decided that this is not the life for me. Pending funding, I am going back to college to do a Phd or something in bioethics. This means that I will be able to judge you if you kill your dying granny with a morphine overdose. I don't care if she deserved it or not. Consider yourself judged. AH.

I am sucking on apple drops that I bought from an old lady in a truly manky and understocked shop in Greystones. They are sticky and delicious and most likely out of date. I have been working on the bag for a few days now and I can feel my teeth decay with each one. It's wonderful. Did you ever read the Roald Dahl book where one of the little boys insists that liquorice is made out of rats? His father was a doctor or something, so he'd know. I ate my liquorice with more gusto than ever after that book.

I once wrote a poem about Roald Dahl. it was during one of my "creative" periods. During those times I wear only brightly coloured scarves and I wave incence wherever I go.

In a rare move of vulnerable bravery I will now print my poem. Your opinion is not welcome. I am quite hard enough on myself as it is, thank you.

Dahlism

Roald Dahl, if I had known you
I wouldn't have liked you.
I would have rolled my eyes
at your enthusiasm, your eccentricities
and your mannerisms, your godlessness.
And I would have been altogether aloof.

But it would have been for jealousy's sake.

Because the worst of your books
will forever surpass my finest writings.
Fruity, juicy, bursting with life,
I gobble my way through them with
wicked gluttonous peals of laughter.
Sir! You were a genius, and
I am sorry that you have died.

~~~~~

I am sorry that he's dead. I would have liked to have forced a meeting with him in some uncomfortable way. Tracked down his house, climbed the barbed wire, marched up the front door and talked my way in with lies about being a relative. Then you can get violent, they don't usually have cameras in the living rooms.

Now I'm off to smoke a few packs of Johnny Blue, one after another.

neuro-praxis -- A Toxic Bit of Kitty

HELLO CRUNCHY CHILDREN

<moan> I am SOOOO busy. </moan>

Soon, my pretties, there will be a new entry for your perusal. First, though, I must endure an embarassing tutorial on the subject of something that I have failed to read. Unfortunately the tutor knows my name so I will be forced to bluff and blag my way through some manner of a critical analysis on something about which I have not the faintest idea.

And now; now, I learn how to poach an egg. An adventure twill be! I have to do it because my friend who lives on a farm brought me four fresh eggs straight from the hen's arse! She brought them in a Rolo ice-cream carton. Imagine my disappointment when I opened it to discover four hen-shitty eggs wrapped in old newspaper! THAT WAS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.

I will be back in a few hours, you complaining bastards.

neuro-praxis -- Not Tipping Her Nose With Her Tongue

Monday Night And The Air Is Getting Hot, Pretty Baby

Christian Conferences have been eating my time like the filthy clock monsters that they are. I don't particularly object to this: I learned how to play drums (badly) o'er the course of the weekend (I don't have time to type the letter V anymore I'm that busy) and now my life is one walking rhythm and not of the circadian variety. Although, the sun has been out and nobody can deny that. It is good when the sun shines. All us pasty irish types get a brief dose of vitamin D that helps us to blossom into the kind of plants that we were meant to be. If I were a plant, I'd be a spider plant. This of course being down to the fact that I've got eight legs and a hairy back. My husband is disgusted with me but I came with a dozen fine cows that spurt out the most deliciously creamy milk twice of a day, so he wins too.

I am happily re-reading the masterpiece The Butcher Boy for my contemporary Irish literature course at the moment and I can positively feel my soul darken as I turn each page. Why do I love him so much, the little boy who murders people in pig obsessed frenzies? The voices in my head scream BECAUSE HE IS YOUR SON! But I know that this is not true probably, as I cannot remember ever having given birth. I must ask my mother. She is better at remembering things than I am, but I am better at drumming than she is. My classmates were at it again today, hovering over my desk during the lecture, rubbing my mug in it, if you will. I did not purchase those RyanAir flights, however, as the car broke over the weekend and it has transpired that I do in fact have to sell

1. one arm and
2. one leg

to afford the cost of the repairs. It was and is most disconcerting. I can no longer clap. I wave my remaining arm about repeatedly with vigour but all that I manage is *swoosh* *swoosh*. How can I show my appreciation for the general staff at Tesco's now? Their butcher packs me a little polythene bag full of mince and offers it to me at a delightfully low rate...and as I reach to applaud him, nothing happens. It's so humiliating. Likewise, the cleaning lady makes the floor sparkle, and instead of standing over her clapping as usual, I simply wave like some class of a moron from Ballykissangel.

Speaking of Ballykissangel, I was in Avoca at the weekend. YOU KNOW. THE TOWN OF AVOCA, WHERE POPULAR BRAINDEAD SERIES BALLYKISSANGEL IS SECRETLY FILMED. And I spent twelve euros and seventy cents in their "quaint" little cafe on a couple of Cokes and a rice crispie bun slice. Horrific. I said to the woman, "You have raped me." Turning pink she replied, "Er, what?" I watched her squirm and told her, "My baby will starve. [intense whisper] How do you sleep at night?" Am I lying? Only time will tell. And by time I mean witnesses. Of which there were none.

I took some nice pictures of Avoca. Here are two of them.

!fun fun fun in a stale cream bun!

Ok. So final paragraph. I suppose I owe you bastards a few more lines seeing as I've been away so long. Let's discuss the merits and pitfalls of beekeeping as opposed to the merits and pitfalls of beer. Allow me to make a chart for your perusal.

There is nothing more to be said tonight. Normal something will resume when something something.

neuro-praxis -- Now A Marxist

Changing History With Paint

Oh lá lá!

I turned on the television this morning and the first thing that I saw was (look above) Trevor (the traction engine, of cult classic children's tv show Thomas the Tank Engine) backing into his sleep tunnel or whatever the devil it is called, and Ringo Starr saying,

'Trevor closed his eyes and whispered happily, "Oh I do like children."'

Do you indeed Trevor! Well best not be mentioning that on television!

Just look at his creepy little face.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to one and forgot to mention it, and here's me, hugging it or something.

DIRTY BABY

I spent a fascinated hour watching Doctor Phil on his REVOLUTIONARY RELATIONSHIP RETREAT this morning with five pathetic couples who were trying to make it work. (The couples were on the tv show; I wasn't sitting watching it with them.) I now love Doctor Phil and his great big shiny head, and if my marriage is ever failing, I will ring him in a demanding fashion and get him to fix us by announcing COLD HARD FACTS and so on. Yay! I'm tempted to have an affair just so I can meet him. I believe that I am sufficiently screwed up in la tete to qualify for an episode. That's French for "the head"; I didn't want to say it in English in case I was accused of repeating myself in this paragraph. And if I am not sufficiently screwed up, I am sure that there is a series of acts that I can commit that will suggest otherwise.

When I woke up today the ground was covered with snow. GRAND SOFT DAY THANK GOD. What does that MEAN?!

SONG ABOUT LUNCH

(sing it to the tune of Oh When the Saints Go Marching In)

Oh when it's time
To eat the lunch
Oh when it's time to eat the lunch
I want to be
The one who eats it
When it's briefly after brunch

Oh when it's time
To eat the lunch
Oh when it's time to eat the lunch
I want to be
The one who eats it
When it's briefly after brunch

--Tomorrow, a song about the injustice of the housemates having eaten the can of spaghetti, and the bloodshed that ensued.

neuro-praxis -- Has Not a Jot Of Intention Of Getting Dressed Today

We Left The External Examiner Gagged and Bound in the Corner

And he liked it.

Well now.

I have completed five of my six exams, GOLD STAR FOR ME PLEASE. Well actually, I should probably be collecting my silver star right now, and get the gold one when I have completed the sixth.

PET HATE

The way that people from the north pronounce "sixth" as SICKTH. Wtf? Sickth? I'll sickth you in a minute, you sickth bathtard.

I'm giddy. I did two exams today and am running on a few moments of sleep snatched between them. Hey, who needs to sleep during the night? That scarf I'm knitting is getting quite long.

Ah, who am I kidding? That scarf is probably eight inches long right now. You can knit and you can knit, all through the night, while your husband interrupts your knitting with incoherent mumblings (yes, he's a night talker), but damnit, that scarf just doesn't get long fast enough.

We are pondering the possibility of a date tonight. I am desperately in need of some decompression. To quote the god of teenage boys, I am so tight that if you stuck a piece of coal up my arse in a week you'd have a diamond.

Of course, he said "ass" and not "arse", because a four letter word was too expensive for such a small budget movie.

Also he wasn't talking about me. He was talking about Cameron, his best friend. But that's not what's important. What's important is that my diamond manufacturing business is finally underway. Soon I will be rich, rich enough to afford sixteen letter words in my movies.

neuro-praxis -- Will Be Back Hopefully With Quality

Swallowing Misery In Just Two Chews

I found out today how much chilli is too much chilli. I made a paste for a stir fry by blending several cloves of garlic, an onion, a nugget of ginger and four red chillis. With some orange juice. And now my husband is dead. But before he died his eyes bled.

All that happened to me was my sinuses cleared up. Score.

Speaking of clear sinuses, if you suffer from the kinds of nasal blockages that I do, taking a hasty glance at the website of my good pal Philip should clear them up nicely for you. Make sure to explore all links. It's a thing of rare beauty. It certainly brought a tear to mine eye.

On the topic of talented web designers, I had a brief chat with Dave earlier. Dave's main ambition is to make all vegetarians turn omnivore again. He'll achieve this by saying that if they don't eat a burger, he'll kill a puppy.

[Dave] I had an idea for a song about "Joey".

[neuro_praxis] Joey who?

[Dave] "Joey", the new hit TV sensation starring Matt LeBlanc!

[neuro_praxis] Oh.
[neuro_praxis] I didn't see the first episode.

[Dave] Well, I hate to spoil it for you, but the joke is that Joey is stupid.

[neuro_praxis] AH HA HA HA.
[neuro_praxis] yeu surrprized meh!!

[Dave] There is a man, he lives in my TV
[Dave] His name is Joey
[Dave] He is really dumb
[Dave] That is the joke
[Dave] El O El.
[Dave] That's the first verse.

[neuro_praxis] Brilliant.
[neuro_praxis] Keep going.

[Dave] I think the chorus will be "El O El" repeated a couple of times.
[Dave] There is a woman, she lives in my TV
[Dave] The sister of Joey
[Dave] She too is dumb
[Dave] Again, the joke
[Dave] El O El

[neuro_praxis]...
[neuro_praxis] The tune better be good.

[Dave] BURN.
[Dave] You're mean.

[neuro_praxis] No.
[neuro_praxis] I'm tactless.
[neuro_praxis] On purpose.
[neuro_praxis] Oh.
[neuro_praxis] I guess you're right.
[neuro_praxis] Savour the moment.

neuro-praxis -- Collecting Her Widow's Pension With Gusto

PRAY...FOR...MOJO

If I was a SMALL HELPER MONKEY (called Mojo), that is what I would ask you to do. Why? because I am having writer's block. It is frightening. My thesis is due on Friday and there ain't really nothing doing.

Instead, I have been amusing myself with my new camera. It is very beautiful, and has ten times optical zoom. I have been taping myself walking around the house and photgraphing the milk spillages on the table.

I am a ball of edgy stress. I tell my woes to anyone who will listen. I am a tiresome hindrance, and possibly a minor MENACE TO SOCIETY. I am also what is technically known as "a bore" and I believe I may have forgotten how to swim as several fruitless days have passed without me getting into the pool.

TIME FOR A LUNCH ANECDOTE HA HA HA

I had lunch with Ciarán the other day and fancied a bit of the "vegetarian option". It was described by the dinner ladies in the canteen as "honey roasted vegetables on a bed of cous-cous". It was in fact a large, cheap plate of slop drowning in "honey sauce" which was entirely inedible. One bite and I retched: no joke. While contemplating what tone of voice I would take whilst complaining about the "food", Ciarán suggested that I mould my food into the shape of a swastika with clever fork action and then bring it back and say, "This is a very offensive meal to my people and therefore I cannot eat it". I thought it was very funny (in fact the tears poured down my face as I stood bent double, sort of screaming and coughing out our little joke) but the dinner ladies did not. LOOK I CAN'T HELP IT IF I GOT A FREE EDUCATION. My father hasn't been in full time employment for eleven years, you know. I ain't got no Newbridge cutlery up my bottom! No siree! (Although I may have a hammer.)

Well.

Shelley's boyfriend on Coronation Street is certainly turning out to be one nasty bugger, eh?

OH GOD THIS IS EXCITING

Today, MAJOR dreamo spectaculario-ho-ho was realised for LuckyHusband and LuckyMe:

**!!CAR!!**

Yus!

I can't say much more. WE GETTED ONE AND WE OWNS IT!

It's wunna dese, so tis. 1994, dark green, Ford Escort in PERFECT I say PERFECT NICK. Only ours is a five door, not a three, like the crummy one in the pitcher there.

We searched and we hunted; we ran about with binoculars on and waving sticks about and all we saw were GREAT HEAPING PILES OF STEAMING CAR JUNK for which people wanted muchos moulos. NO WAY HOSEA.

Then we found this BUTE (short for beauty - classic Dublin-man-saying e.g., "Cwooaarr, that's a bute!") and now we have excessive freedom for going to the cinema late at night. I AM UNREASONABLY DELIRIOUS ABOUT THIS.

We have named it "Aiya" which is Arabic for "God's blessed gift". Slightly fancy for a Ford Escort but that's what she is. : )

There is an ad on the television for lipstick that acts like a tattoo. It seems that once it's on, it stays on. I must drive to the chemist to get one at once because GOODNESS KNOWS THAT'S WHAT A GIRL NEEDS. You would certainly want to put it on straight. And what if it got on your teeth? There are endless problems with this "tattoo lipstick". Rimmell or l'Oreal or whoever are obviously a bunch of lime-sucking idiots.

SCREW BUSES HURRAH

Ground Control to Major Tom

I was delighted to receive an email today from Major Tom, a security officer under the former Liberian president, who wishes for me to mind the princely sum of €11.1 million in my bank account (although, he'll understand if I need to spread it over three) for a wee while as he tries to sort out his tax problems, or whatever. My favourite line from the mail:

"Having got great affection and absolute appreciation for your human and personality, I wish to contact you for absolute help."

Well...I'm not one to blow my own trumpet, but I do have a wonderful human and personality. My absolute help will be on its way to Major Tom faster than you can say "David Bowie is a trannie".

I got my credit card bill today, the first since my wedding/honeymoon. As soon as I stop crying I'll be donning one of my housemate's raggedy jumpers to sit outside Central Bank in Templebar to collect the minimum payment. (Big Issue, please?) I have found that takings increase if you rub a little soil on the face here and there. If this fails, I will simply withdraw a little of that €11.1 million currently resting in my accounts. Major Tom will never notice...the interest will cover whatever I take.

I don't get embarassed about much. I'm even used to my father telling racist jokes at this point. But this afternoon I sent an, er, racy message intended for K, to a friend. Oh dear. Luckily she assumed it was just my sense of humour...I'm not sure what that says about me. I redfacedly cleared up my mistake to which she sadly replied..."Oh. I thought I was onto a good thing there."

If K ever tried to have an affair, it would be a rotten failure, because he, in contrast to my blunder, sends all text messages intended for his other friends, to me. Daily I get "Hi Andy, sure thing, see you Sat" or something similar. He even gives my number to other people from time to time when they ask for his. My number has obviously been branded into his brain. I take a deep satisfaction from this knowledge.

It has only recently come to my attention what a bloody crackpot WB Yeats was. He married some chick when he was fifty years old (still not over Maud Gonne and her daughter though!) with whom he had little revelatory quadi-spiritual seance-type sessions, where she revealed to him truths of the cosmos, which then acted as his inspiration for his later work. Totally crackers stuff.

A couple of weeks ago I read his poem, "Leda and the Swan" based on the Greek myth where Zeus, the king of the Gods, rapes the woman Leda, in swan form. Yeats manages to imply that Leda is enjoying the rape...which is of course the mentality that a rapist/paedophile often has regarding their victims.

Well, what woman wouldn't enjoy a good rodgering from a big old swan?

Speaking of dressing up as animals, along with my credit card today, came a little notice from my church, inviting me to a Hallowe'en party. With glee I began to plan our costumes...corrugated cardboard, sellotape and white paint would build me a socket costume, and K, a plug. How amusing! My hopes were dashed when K came home and pointed out that it was a party for the church children...an alternative to wandering the streets and burning the arses off themselves with cheapy fireworks bought on Henry Street.

The disappointment is overwhelming.