Norway? No way!

I’m not sure if it’s the shock of having a teenager babbling about fairytales being ranked higher in the musical crème brûlée stakes than a man who is willing to shake out of his shirt, or that I'm suffering from a strain of kosher flu, but whatever it is, it’s prevented my fingers from coming close to gracing my coffee-stained keyboard.

Up until the shock of the Eurovision 09 / oinkless flueness, I hadn’t so much as sniffled in eight years, and had almost forgotten the joys of having a tissue permanently stuck to my face or the inside of my pant pocket.

So therefore I have decided to place a ban on watching all future Eurovision song contests, on the off-note chance that it was the upsetting distribution of 'points’ that made me feel so poorly!

Ms 12-points M.

Some like it… not

Winter has kicked in and it’s beginning to hurt.

Sure the rain is good for everything green, and we’ve barely got enough water to drink let alone suds our cars, but there’s something about the cast of grey that numbs my general outlook.

Maybe it’s just my third of a quarter of English heritage or that my knuckles are becoming achingly stiff.

Maybe it’s the frigid winds that make skirts a freezing impossibility.

Or maybe it’s just a lack of vitamin E?

Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s too much to ask if we could have just have a little bit of uninterrupted solar shine, and allocate the hours between two and seven AM for above average rainfall.

Ms bring-on-the-supplements M.

To not to do or not to do…

Ok so I might not be that much closer to being Australia’s next top anything, but at least I have expanded my list of things I don’t want to be:

Flatulence Analyst: a job that speaks for itself from both ends.

Barnyard Masturbator: although being hung like a horse is a good thing, this is a bit too close to the bone.

Carcass Cleaner: being vegetarian I tend to weep over lettuce hearts, let alone the best of what’s left of fluffy bunnies.

Sensory Deprivation Subject: I’m deprived of enough things as it is, to the point where I could already qualify as an expert.

Blue Cheese Factory Labourer: see Flatulence Analyst.

So although the above list is far from definitive, at least I have made some headway into what I don’t want to be doing, and therefore hopefully making the quest of what I do want to be spending the rest of my nine to fives on, slightly more conspicuous.

Ms getting-there-slowly-but-surely M.

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.