Profile for thanateros:
OK, let's get something clear from the outset. I DON'T LIKE YOU. AT ALL. Don't take it personally, because I don't really like anyone very much. Do you have a problem with that? No? Good. Sit down and shut up.
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- a member for 17 years, 4 months and 14 days
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- has posted 0 messages on the talk board
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- has posted 6 stories and 3 replies on question of the week
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OK, let's get something clear from the outset. I DON'T LIKE YOU. AT ALL. Don't take it personally, because I don't really like anyone very much. Do you have a problem with that? No? Good. Sit down and shut up.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Kids
Kids
My daughter has just turned four, and as a result has everybody wrapped around her little finger. As part of the custody settlement that I went through I get to have a little chat with her over the phone every Tuesday evening.
And thus it was that we were chatting away the other night, when Daughter Dearest is interrupted by her vile harpy of a mother calling her to dinner, admonishing that she 'wasn't going to ask twice'.
A slight pause. I hear Daughter Dearest put the phone down and ask "Why are you interrupting me when I'm talking to my Daddy? You always tell me not to interrupt you, why are you interrupting me?"
Cue the ex-wife doing the 'speechless' thing.
Daughter Dearest gets back on the phone, heaves a huge sigh, and mutters into the phone, "Mummy's talking and it's all like bleah bleah bleah. She's boring, Daddy."
What an awesome kid.
(Mon 21st Apr 2008, 4:36, More)
Kids
My daughter has just turned four, and as a result has everybody wrapped around her little finger. As part of the custody settlement that I went through I get to have a little chat with her over the phone every Tuesday evening.
And thus it was that we were chatting away the other night, when Daughter Dearest is interrupted by her vile harpy of a mother calling her to dinner, admonishing that she 'wasn't going to ask twice'.
A slight pause. I hear Daughter Dearest put the phone down and ask "Why are you interrupting me when I'm talking to my Daddy? You always tell me not to interrupt you, why are you interrupting me?"
Cue the ex-wife doing the 'speechless' thing.
Daughter Dearest gets back on the phone, heaves a huge sigh, and mutters into the phone, "Mummy's talking and it's all like bleah bleah bleah. She's boring, Daddy."
What an awesome kid.
(Mon 21st Apr 2008, 4:36, More)
» Tales of the Unexplained
Car Key Spookiness
Once upon a time when I were a young Thanateros, I was overjoyed to find that I had scored a job interview at a rather nice-looking place. I went along to the initial interview, handed over the CV and sat back and proceeded to answer all the questions put to me by the board of interviewers.
A few weeks go past, and I get the precious callback that says I've made it to the second stage of the interview process. Result! thinks I, and happily hie me to the testing centre where I'm put in a room and made to do one of those stupid bloody 'role-playing' things - you know the sort, you have to pretend that you're all on a space ship off to colonise another planet, or you're picking survivors to get on the raft while the ship sinks . . . that sort of wankery. I managed to hold my own and apparently 'displayed leadership potential'. Bullshit, I know.
Anyways, more time passes, and I'm informed that I've scored the position! WOOHOO! Much happiness ensues. They've asked me to show up the next morning at 9am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with my game face on. No problems, I think, and go through all the rigmarole - making sure the suit is dry-cleaned and that the shirt matches the tie, etc. All this was done the night before.
Cue the alarm going the next morning. I'd set it nice and early so that I could allow myself plenty of time to get ready and drive into work.OK, so . . . showered? Check. Teeth brushed? Check. Hair in a neat ponytail? Check. Got the wallet, mobile phone, car keys? Che -- oh shit. Where the fuck are my car keys?
Cue the next three quarters of an hour searching every possible location in my house, frantically looking for the keys to my ride. Time is getting along, and I'm nearing my self-imposed deadline for leaving the house to get to work on time. I was becoming frantic with worry. Not only would I be late for my first day at work, but these were expensive keys - they were the integrated sort that not only has the central locker and engine immobiliser as part of the car key itself, but is specifically coded to the individual car - getting one replaced would take about 3 weeks and cost me about $160 - a trifle these days, but enough to cause a very real shiver of poverty-related fear to run through my goolies.
Finally, with all of two minutes to go, I lost my rag. I stood in the middle of my living room, raised my fists to the ceiling, and screamed at the top of my lungs, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FUCKING CAR KEYYYYSSSSSS??!?!"
Just as the last syllable had left my lips, something hit the top of my left shoulder, slid off and hit the floor of the living room.
I stopped, looked and bent down to pick up the object that had fallen on me. And fuck me backwards if it wasn't my keys. I stood there, utterly dumbfounded, wondering where the cunting fuck they had come from. All of a sudden, I remembered the time and dashed out the door, pausing only to look back and say "Whoever or whatever you are, thank you, but don't pull that bullshit on me ever again."
Later in the day, I sat and had a think about it, and simply could not explain it.
A few weeks later, I found out after a chat with my landlord that the house I was living in (a rental) had had a history of tenants complaining about weird things going missing and reappearing days later, strange bumps in the night, etc. With the hair standing up on the back of my neck, I asked if anyone had ever died in the house. The landlord looked at me and confirmed that a young boy had been left in there one day by his completely negligent bastard parents and had died in the house - they had left for the day to go off and do something (I never found out precise details), but had locked all the doors and the windows so that the kid couldn't get out and run away or something. And the kid, all of six years old, had died from heatstroke in the house while his waste-of-DNA parents were gone.
That really messed with my head for a while. Eventually, I sat down and talked to the kid, whether he was there or not, and told him I was sorry for cussing with him, I'm just a simple guy trying to get by in the world, and there was no reason we couldn't coexist in the house. It felt weird talking to something that I wasn't sure was a spirit of someone departed this life, or thin air, or my own insanity.
I still think about that every now and again.
(Fri 4th Jul 2008, 7:25, More)
Car Key Spookiness
Once upon a time when I were a young Thanateros, I was overjoyed to find that I had scored a job interview at a rather nice-looking place. I went along to the initial interview, handed over the CV and sat back and proceeded to answer all the questions put to me by the board of interviewers.
A few weeks go past, and I get the precious callback that says I've made it to the second stage of the interview process. Result! thinks I, and happily hie me to the testing centre where I'm put in a room and made to do one of those stupid bloody 'role-playing' things - you know the sort, you have to pretend that you're all on a space ship off to colonise another planet, or you're picking survivors to get on the raft while the ship sinks . . . that sort of wankery. I managed to hold my own and apparently 'displayed leadership potential'. Bullshit, I know.
Anyways, more time passes, and I'm informed that I've scored the position! WOOHOO! Much happiness ensues. They've asked me to show up the next morning at 9am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with my game face on. No problems, I think, and go through all the rigmarole - making sure the suit is dry-cleaned and that the shirt matches the tie, etc. All this was done the night before.
Cue the alarm going the next morning. I'd set it nice and early so that I could allow myself plenty of time to get ready and drive into work.OK, so . . . showered? Check. Teeth brushed? Check. Hair in a neat ponytail? Check. Got the wallet, mobile phone, car keys? Che -- oh shit. Where the fuck are my car keys?
Cue the next three quarters of an hour searching every possible location in my house, frantically looking for the keys to my ride. Time is getting along, and I'm nearing my self-imposed deadline for leaving the house to get to work on time. I was becoming frantic with worry. Not only would I be late for my first day at work, but these were expensive keys - they were the integrated sort that not only has the central locker and engine immobiliser as part of the car key itself, but is specifically coded to the individual car - getting one replaced would take about 3 weeks and cost me about $160 - a trifle these days, but enough to cause a very real shiver of poverty-related fear to run through my goolies.
Finally, with all of two minutes to go, I lost my rag. I stood in the middle of my living room, raised my fists to the ceiling, and screamed at the top of my lungs, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY FUCKING CAR KEYYYYSSSSSS??!?!"
Just as the last syllable had left my lips, something hit the top of my left shoulder, slid off and hit the floor of the living room.
I stopped, looked and bent down to pick up the object that had fallen on me. And fuck me backwards if it wasn't my keys. I stood there, utterly dumbfounded, wondering where the cunting fuck they had come from. All of a sudden, I remembered the time and dashed out the door, pausing only to look back and say "Whoever or whatever you are, thank you, but don't pull that bullshit on me ever again."
Later in the day, I sat and had a think about it, and simply could not explain it.
A few weeks later, I found out after a chat with my landlord that the house I was living in (a rental) had had a history of tenants complaining about weird things going missing and reappearing days later, strange bumps in the night, etc. With the hair standing up on the back of my neck, I asked if anyone had ever died in the house. The landlord looked at me and confirmed that a young boy had been left in there one day by his completely negligent bastard parents and had died in the house - they had left for the day to go off and do something (I never found out precise details), but had locked all the doors and the windows so that the kid couldn't get out and run away or something. And the kid, all of six years old, had died from heatstroke in the house while his waste-of-DNA parents were gone.
That really messed with my head for a while. Eventually, I sat down and talked to the kid, whether he was there or not, and told him I was sorry for cussing with him, I'm just a simple guy trying to get by in the world, and there was no reason we couldn't coexist in the house. It felt weird talking to something that I wasn't sure was a spirit of someone departed this life, or thin air, or my own insanity.
I still think about that every now and again.
(Fri 4th Jul 2008, 7:25, More)
» The Soundtrack of your Life
It's Not A Song . . .
. . . it's an entire album. Tom Waits' "Small Change", to be precise.
(delurk)
Back when I was a young and tender lad rather than the ageing miscreant I am now, I went through a bad breakup with a woman. Previous to this, I'd never even heard a Tom Waits song in my life - yes, heretical, I know. Nevertheless, I was drinking quite heavily and indulging in far too many recreational substances. One day during this repeating cycle of misery and inebriation, a friend of mine told me that I needed to stop all this self-destructive bullshit. I simply laughed him off, as is my wont.
He got angry at me, and gave me (what I thought at the time) was a rather sanctimonious little speech, the practical upshot of which was basically the phrase "You think you're the only person that has ever felt this way, or that this has happened to? You selfish little shit!" He was very obviously right, but I just didn't want to know . . . you very rarely do in those circumstances.
Before leaving, he placed a CD on my table, amidst the overflowing ashtrays and puddles of whiskey. I thought nothing of it until later that day, when I put it on the stereo, sat down and listened to it.
Have you ever gotten that feeling when you listen to a certain album that the songwriter had basically looked through your diary and said "Hell, this would make a great song"? Well, I got that with Tom Waits. He expressed every miserable, shitty feeling I was going through. I finally managed to stop weeping copiously about halfway through the album . . . and then "Bad Liver And A Broken Heart" came on, and the waterworks started all over again.
I still love that album to death.
(relurk)
(Mon 1st Feb 2010, 12:35, More)
It's Not A Song . . .
. . . it's an entire album. Tom Waits' "Small Change", to be precise.
(delurk)
Back when I was a young and tender lad rather than the ageing miscreant I am now, I went through a bad breakup with a woman. Previous to this, I'd never even heard a Tom Waits song in my life - yes, heretical, I know. Nevertheless, I was drinking quite heavily and indulging in far too many recreational substances. One day during this repeating cycle of misery and inebriation, a friend of mine told me that I needed to stop all this self-destructive bullshit. I simply laughed him off, as is my wont.
He got angry at me, and gave me (what I thought at the time) was a rather sanctimonious little speech, the practical upshot of which was basically the phrase "You think you're the only person that has ever felt this way, or that this has happened to? You selfish little shit!" He was very obviously right, but I just didn't want to know . . . you very rarely do in those circumstances.
Before leaving, he placed a CD on my table, amidst the overflowing ashtrays and puddles of whiskey. I thought nothing of it until later that day, when I put it on the stereo, sat down and listened to it.
Have you ever gotten that feeling when you listen to a certain album that the songwriter had basically looked through your diary and said "Hell, this would make a great song"? Well, I got that with Tom Waits. He expressed every miserable, shitty feeling I was going through. I finally managed to stop weeping copiously about halfway through the album . . . and then "Bad Liver And A Broken Heart" came on, and the waterworks started all over again.
I still love that album to death.
(relurk)
(Mon 1st Feb 2010, 12:35, More)
» Strict Parents
When I were a nipper . . .
I wasn't allowed to watch either "The Paul Hogan Show" or "Kingswood Country". And why not? Was it the dumbing down effect? Was it the institutionalised racism? NO!
It was because of the word "bloody". And this from my baker father who once called one of his apprentices every foul name under the sun right in front of my tender 11-year-old ears.
Also, I remember begging to be allowed to stay up late (10.30pm - oooohh . . . ) to watch this new music video show called "Sevenrock", on the proviso that my mum watched it with me.
Five minutes into the show, my mum shrieked, went into a paroxysm of fury, turned off the teev and made me get rid of my record collection. Why, I hear you cry? Because they didn't want me growing up to be a sex pervert. And all because the first video off the rank was the long version of Duran Duran's "Girls On Film" . . .
Mind you, they completely failed on the pervert thing, as I am now 34 and will punch it into any willing female. Sorry, Mum!
(Wed 14th Mar 2007, 5:41, More)
When I were a nipper . . .
I wasn't allowed to watch either "The Paul Hogan Show" or "Kingswood Country". And why not? Was it the dumbing down effect? Was it the institutionalised racism? NO!
It was because of the word "bloody". And this from my baker father who once called one of his apprentices every foul name under the sun right in front of my tender 11-year-old ears.
Also, I remember begging to be allowed to stay up late (10.30pm - oooohh . . . ) to watch this new music video show called "Sevenrock", on the proviso that my mum watched it with me.
Five minutes into the show, my mum shrieked, went into a paroxysm of fury, turned off the teev and made me get rid of my record collection. Why, I hear you cry? Because they didn't want me growing up to be a sex pervert. And all because the first video off the rank was the long version of Duran Duran's "Girls On Film" . . .
Mind you, they completely failed on the pervert thing, as I am now 34 and will punch it into any willing female. Sorry, Mum!
(Wed 14th Mar 2007, 5:41, More)
» Celebrities part II
Wankin' on the Radio
I used to do a radio show. Nothing like your big international famous radio announcer, oh no, not me. I was an announcer on a little community radio station in Brisbane, Australia (hint: rhymes with More Nipple Fred).
As a result of being a Friday afternoon announcer, I ended up meeting a few rockstar-type peoples who were in town to make loud noises on a stage for paying punters, or being led around by the floppy bits by some record label wankoff to promote something or other. Half the time I didn't care; half the time I was completely munted (there weren't any policies about on-air drunkenness or broadcasting under the influence of mind-bendy substances back in t'olden days).
So for a few of the celebrities that I have 'interviewed' (I use the term loosely, as someone promoting their album/live show while sitting opposite a drooling, drugfucked retard isn't really an interview) . . .
Jeff Martin of The Tea Party - was mainly concerned with showing off how 'spiritually aware' he was. Majorly into occult philosophy, but mainly used it to shag anything that moved.
Tim Wheeler of Ash - nice young chap. Genuinely enthusiastic about being on the radio. Answered every question except "So, did you manage to shag Charlotte Hatherley yet?"
Ben Harper - Didn't want to be there, didn't want to answer questions, didn't want to be on the radio. I went to a song, switched the mic off and said "You really don't want to be here, do you?" To which he replied, "No, I don't."
"Well, why did you come down here then?"
"Hey man, the record company organised this, not me."
Phil Jamieson of Grinspoon - complete fucking wanker. Monosyllabic grunts aren't really an answer to a question, retard.
Richie Lewis of Tumbleweed - Great guy. Answered every question with an essay's worth of words, then invited me to get stoned with him after the interview :)
Stone Gossard of Pearl Jam/Brad - This one took the cake. Gossard wandered into the studio, completely full of himself, then proceeded to bitch out all the other bands he was playing with off-mic during songs. Having had enough of this sort of behaviour, I surreptitiously turned his mic back on while he was in mid-rant, so that all of Brisbane could hear his opinion of "these stupid fuckin' shitty-ass bands that we're supposed to be playing with tonight".
Rock stars. Bah humbug.
(Tue 13th Oct 2009, 4:01, More)
Wankin' on the Radio
I used to do a radio show. Nothing like your big international famous radio announcer, oh no, not me. I was an announcer on a little community radio station in Brisbane, Australia (hint: rhymes with More Nipple Fred).
As a result of being a Friday afternoon announcer, I ended up meeting a few rockstar-type peoples who were in town to make loud noises on a stage for paying punters, or being led around by the floppy bits by some record label wankoff to promote something or other. Half the time I didn't care; half the time I was completely munted (there weren't any policies about on-air drunkenness or broadcasting under the influence of mind-bendy substances back in t'olden days).
So for a few of the celebrities that I have 'interviewed' (I use the term loosely, as someone promoting their album/live show while sitting opposite a drooling, drugfucked retard isn't really an interview) . . .
Jeff Martin of The Tea Party - was mainly concerned with showing off how 'spiritually aware' he was. Majorly into occult philosophy, but mainly used it to shag anything that moved.
Tim Wheeler of Ash - nice young chap. Genuinely enthusiastic about being on the radio. Answered every question except "So, did you manage to shag Charlotte Hatherley yet?"
Ben Harper - Didn't want to be there, didn't want to answer questions, didn't want to be on the radio. I went to a song, switched the mic off and said "You really don't want to be here, do you?" To which he replied, "No, I don't."
"Well, why did you come down here then?"
"Hey man, the record company organised this, not me."
Phil Jamieson of Grinspoon - complete fucking wanker. Monosyllabic grunts aren't really an answer to a question, retard.
Richie Lewis of Tumbleweed - Great guy. Answered every question with an essay's worth of words, then invited me to get stoned with him after the interview :)
Stone Gossard of Pearl Jam/Brad - This one took the cake. Gossard wandered into the studio, completely full of himself, then proceeded to bitch out all the other bands he was playing with off-mic during songs. Having had enough of this sort of behaviour, I surreptitiously turned his mic back on while he was in mid-rant, so that all of Brisbane could hear his opinion of "these stupid fuckin' shitty-ass bands that we're supposed to be playing with tonight".
Rock stars. Bah humbug.
(Tue 13th Oct 2009, 4:01, More)