Wanted
Looking for a Genie based in Sydney. Do not require blue skin, although much preferred. Needs to be available at all times, and have at least two wishes ready to go. No time wasters please.
I’ll begin this post by patting myself on the back. No I didn’t reclaim my spot. I was not first on the train today, but I did finish a strong second, nevertheless. I’ll be the first to admit that the man in the pinstriped suit who beat me simply wanted it more. If it wasn’t for my razor sharp reflexes, his swinging suitcase may have completely taken me out of the race, full stop. But no, I held my ground fending off an old woman from brushing ahead and claiming silver. In fact, my fend ended up costing her third place. It was that effective.
I firmly believe you’ve got to have your little victories in life. If being first on the train isn’t one of them, then being first into the elevator should be. BING. Here goes.
Passenger left in the car with the windows up. Driver said ‘I’ll be back in 5’ and never returned. Passenger ended up bored to the bone without the music on.
Things took a turn for the worse this morning at the train station. Just last week I was bathing in the glory being first on the train. After months of research, I had discovered the exact spot on the platform where the train doors stopped and opened. Today, I was ambushed by a gang of commuters who arrived early and used their brute force to defend a position on the platform, previously owned by me.
I guess they had spent their whole weekend studying my strategic positioning, capitalising on my hard work. You know an average person would just stand back and accept defeat. After all, you can’t always be first on the train. Not me. I will be first on the train again. Stay tuned.
Helping someone move into their apartment can be frustrating, to say the least. They want their couch here, then over there. Perhaps the bookcase should face the window, or not? Helping someone move into a new body is worse.
Patient: Please be gentle with that. I was on the waiting list for 3 whole years to get this heart.
Doctor: Eh, sorry. Ah, where would you like it?
Patient: Somewhere in the chest, obviously.
Doctor: Of course. I didn’t realize how small your body was going to be. Nurse!
Nurse: Yes Doctor?
Doctor: Can I get a hand here?
Patient: Careful. It’s vintage and very fragile. I got it from an older gentlemen who was overweight and rarely exercised.
Nurse: We’ll be extra gentle…
Doctor: Let’s just get this thing done, here goes. One two three, lift!
Patient: Right, now if you could just put it down just over here by the lungs, a little lower. Wait, no. A fraction to the right, no no no the right. You’re veering left. Careful! You’re going to break it, you idiots!
Doctor: The heart generally goes over on the left.
Patient: Who’s heart is it? I’ll decide where it goes thank you very much
Nurse: I happen to agree with the Doctor…
Patient: It’s my body and I can put it where I want. Less talk, more moving. We’ve got a whole body to move here, chop chop.
Doctor: Right, scalpel
Nurse: This is going to be a tight squeeze.
Doctor: Just to be sure, you do want it on the right?
Patient: For Christ’s sake yes.
Doctor: Most people just like it where it normally goes. It may not beat very well here.
Nurse: How about we just put it down for a second, my arms are sore.
Patient: I’m not paying you to take breaks, operate god dammit!
Nurse: It’s super slippery…
Patient: You know what, I have an idea, if it’s not too much trouble. Put it down in my stomach for the time being. Let’s see what it looks like there.
Doctor: Well… I guess. I mean, you’re kind of bleeding out here.
Patient: I’ve got plenty of money if that’s what you mean.
Nurse: I think he meant, like, blood. You’re dying.
Patient: Oh right! Let’s get a move on then. I’ll need you to take the private parts labelled ‘fragile’ downstairs, immediately. I have a guest coming around for dinner and things could get exciting, if you know what I mean?
Nurse: Yes, right. The private parts. Doctor, would you mind?
Doctor: Of course. Now where would you like it? Your penis, that is.
Patient: Downstairs with the testicles, naturally.
Doctor: Can offer a suggestion?
Patient: Okay.
Doctor: What if we had it on display?
Nurse: Great idea!
Doctor: How about the forehead?
Patient: That sounds perverted.
Nurse: No, no. It will really go with your face.
Patient: I’m not so sure…
Doctor: Nurse. Gaffa tape.
Nurse: Right away Doctor.
Doctor: Let’s strap this little guy to your head, whatdya say?
Patient: If it looks wrong, we’re moving it back.
Doctor: Got it. Glue.
Nurse: Wow. It’s a natural fit.
Patient: I guess it does get a better view from up here.
Doctor: Exactly, why would you want it stuck in the basement?
Patient: Hmm.
Nurse: It suits you.
Patient: You don’t think people will see it and think I’m a bit of an exhibitionist?
Nurse: Or dickhead.
Patient: Right… dickhead.
Doctor: It’s a little late for that.
The Australian Socceroos are out of The World Cup, which could mean 2 things.
1. The media will discover that there are actually other countries playing in The World Cup.
2. The media will stop reporting on The World Cup full stop. Unless they’re talking up Australia’s chances for 2018.
After many months, I figured out where to stand at the train station so that the doors open right in front of me. It’s an amazing feeling, first on the train. Kind of like discovering a back road to avoid traffic, or a slippery dip that takes you to Paris in 12 mins.
So I broke up with my Gmail account. Things had been rocky for a little while, and we were rarely connecting; but they had never been this bad. In my defence, my Gmail account was sensitive and didn’t like CAPS; It reminded me of this everyday when logging in. Despite our many years together, I was still being asked to confirm that I had the right address. In truth, after re-entering my password several times, I started to question why I even bothered.
Once I was reluctantly granted access to my inbox, I could feel the tension mount at my fingertips. Gmail refused to open any of my attachments and took it’s time to empty the trash. It apologised, blaming the delay on my poor internet connection, but I knew it had nothing to do with the internet connection. Gmail was corrupting my incoming messages for weeks. It had an attitude problem and I was well over the ‘wifi’ excuses.
It wasn’t long before an argument started. I screamed expletives at the screen, while Gmail gave me the silent treatment, appearing offline. Then I began to upload extremely large files, giving it the finger, so Gmail crashed. We called each other names, firing insults back and forth like children.
I started out by making fun of its initial, “I bet you the G stands for goofy, or better yet Glob! Since you’re so fat, lazy and slow. I guess I should call you Globmail, or how about Mr. Gsnail – because you’re no longer a mailbox but a snailbox.”
A few moments passed before it managed a comeback. ‘Temporary error (505)’ It bleeps. ‘Chris-piss, in other words’ Bleeping again. Our session timed out.
Several Hours Later
It was 3am before I sat down with my laptop again; I logged into my account first time, without any trouble or delay. My inbox was generally calm at this hour of the morning, so we decided to work through our unresolved issues from earlier. Gmail explained why it was acting out.
‘You’ve been using another email provider haven’t you? I’ve heard it’s hot. Don’t try to deny it.’ It bleeped.
‘That’s what this is about? So what if I am. I’m a user by nature.’ I typed. ‘Maybe you can’t handle all of my mail.’
With this Gmail shut down, sobbed, and didn’t bleep at all. We sat in silence for a moment. I avoided eye contact by staring at the icons on my desktop, the screen dimmed.
‘It’s hotmail that your using isn’t it? That dirty little mailbox! I hope you end up with a virus, that’ll teach you.’ Gmail bleeped.
‘It’s nothing serious. I only use hotmail as a back up address anyway, all of my trash goes there: junk mail, crappy subscriptions and spam!’ I insist, reinforcing with an exclamation mark. ‘I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of that stuff. You’re my important email account’
Gmail maximised, instantly refreshing it’s screen.
‘Why don’t you just put me down as your only email address, for all of that stuff? I can do it, It’s my job you know. From now on I’d like us to be monogamous. I want to handle all of your mail, the serious stuff and the junk. I can help you filter through it all. Gmail is good like that.’
I agreed to consolidate, compile and direct all of my mail to the one address; Gmail was pleased. It flashed and bleeped simultaneously. Hotmail’s wasn’t really that crash hot anyway. We talked about our future together; how we planned to open larger and larger attachments. By midnight we were organising my Google calendar. Gmail believed we could be far more productive in the coming year, and I agreed. I had been a mail cheat, but together we were overcoming my infidelity. For awhile there our emails had never been better.
Meanwhile, my unused hotmail account was left alone to manage the mountains of unopened spam cluttering it’s inbox: pestering newsletters, chain mail and deal of the day sites continued to challenge it’s storage capacity on a daily basis. When hotmail discovered what was going on it was understandably livid. Admittedly, my behaviour had been misleading; Setting up ninemsn as my homepage gave hotmail the false impression that I would eventually leave Gmail for good.
As a security measure, I only ever provided hotmail with limited access to my personal information. Additionally, I go out of my way to avoid the ninemsn page. It does make me feel a little guilty, but it’s just an email address for Christ’s sake.
Twelve Months On
For Christmas, I was lucky enough to receive a Macbook Pro, and introduced to it’s numerous applications. One in particular caught my attention. At first glance, it was both an attractive and impressive concept. It promised to open up my storage capacity and allow access through all of my devices, wirelessly. It was called iCloud, and it was fancy. I was propositioned with a new email address right there and then:chrisbrailey@icloud.com. I’m not going to lie, I was excited about the prospect of my mail living in a cloud, even though it kind of always did. iCloud’s persuasiveness and slick design had won me over, despite it’s lack of experience with mail.
Then we started working together. At first, it was just a few emails back and forth with new clients that weren’t familiar with my Gmail account. However, just as those projects began to flourish, so too did my relationship with iCloud. I realised just how close we’d gotten when a girl at a bar asked me for my email. Without hesitation, I gave her my iCloud address. At first, it felt a little weird. Did this mean we were going steady? If I had any doubt it was certainly put to rest when I received my first non-work related email: my iPhone lit up, and made a new sound that I’d never even heard before. I guess you could say it was blushing.
I forwarded my new address on to everybody I knew. The update wasn’t exactly well received. For a while there, I tolerated my fair share of criticism from friends and colleges who couldn’t believe I’d made the switch. They loved Gmail, and saw no reason to change; despite the fact Gmail was planning to crush your privacy by opening it’s doors to ads, scammers, and strangers who didn’t even have your address! Gmail was practically going to start selling off my details behind my back. I guess it never really got over the whole hotmail fling.
Months flew by before Gmail realised it’s role had minimized; It gradually began to manage fewer important messages and an increased volume of unopened spam. My iPhone was happy that I’d tied the knot with iCloud, and held an integrated celebration for us on iTunes. So I’m a mail cheat again, but this time it’s different; iCloud may even be the one.
They were slowly melting down the street, two determined ice-creams: a Bubble O’ Bill and the remains of a chocolate Paddle Pop. Up ahead, a lemon flavoured Calippo had already dried up and was stuck to the ground, It’s sugary scent filling the air with sweet death. Beside it, a half-eaten Golden Gaytime crumbled in the heat, no longer frozen or so gay.
The ice-creams had escaped from the freezer of a local convenience store, after developing a phobia for being licked. In hindsight, they had began to regret their decision, and envied the frozen ones who had stayed behind. The tyrant sun was defeating them with very little effort; softening their bodies with each burning second. Their once vibrant wrappers began to fade in the sun, along with their dignity. This was much worse than being licked to death, thought the Bubble O’ Bill, whose bubble gum nose remained solid and intact.
As the afternoon sun came down the formerly frozen ice-creams grew sticky. They proceeded to be licked to death, except not by humans but ants instead. The Bubble O’ Bill looked at his packaging and then over at the Paddle Pop, who was now liquified and pronounced, ‘We were made by Streets and we will melt on the streets.’
Absurd By The Word 