things that piss me off


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Public toilets.

Just before Christmas we went to the girls presentation night (yeah they are smart, rool smart like, comes from the postman, no not the postman he is like 90… that really hot guy at the video store…. wait he is like, 20, so he would have been 3 or 4 when Moo was conceived….. eww, eww, eww…. move on Kelley, move on…. Must have skipped 6 or so generations, yeah that’ll work) and as it was eleventy billion miles away, by the time I got there I was in serious need of a bit of micturition* action.

So I waddle to the loos. Oh yeah, I was in dire need baby.

Open the door, place looks relatively clean (it is at an Arts Centre so hard to tell what is rubbish and what is art) so I go in, thighs quivering, cause I have to be desperate to use a public loo.

The place is empty. I pick a stall and, well, you know….. I am not going to spell it out to you, I am sure there are plenty of sites on the net you can find if you want more intimate details. Pick someone wearing a black knee length skirt and fab shoes to make the experience more real.

OK, now we have got rid of the freaks, where was I?

Oh yeah, thighs a-quiver, find stall…..

Someone walks in. And picks the fucking stall RIGHT NEXT TO ME! Eight hundred empty stalls and she plonks her fat arse next to mine.

And starts farting.

Oh yeah. Long melodic stinky bastards from the hounds of hell. Something crawled up her arse, or was inserted, and was decomposing.

The door opens. Someone else walks in….

and you guessed it. Right. Next. To. Me.

And she starts sighing as she is urinating. Real happy kinda sigh, ifyouknowwhatImean.

I guess she really likes to urinate. A lot. Cause she went for ever.

Tinkle, sigh, tinkle, sigh.

Her friend on the other side of me playing the trombone with her arse.

Me in the middle with stage fright. And thinking, I am so blogging this. While holding my nose.

Why, oh, why do people DO that? When you go to the doctors people do anything to ensure that there is a chair in between them and a stranger (and a whole fucking row if I am there with Boo, cause apparently flapping your arms and singing are communicable diseases) but when it comes to a public loo, the more intimate the better.

Especially if you need to move your bowels. Come sit next to me and share.

Now I do know that sometimes there is only one available, or even a line (guys are so lucky, they rarely have to line up to urinate) and that is fine. But when the room is empty, give the chick next to you some space OK?

I have considered making a sign. ‘Out Of Order’ for the stalls next to me if there are plenty vacant. Or getting me some bouncers to stand either side of the stall. While I am at it one to wipe the seat for me too, maybe warm it as well….

Or, seeing Boo is about to graduate to adult nappies (diapers) perhaps I should just swipe a few of them should the need arise?

* I googled the spelling (cause I wasn’t sure, but I was right. Cause I am awesome) and got this. OMG I am peegasming all over the place.

‘Post-micturition convulsion syndrome, also known as piss shivers, pee shivers, peegasm or whiz willies, is a phenomenon in which one feels a shiver running down the spine following urination.[1] The shiver can produce a brief twitch, which is a form of myoclonus.’

from Wikepedia. Click here to read the whole ‘article’.

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Those of you looking for the foul spewing of venom I promised on Aussie Bloggers yesterday, you will be disappointed. I have decided not to post it. It was too nasty and if MPS the person it was directed to read it I would be divorced in trouble….. I was really really pissed. I am glad I decided to wait till I had calmed down before posting it. Thanks Wendy from FIA. You made me think twice…..

It’s done.

Despite the best efforts of the universe to prevent it’s erection (*snigger* I said erection…. shuddup, I am delirious) the cubby is finally up.

Apparently you don’t need instructions, or the right amount of materials, or pre warning that you will need specialist drill bits, a kick arse professional strength drill and a circular saw to complete it.

Apparently no one has sued them before for false advertising.

Apparently it takes 2 people 2 hours to erect it *snigger*.

In reality it took 4 adults, 15 hours to put up.  Well, actually 3 adults 6 hours to put the base up wrong, 1 hour to dismantle and then the remainder putting it up right.

one-wall-up.jpg

See that?  Only about 3 foot too tall.  Would they listen to me?  Noooooo.  They actually erected *snigger* the whole fucking base and then realised that they could actually stand under it and then went oops.

There were injuries:

blood.jpg

MPS got a splinter.  Awww, poor baby.

There was night time drilling and hammering.  With lots of beer.  And singing.  And gnashing of jaws and thumping of chests.  I went inside.  I don’t drink beer. Or like hearing my husband, brother and father singing to Pink.

night-time-building.jpg

And pizza at 10pm.

And more beer.

And then start all over again in the morning.  Well, after breakfast.  At 12pm.  Hmmm.

And more beer.

Apparently drills only work if my brother has beer.

And then at 7.30pm tonight they downed tools.

It was finished.

front-cubby-finished.jpg

There was a round of applause.  And gasps of ‘FUCK it’s HUGE!’

finished-cubby-side.jpg

Boo decreed it to be the best present ever.  Well I told him to say that.  Gotta use that freaking echolalia to your advantage.  I am ‘the best Mummy ever’ and ‘Gawd Daymn Gorgeous’ too.  It’s true!  Boo says so.

Tonight there has been a flurry of activity in our driveway.  Kids I have never seen before and the neighbours children all congregating and peering down our driveway.  Hoping for an invite I expect.

Should I charge admission?

Half the cubby is here.

The other half is sitting in a loading bay somewhere in Melbourne.

The fucking courier didn’t pick it up. Thursday. They were supposed to pick it up on Thursday.

Delivery yesterday.

They are not answering their phones.

Now we won’t get it till after the New Year.

So who is going to explain to a nine year old with Autism, who has only just starting understanding the whole fucking Santa thing, WHY he is not getting a Christmas present.

I can’t stop crying.

It’s not fair.

Fuck you suck Murphy.

Me-fucking-oow.

We bought Boo a cubby for Christmas.

This one.

Now look at the picture.  What do you think we get for our fucking $1100.

monsterfort.jpg

The top.

Not the poles, not the sandpit underneath and no freaking way are we getting the slide and God Forbid that ladder.

I am pissed.

But not pissed enough to actually fight for my rights it seems.

Cause I am a pussy.

I was all ‘Oh, OK, I just assumed it came with everything pictured for 1 fucking GRAND for that price.  Can I order them?  Oh, OK, yes I understand you need to take a break.  Sometime around the end of January? No fucking WAY! Well that is sort of…… oh OK.  I can go down and get it from the supplier you say? Not unless they are open between 2 and 3am cause that is the only time I have an opening in my calender. Umm, don’t know if I can do that.  Can’t they courier it up?  Oh, no they can’t then….OK.  I guess that is OK.  Yes I will come and pick up the stupid freaking half cubby ASAP.  Thanks.’

Click.

What the fuck happened there?  What is wrong with me?  No it isn’t OK!!!!

OK, jump on the internet and look up the supplier.  Call them.

‘Hi, I have just bought one of your Forts and it looks like from the brochure  that it comes with everything shown.  But I have just found out it doesn’t so I need to order it.  Oh.  Yes I understand it is close to Christmas, but you see…… yes… yes….. I know orders have closed but if you have them in stock can I buy the elevation kit and accessories and get you to courier them to me? I will have to pick it up if you deign to sell me one if you have it? Can’t you send it up?  I won’t be able to drive a 4 or more fucking hour round trip with petrol at $1.49 a litre when it would be cheaper and easier for me for you to mail it  to get there during your opening hours.   Oh, OK you want my phone number and will get back to me OK.’

Click.

I am such a freaking pussy.

Waiting near the phone.  Hovering over the phone.  Standing staring at the phone.  The cordless phone that I could actually pick up and walk around with.

No they didn’t call.

Mario-porn-star comes home.  Ask him to call.

They have no record of my call.

Fuck.

Will have to try again on Monday.

Oh please God, Allah, Goddess, my wonderful internets, please please make sure that all the bits I need are here in time for Christmas.

I will be good.  I won’t swear for like 15 minutes or something.  Or how about I won’t buy any new shoes for the rest of the YEAR!

Just please make this happen for my little guy.  It will be the ultimate.

Oh and can you help me find this stupid freaking thing:

images.jpeg  It is called Hyper Dash and all the stores are sold out.

It is ALL he wants for Christmas.  He has never asked Santa for anything before.  So if you could organise for it to fall in my lap I would, like, be rool happy and shit.

Ta.  Smootches.

Oh and P.S.  make the biatch who fucked this up for me get a huge zit on her arse forcing her to wear loose pants and stand all day.  Then have it burst painfully.  That would be awesome.

Oh and perhaps give me some balls for Christmas.  Looks like I could use ’em.

Arseholes.

I have just spent the last 2 hours visiting some of your blogs. But my speed was hindered by the fact that fucking Blogger has changed the commenting rules.

Bastards.

When I visit your blog I want you to know that it was me. Some of you know me as Kelley, some as Magnetobold. So when I go to your blog you just need to click on the name to see ‘who the fuck is Kelley?’ and realise it is that mad Magnetobold chick without the Christmas scented nether regions.

But you can’t now can you.

Cause fucking Blogger changed the rules. So I have to manually add my blog addy, instead of just typing ‘H’ and it comes up.

Rat-fuck-son-of-a-bitch.

It is pissing me off no end. But there is a solution!!!! Yay for solutions!!!!

After chatting to Meg and Ree and posting to the WordPress forums I can give you Blogger bloggers a solution to stop me (and other commenters, cause they might be important to you..) getting my knickers in a knot.

Meg the amazing pointed me to this post where people were discussing the problem.

Ree uses this commenting form,

It is Haloscan. And the added bonus is commenters need to provide an email addy (like with WordPress that is never revealed to anyone but the blogger) so you can privately contact someone if need be, or if you prefer. IT ROCKS!!

So come on guys, stop Blogger from taking the option of linking to blogs that are not Blogger and also trying to get us all to register blogger blogs and check out Haloscan.

Or come over to WordPress 🙂

Who is this asshole, and why does he get to write the laws.

Tell me where he lives and I will drive my spiked heel through his temple. Or spinal column.  He can choose cause I am nice like that.  Not like him.  Bastard.

Two days ago I was complaining about Summer (complaining?  Yes.  Surprising isn’t it that I would complain about something being the breezy happy chick that I am…) and I said:

“How about I fucking despise Summer, more than pregnancy hormone induced hemorrhoid’s and even more than when my coffee machine expired.”

(any English teachers out there?  Do I have to do quotations when I am quoting myself?)

Well guess what happened today?  Oh yes my lovely internets, the new just-an-interim-cheap-jobbie-cause-I-am-a-cheap-bastard coffee machine my husband bought in September, during that horribly expensive week of take out coffee 3 times a day, fucking blew up!

Well not literally.  It wouldn’t work.  It exploded into pieces when I hurled the heap of shit across the room.

Well not literally.  But I did give it a good smack.  Mums these days have to smack appliances to get out their frustrations.  Not like in my Mums day when kids were regularly belted around the head for the indiscretions of white goods.

My head is pounding.  My hands are shaking.  The washing is piling up (cause that is the coffee machine’s fault) and the kids are talking at me but I can’t hear anything.

Cause BLOOD is coursing through my veins.  Not caffeine. And my body can’t handle that shit.

I haven’t said anything to the kids.  They are still traumatised from the last time.  But they know something is up.  Mummy is not happy and I just announced that we are having take away for dinner.  On. A. Thursday.

‘Oooh what are we having?  Can we have Chinese or Subway?’ asked Too excitedly

‘I. Don’t. Care.’ I muttered through gritted teeth, my head pounding from the withdrawl and every word pulsing in my head.  The headache has started.  The shakes will happen soon, and they will have to lock me in the bathroom to prevent me stuffing coffee beans up my arse.

Cause that is the fastest way to get something in your system, idiot.  I am not that kinky.

I have eaten the coffee flavoured icecream in the freezer.  It was just flavoured, no freaking buzz from that.

I toyed with the idea of making an instant *shudder* cause I keep that shit for guests cause some freakshows don’t like the real stuff. Like those heathens that I gave birth to that prefer  easter egg chocolate and that plastic shit that they call chocolate in Advent calendars to real (caffeine filled) chocolate……..

HANG ON!!!!!!!!!!  OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HANG ON!

*sob* looks like the biatches will eat the good stuff if the crap is not available.

Oh Gaggia Gods!  Why have you forsaken me?

So is a broken coffee machine rendering me caffeine-less or Summer worse?

Ask me tomorrow.  Or maybe don’t.  Cause I will be even worse in the morning.

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