The Infinite Goatee
December 5, 2000
It was probably around 1am on Saturday morning when my blood stream turned into my alcohol stream.
The next morning began in a very Homer Simpson-esque manner. Due to the Jim Beam of the night before, I couldn’t seem to keep anything down. It was quite amusing, leaning into the toilet, then turning away and taking a bit of sandwich. Food goes in, food comes out. Food goes in, food comes out. Food goes in, food comes out. Vomiting up water was pretty funny too, sounding somewhat akin to a very angry fountain due to all the yelling.
Adam’s friend MJ came to visit so they could work on some web project they’re carving up. I decided to go and watch the new Bruce Willis movie Unbreakable while they did their work, because I’ve been wanting to see this for some time now.
I stepped outside, and the first thing I saw was Wezza sticking his head out the door. Nothing unusual there - he’s a bit of a weirdo. However, it even freaked me out when he started growling at the two children running around outside. By growling I don’t mean a metaphor for complaining, I mean quite literally growling.
What was more disturbing was when I saw a pregnant woman run past with a child under each arm, looking back over her shoulder as she sped around the corner of our block of units.
‘Where are you hiding?’ another woman came calling. Ahh, I realised. An innocent game of hide and seek. No wonder Wezza was upset - he doesn’t like anything that’s innocent.
‘Come out! I’ll find you eventually!’ the seek-er cried. ‘I know you’re behind that tree - I can hear you lactating!’
I hastened my pace.
*****
I seated myself in the cinema, overlooking the fact that the odour of the place was strangely familiar, yet not offputting until I realised what it was (feet).
I sat myself down comfortably, and an old lady tapped my shoulder. I thought she was going to ask me to move.
Old lady: Do you like Bruce Willis?
Me: He’s a good actor.
Old lady: I really like Bruce Willis.
Me: That’s fortunate, because he’s in this movie.
Old lady: I know. I have to come alone though.
Me: Oh?
Old lady: My husband doesn’t like me watching Bruce Willis.
Me: Where is he?
Old lady: He’s ogling Charlie’s Angels at the moment.
Me: Oh, I see. Is this some sort of arrangement you have here, then?
Old lady: No, we’re only here to see my grandson.
Me: He’s seeing the movie with you?
Old lady: No, no, he’s featured in the posters in this shopping centre.
Thus began a detailed monologue on her grandson’s first three years of life. After the movie ended, the woman started up again, so I figured if he was worth all this fuss I’d go and find one of the posters he was on. However, it appears her grandson has a genetic defect which causes him to resemble a roly-poly Santa Claus, because I didn’t find any posters with kids celebrating Christmas on them.
*****
When I arrived at work this morning and opened the door to the section of the office I work in, the heat hit me in the face like the time Adam drunkenly fell into bed and landed on my head by mistake.
McCraig was cursing the restrictions of our workplace guidelines. Specifically, the guidelines holding him back from stripping down naked. Praise the lord for workplace guidelines.
Then I made a snap decision: Toga party!
‘To - ga! To - ga! To - ga!’ McCraig and I began chanting, but nobody seemed to catch on. When Big Mo asked the two of us if we’d like to go to the Gay Toga New Years Party he was attending, we both quickly shut up.
Besides, a toga party should be nothing compared to tomorrow night. It’s my work’s Christmas party, and apparently it has a bit of a history of interesting employee behaviour.
*****
Jeb Official Bad Things: Cold Toast And The People Who Eat It
Me: (pointing to toast on plate) You should eat that, before it gets cold.
Kezza: No, it’s okay. (shuffles around awkwardly)
Me: I’ll eat it if you don’t.
Kezza: Look. It’s okay cold.
Me: Those are the words of a madwoman.
Kezza: If you really must know, I… (shakes head) I prefer toast when it’s cold.
Me: Is this some sort of British thing?
*****
Speaking of nuts: Jamiroquai!
I heard a Jamiroquai song on the radio at work today. In a classic rock star move, he seems to spend his money only on convertibles and hats. There’s nothing that cries out ‘I’m a half-potty rock star!’ like a disturbingly large collection of hats (especially if you’re heterosexual).
Also, Jamiroquai’s nuttiness is further confirmed when you consider what a stupid combination this is. A large collection of hats and a large collection of convertibles? You can’t even use the two together…
*****
Speaking of music, it seems Rage Against The Machine’s singer has quit the band. A mate of mine who emails me now and then expressed his disgust at the band’s new album (it’s an album of cover songs).
‘They make me furious nowadays!’ he wrote. How interesting - this is a case of Rage Against Rage Against The Machine.
However, RATM aren’t the only ‘political’ band around. It’s a fine line between succesful political artistry and ranting like an idiot. Here, I present a few examples for you.
Pitchshifter (UK)
Identified by: a singer with a fetish for pain who insists on screaming songs such as ‘Un-United Kingdom’ to exlusively British crowds, invariably leading to fisticuffs
Common behaviour: dedicating more than 75% of their on-stage time to speeches about Save The Whale
Insurge (Australia)
Identified by: a seemingly non-existent career after they used their ‘One Triple J One-Hit Wonder Free’ card, with their song ‘I Hate Stupid People’
Common behaviour: spending thousands on flashy video clips, followed by thousands of CD’s sitting unsold in Sanity and HMV
Rage Against The Machine (US)
Identified by: fans not knowing what the political situation in Tibet is all about, but sure loving telling their parents that they ‘won’t do what the fuck they tell them’
Common behaviour: drummers climbing up MTV award sets, in a political statement about… nothing in particular
Limp Bizkit (US)
Identified by: marketing genuises managing to convince everyone that their singer is a bona-fide record company executive - and he did it for the nookie (or the cover song)
Common behaviour: complaining everyone hates them, boasting everyone hates them, fans hating them, the general Western population hating them
*****
‘I just found a library book I forgot to return yesterday. It’s been out for over six months,’ McCraig mused.
‘Haven’t I warned you about libraries before?’ I scolded. ‘Due dates are the literary version of spandex: far, far too restrictive.’
He raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t know,’ I assured him. ‘What book was it, anyway?’
‘Um, well I was actually trying to be literary for once,’ he said.
‘You can’t fool me. You’re as literary as Jacko’s Locker Room Jokes Volume 2,’ I told him.
‘No, no! It was a copy of National Geographic,’ he claimed.
‘National Geographic? Oh, I know what you’re like. It had naked African women, didn’t it?’
He hung his head in shame. ‘Naked African women,’ he confirmed.
*****
Jeb Official Bad Things: The Infinite Goatee
Adam has just taken a photo on his webcam of what his body currently looks like. He’s just beginning to get back into his kickboxing training, and wants to compare what he looks like in one month’s time with his old, slightly blobby figure.
So he could better see his body, he shaved the hair from his chest. As he did this, he suddenly had an idea.
Why not leave a strip of hair running down the middle of my chest, he mused. Kind of like a snail-trail, but… wider. Also, joining up to his goatee.
Thus, the concept for the Infinite Goatee was born. Let me tell you, that thing looked repulsive. I’m glad he shaved it off.
*****
I’m currently trying to convince Adam to let me drink beer next time we have sex. If George Costanza from Seinfeld managed to eat and have sex all at once, surely I can take that one step further? I have no idea why Adam disagrees! Maybe Victoria Bitter isn’t a very sexual drink, or something.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s almost scary how quickly this year has gone. In ten days it’ll be my first anniversary of going out with Adam.
If I’m correct, while a fiftieth anniversary is a gold anniversary, I’m lead to believe that the first anniversary is the paper anniversary. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do for a present. Run up the road to the shops and buy him the newspaper in the morning or something?
*****
The debate over what my team at work should do for our Team Building Day continues. Big Mo wants us all to go to the Kylie Minogue concert next year. Sorry Kyles, but I really don’t think my disco DOES need me that much.
Even more disturbingly, I’ve found out something terrible about my work’s second Christmas party (yes, we get two - I’m not complaining, that’s two nights of free alcohol). Big Mo dropped the news on us last week: apparently it’s a karaoke party, and every department has to make a performance.
As my manager, Big Mo made an executive decision. He wants himself, Kezza, Vanessa Undresser, McCraig and myself to perform a Spice Girls act.
Even worse, I’m supposed to be the fat one who left the group. Ginger Spice, I think.
HELP!!!
