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Sheamus

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(no subject) [May. 19th, 2006|09:00 am]
Sheamus
[music |The Fall]

My door.
Three types of lock. Regular, chain and deadlock.
The last line of defence from the outside world. The last line of defence against angry dogs. Rapists. Consumers. Priests, snakes, broken glass, pointy hats that blow along the streets and poke you in the eye. Non decomposable plastic bags, runaway trains, drunken football players, random large falling chunks of concrete with twisted wire inside. Impending terrorist strikes, alien invasion and nuclear holocaust. All are kept at bay.
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(no subject) [Dec. 27th, 2005|02:36 pm]
Sheamus
pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac POWER PELLET pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac EAT GHOST pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac EAT GHOST pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac pac
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(no subject) [Nov. 14th, 2005|01:44 am]
Sheamus
[mood |highhigh]
[music |super highways and famous sea scapes]

THE HAND BONE'S CONNECTED TO THE KNIFE BONE (A Skeletal Apocalypse on a Sunny Thursday Afternoon)

Skeletons with knives
Skeletons with knives
Crashing through the roof
Climbing through the floor
Tearing down the door

Skeletons with knives
Skeletons with knives
They will eat your children
They will rape your wives
No one will escape alive

Skeletons with knives
Skeletons with knives
When north and south re-align
Worlds of bone and metal
Do collide

Skeletons with knives
Skeletons with knives
Bloodshot bedroom eyes
Drunken Russian spies
Stolen apple pies

Stolen apple pies
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(no subject) [Jul. 26th, 2005|09:48 am]
Sheamus
Welcome to another blurry Tuesday morning.

This particular blurry Tuesday morning brought a few special suprises with it. A very sore, bruised lower left hand and another unsuccessful job application, to be exact. I think the sore hand can be attributed to the climbing and subsequent falling from a tree, though I can't be too sure.

So anyway, I'm living in Melbourne now. Yesterday I went to MISSING LINK, which is apparently the place to go for music here. The thing that struck me most about Missing Link was the fact that they had little cards everywhere displaying colour coded dots, dots that represented personal album recommendations from staff members. Orange dot for Scotti, Blue dot for Greg, that sort of thing, so that if we stumbled across an album with a blue dot on it, we would know that Greg himself recommended it. How absurd. Who are these people and why would anyone care what they recommend? Do they think that because they work in a music store they have superior taste in music, and need to provide their customers with the service of pointing them in the right direction?

This colour coded dot system seems to serve no purpose other than to say "LOOK HOW COOL I AM, I LIKE THIS MUSIC".

And to top it off, nobody had any dots on any Kinks albums.



BECAUSE THERE WERE NO KINKS ALBUMS.
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(no subject) [May. 26th, 2005|05:17 pm]
Sheamus
Hey you.

Yes, you there, staring at the computer screen.

I bet you like music, don't you? You probably have quite a few CDs, a nice little collection that you treasure dearly, that you plan to hold onto for the rest of your life so that when you're 70 years old you can still plug in that top of the range vintage CD player and play your shiny little discs to the Grandkids.

BETTER THINK AGAIN.

Because your precious CDs have a fairly good chance of ROTTING AWAY TO NOTHING. While you're still alive, too, and even if you keep them in pristine condition. It actually happened to one of my discs, so I did a little research and have discovered that the effects of aluminium in CDs oxidising, thus rendering them unplayable, is actually an increasingly common occurance that, in a few years time, will probably begin to wipe out whole CD collections, not dissimilar to the way in which we see Anakin Skywalker destroy the Jedi in Revenge of the Sith. I guess I should have listened to those anti-CD rants in Big Black CD liner notes.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.


MORE INFORMATION
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(no subject) [Apr. 9th, 2005|05:02 pm]
Sheamus
DRUGS IN SPORT - AN OBJECTIVE ANALYSIS

The use of drugs in sport is one of the biggest problems to plague the noble, age old pursuit of strength and fitness via game and competition format. Athletes that use drugs are generally frowned upon by the worldwide sporting community because it is considered to be one of the worst forms of cheating imaginable; Drugs help athletes become fitter, stronger and faster not through hard work and training, but through chemicals that do all the work for them. Testing for a plethora of different drugs is now very common in a wide range of sports worldwide. Sports officials are hoping that the more cheats who are exposed and humiliated for using drugs in sport, the fewer athletes risk taking them, and sport the whole world over will prosper in greatness for all eternity.

Yeah. What a whopping great pile of shit that idea is.

The use of performance enhancing drugs in sport can only IMPROVE the quality of EVERY SINGLE sport that has ever existed. Really, think about it. Take swimming, or running at the Olympics for example. Yes, world records are being broken all the time, but not by much. Ooooohhh, his years of training just culminated in shaving a hundredth of a second off the world record. Isn't that amazing? Well no, not really. It's not that much at all. Athletics and sport in general has hit a metaphorical wall. Health, nutrition, fitness and training techniques are as good as they've ever been and pretty much as good as they're ever going to get. There's not a lot that anyone can do to get any better. So what do we do to make things a bit more interesting? Not wait another 200 years for someone to shave a tenth of a second off a record, that's for sure. How fucking boring. No, we LEGALISE ALL DRUGS IN ALL SPORTS.

Seriously, imagine how much more exciting sport would be if everyone was pumped full of as many drugs as they could handle. Athletes would be BIGGER, STRONGER, FASTER, MEANER THAN EVER BEFORE. Every athlete would be 12 feet tall, fast as a speeding bullet, with enormous muscles of steel. Sporting grounds would be like coliseums full of screaming fans watching titans relentlessly clash to the death. It would be like Roman gladiators all over again. Instead of having thousandths of seconds shaved off, we'd start to see actual WHOLE seconds! Maybe even multiple seconds! Hell, maybe even MINUTES! And because it would all be legal now companies would be continually developing new and better drugs all the time, so we'd continue to see athletes become better and better in leaps and bounds over a prolonged period of time.

And because everyone could use drugs, it would still be a fair playing field. It's not cheating if the same rules apply to everyone. Sure, some athletes and countries might have better access to better drugs, but isn't that the same kind of situation as now anyway? Australia has better access to sports coaching and training facilities than, say, Zambia, so what would change? Absolutely fucking nothing, apart from the fact that sport would be about a million times more exciting than it is now.

Or hell, not only legalise drugs, make them mandatory, supplied for free by an international organisation. Then the whole world would be on a pretty much even playing field. We may see Zambia take gold in the 100 meters freestyle yet.
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(no subject) [Feb. 23rd, 2005|04:07 pm]
Sheamus
I am constantly amazed at just how much time people manage to waste as they pitter patter about in their every day lives. Every day as I get on the bus there's some dipshit in front of me, who despite having just waited 10 minutes for the bus to come along, did not have the foresight to get out their change before it arrived. In fact, half the time they didn't even have the foresight to dig their purse or wallet out from underneath a jumper buried in the dark depths of their bag. So they get on the bus, put their bag on the ground and start searching around for a few minutes. Eventually they emerge with it, only to then go through and count out their fare in 5 and 10 cent pieces. The bus driver starts to look cranky, and I start to feel like kicking the offender in the head. It's not unusual to wait 5 minutes or more for these morons to find $2, before handing it to the driver and blindly stumbling up the aisle, stupid grin on their face, completely ignorant of the fact that they are amoung the stupidest, most annoying people in the world.

How fucking hard is it to get your bus fare out before you get onto the bus? Answer: It's NOT FUCKING HARD AT ALL.

Time is one of our most precious resources. You only have so much of it before you die. You can never get more. Once it's gone, it's not ever coming back, EVER. To waste one's own time on such trivial and easily avoidable things is the height stupidity. To waste other people's time on said things is the height of stupidity AND arrogance. Needlessly wasting other people's time should be made illegal. I should be compensated no less than $100 for every minute of my time that some idiot wastes. Hell, I think that's pretty damn leinient, considering that time is priceless. But hey, I'm a nice guy.

Sometimes at work, actually no, all the fucking time at work, I have to constantly deal with time wasting idiots. They stand at the front of the shop, stupid, blank expressions on their faces, staring at the menu like it's the most complex fucking thing they've seen in their life. Like they're reading the manual of a fucking space ship, and trying to figure out how to fly the thing, trying to work out how they map out their way from here to the fucking horsehead nebula.

"Cal-a-maaari and chips...", they mutter under their breath, seemingly perplexed at the complexity of it all. After 5 minutes of staring at the menu, I give up on them and go do something else. As soon as they realise I've stopped waiting on them, they approach the front counter.
"Do you sell just chips?"
People always miss it, despite the fact that Chips is just about the biggest thing on the menu, located smack bang in the center of it.
"Yes, $2.95", I mutter, pointing to the menu and gnashing my teeth and trying my hardest not to leap over the counter and throttle them.
"I'll have that, chips and sauce"
"What kind of sauce?"
"Ummmm....", and thus begins the intense studying of the menu again. I don't bother saying anything anymore. I just give them my most exhausted stare and point to the range of sauces located right in front of them.
And on it goes. They search for their money, I stand around waiting for them some more, prepare their chips, they decide they want it in a different container. Sometimes one simple order of chips can take up to 10 minutes to complete. I wish I was joking.

Human beings like to think that they are a pretty damn intelligent race. Well, let's just face it, we're not. Not in the fucking slightest. Even ants don't have to put up with idiocy. Look at ant colonies. Every ant knows their place, does their job quickly and efficiently. It all runs like a smooth, well oiled machine. Look at humans. Bumbling bunch of fucking morons. Good riddance.
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Operation Bin Steal [Feb. 20th, 2005|02:27 am]
Sheamus
We went to the Paddington Tavern with Bill and Brooke, then we went to Mt Cootha. Bill and I had to stop to piss along side the road next to the lookout. Suddenly, a police car came around the corner just as I placed my penis in my trousers and zipped my fly up.
The police car stopped next to us.
"Shit", I thought. "What are the fucking chances. What the fuck is a police car doing at the top of Mt Cootha at 12am on a Saturday night.
I started walking up the hill.
"What were you blokes doing, pissing?", said the policewoman, peering out the passenger side window.
"We're just walking to the lookout", I said.

SUCCESS!!!!

My Jedi Mind Trick worked perfectly. The police were fooled and we went about our business. Soon afterwards, we went to the cemetery and walked amoung the graves. Then we got scared and ran back to the car. But that is another story. Full of ghosts and strange noises and shadows.

We dropped Bill and Brooke back at their flat and Amy started driving home.

"We still need a bin", I said.
Ever since we moved into our house in January, we have been without a regular rubbish bin. I asked our real estate agent to do something about it, but 2 months later they havn't. I've been putting our rubbish in the bins a few doors down. Every time I take out the rubbish I walk inconspicuously to their bins, dump it in, and quickly walk back to our house. I have a constant fear that they'll find out, and one day will come home to bags of rubbish dumped at the top of our stairs by the disgruntled tenants of a few doors down.

Either that, or I just throw it in our recycling bin. But I don't like doing that. It messes up the whole recycling process. No one wants to find old pieces of steak in their recycled paper.

So, I said to Amy, "We should steal a bin on our way home".
"You're a fucking idiot", she responded.
"No, seriously", I said. "We can just steal a bin right now, and all our bin related problems will be solved"
"No"
"Look, you don't ever take out the rubbish, so I guess you don't care, but it really means a lot to me"

SUCCESS!!!!

I somehow convinced Amy to drive around and look for a bin to steal.
We went to Lutwyche, looking for good prospective candidates.
"What are you going to do if it's full of rubbish?"
"I don't know, tip it out onto the street"
"That's not very nice"
"Fine, I'll just take the rubbish along with us. Look, there's a good one right there! Just park here!"
"Where?"
"Here, anywhere, just pull up along here and I'll put it in the back!"

About 20 bins later, we were still driving around, Amy too scared/dignified to pull over and let me nab anything.

Finally we came across a set of flats that had about 6 bins out the front. They weren't going to miss one. It's not like we stole a bin from a poor single mother with 10 kids.

I got out and opened the boot.
I walked toward the bin. It was empty. Fantastic.
I started wheeling it towards the car, but it made too much noise, so I picked it up and scurried over to the car. I hefted it into the back of the station wagon, ran around to the passenger seat and slammed the door.
Amy took off like a rocket. She skid around the corner and we were home free.

We arrived home and I pulled the bin from the car.
It had a number "7" on the front. I ran inside and got a scrapping type implement and then attempted to scrape the number off, to no avail. Then I got a tub of white-out and changed the "7" to a "9", and put a "4" in front of it. In an instant, "7" became "49".

So now we have a bin, and I don't have to keep sneaking our rubbish into the neighbour's bins.
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(no subject) [Feb. 18th, 2005|04:36 pm]
Sheamus
I got on the bus and asked the driver for an Off Peak Daily ticket to Bruswick street.
"$2.40", he said.
"Shouldn't that be $1.80?" I asked.
"Well what did you want?", he replied. "An Off Peak or a Daily?"
"An Off Peak Daily", I said.
"There is no such thing as that", he said.
"Yes there is", I responded.
"No there's not. It's either an 'Off Peak' or a 'Daily'. A Daily lets you travel any time you want, and an Off Peak only lets you travel between certain times"

I did not know why I was having this conversation. Every other bus driver I've ever encountered has never disputed the existence of an Off Peak Daily ticket.

"An Off Peak Daily lets you travel all day, as many times as you want, except between 3:30pm and 7pm", I said. "It's a daily ticket. You can travel on it all day, as many times as you want, during the Off Peak times. The prefix of "Off Peak" exists to show us that while this IS a daily ticket, you can only use it during the times that Brisbane Transport defines as "Off Peak". Which is any time that isn't 3:30pm to 7:30pm."

The bus driver scowled at me. I could see that I wasn't going to get anywhere.

"Fine. I'll have an OFF PEAK to Bruswick Street"
"$1.80"
The driver printed the ticket.
"Look. I said, showing him the ticket he had just handed me. "It says "Off Peak Day", right there."
"It doesn't say 'Off Peak Daily', he responded with a surprising air of smugness, which was strange, considering that the print on the ticket supported my argument a lot more than his. My earlier suspicions were correct. He was a fucking idiot.

"Surely the presence of the word "Day" pretty much indicates that it is a DAILY TICKET. An OFF PEAK DAILY. The 'Off Peak Daily', a sub-division of the regular 'Daily', that while has different rules to the 'Daily', still exists under the "Daily" heading. The only reason that it's printed up as "Off Peak Day" instead of "Off Peak Daily" is because the latter won't fit on the paper. Hell, if I had just said that I wanted an Off Peak, you wouldn't have known if I was referring to a one way ticket or a daily ticket"

The bus driver started driving off an I took a seat. It was going to be a long day.
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(no subject) [Feb. 9th, 2005|02:40 pm]
Sheamus
[mood |crankycranky]
[music |Sonic Youth - Daydream Nation]

So then, The Commonwealth Bank has come up with yet another way to try and rape me of my money. Last week, I received a letter advising me of the fact that I could now get insurance with them.
"Oh", I thought. "The Commonwealth Bank now does insurance", and nothing more came of it. Until today, when I received a call from a deadpan wog who tried to sign me up for it.

I was too tired after another long day of slogging over the fish and chips to bother trying to drag him away from my ear so I just planned to let him say what he had to say about it, say no thanks, and hang up at the end.
"As a respected and valued customer, we are here to inform you about an amazing new insurance package..."
About ten minutes later, Tony Deadpaniani was still moaning away about the benefits of signing up for insurance, and it became increasingly obvious that he just about took it for granted that I'd be an intelligent enough person to sign up at the end.

So I cut in and said "Um, no, I don't think I'll be taking this service, thanks anyway."
But he wasn't going to let me go that easy. Ohhh, no. He told me that it would be the smart and wise decision to sign up, and that I'd be letting down my family if I didn't.
"No, I don't want it, OK?"
"OK Mr Duggan, there's just a few things I have to ask you for statistical purposes. Why don't you want to spend your money on our insurance?"
"Because I'd rather spend money on other things"
"But the benefits of the insurance are amazing, if you get involved in a disabling accident you will receive an instant payout of $50 000, if you..."
"No, I don't want it"
In a patronising tone Deadpan Antonio responded.
"You can't afford to spend $79.95 a month for our almighty and divine insurance??? Not having this benefit will be the worst mistake you ever make Mr Duggan, I highly advise that you reconsider, accidents happen very easily, it would be in your best interest to accept, we care a lot about our valued customers", he said, sounding both dissapointed at me and concerned for my future wellbeing in a life without Comm Bank insurance.
"I don't want it. Bye."
*click*


I guess one of the marketing bigwigs thought it would be a great idea to tell customers they are braindead morons if they don't want to give more of their money to the Commonwealth Bank for services they don't need or want.
"We can trap those idiots into a corner through continual nonstop babble about how intelligent a decision it would be to accept our thinly veiled money making scheme. No one wants to be known as stupid! They can't not sign up!"
"But what if they still don't sign up Mary?"
"Well Keith, if all else fails we start patronising them and launch a last bid effort by trying to guilt them into it. But I don't think it will come to that"
"Huzzah!"
Mary goes on to win Employee of the Month, CBA Marketing Division, before fucking the Cheif Executive of the bank on his desk late one night, falling pregnant with his child, giving birth to the unholy spawn of Satan, and going on to rule the galaxy for the next millenia as the mother of the ultimate antichrist.
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