Yes we can!

I simply loved the fact that everybody, including a part of myself – the nasty left-hand side that should never see the light of day – had written Susan off before she uttered a single note, and yet, when she opened her mouth, she sang like an angel.

It just goes to show that you should never read a book by it’s cover – unless of course the cover has missiles or black pointy planes or people pointing guns at each other, because then it’s bound to be crapola!

So if Susan can wait until she’s forty-eight to have her dreams finally realised then so can I.

Just have to work out what the thing is that I’m meant to be doing!

Ms this-Aussie’s-got-talent M.

Death: the not so silent killer

Sure we all know that what goes up must come down and what goes around comes around, but what sound comes out when you go upside down, turned by boys, and never to resurface again?

Apparently the popular usuals when standing there at the lip watching them slip away are ‘My Way’ (or the highway), ‘Wind beneath my legs’, and ‘Another one bites the dust (and if only he had dusted more often, then there would have been far less dirt munching).

But surely there must be better tunes to mark the passing of a life reasonably well lived.

When I eventually suffer a fatal heart attack at the age of 103 after being expertly massaged by Enrico the pool boy (as opposed to Enrico Palatazo the great tenor), I would like the thousands of mourners with their placards of why did she have to die so young, listening to the strains of one of the following songs:

Lucy in the sky with diamonds – William Shatner
Always look on the bright side of life – Monty Python
I’ll be mellow when I’m dead – Weird Al Yankovic
The theme to ‘I dream of Jeannie’
My heart will go on – Celine Dion.

I should clarify that the only reason why Celine is in there is because even in death I’m a sadistic bitch.

Ms another-one-rides-the-bus M.

In Rod we trust

So this is why I can only find boys and not men in Melbourne, as all the well-hung members are off cavorting in Japan!

Forget about Easter and Christmas and worshipping mothers or Boxing Day specials; National Penis Appreciation Day is what we all should be clamouring to see!

The only snag that’s not well adorned is that it seems to be celebrated on the other side of the hemisphere, so the almighty M plan is currently being amended to include the Australiafication of this holiest of days. There will be puppetry of the penis, penis duels, penis painting, and of course penis rides.

Being the coordinator of all things phallic means that I will have the arduous task of auditioning these prospective rods.

It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to ‘do’ it.

Ms prepping-for-the-‘p’ M.

Typical Tuesday

Thursday was fine, Friday bordered on good, and Saturday was decent enough.

Sunday started off as ‘good’ and then slipped back into ‘ok’ by around three.

All of which meant that Monday was my last chance from five sets of twenty-four that were supposed to rejuvenate the aging lobes that is Ms M.

The closest I got was a half-hour block on Monday night; some time after dinner and before Sarah Lee time, where I took a walk as the sun knocked off, and I almost felt like the human being I was before the nine to five grind.

A mere half an hour to regain the four-month long summer vibe that was the me of yesteryear.

Where’s a defective Zoltan machine when you need one?

Ms fourth-form M.

Reasonable Thursday

The weather is fantastic.

Or at least it is on the other side of the heavily glazed window three inches from the edge of my desk.

I can see the stark blues of the sky and the stillness of the leaves, but not even the twenty-something degrees of warmth can make it through to this side of the window.

The only thing keeping me from licking the windows is the thought of being free for four whole days.

Fours days to get out there and do whatever I want.
Four days to reinvent myself and cook like a sous-chef.
Four days to rewrite the history according to M, four days to find Mr Right.
Four days to loose those extra inches around my thighs.
Four days to unwind and recharge.

What’s the bet I don’t even leave the couch?

Ms sleepyhead M.

Call of the mild

So it’s official, I’m a cougar.

Well not so much a cougar as a wannabe cougar, or more like a meerkat, because as much as I’d like to be taking advantage of younger and svelter male species of the animal kingdom, at this stage it’s only my age and desire that permits me to qualify.

Perhaps I should place an ad in the local newspaper seeking well-endowed tradies to come over and play with my plumbing, who in turn could be compensated with above average swooning and sub-standard sex.

The again I could just have a Harrison Fordathon and get sponsorship from Duracell.

Ms meow M.

April Tools

Could somebody please tell me what the point of April Fool’s Day actually is?

I know for most people it’s meant to be a day for harmless pranks, but for us in Zooville it’s phone call after phone call for Mr G Raffe, or getting a Mr Lion on the line, and having already been subjected to the day twenty something times, the routine is getting a little tired.

To even things up, us Zooies should be allowed to ring the pests back on every other day of the year and annoy them with meaningless drivel.

So until that glorious switcheroo arrives, I’m spending all April firsts from now on ignoring phone calls, conversations, emails, and tea-leaf readings.

Ms Sue-Keeper M.