As I grew older I tended to become as you would expect, somewhat wiser, and as you would expect, I learned the ability to control my bladder better, and hold out for a suitable location to relieve myself.

However, 4 years ago I moved to Queensland, Australia, and in doing so have come to realise, that either Queenslanders are not taught to use toilets, or they truly believe in the saying “The world is my Urinal”.
My first introduction to this was at a BBQ of some people we had only recently met and, obviously after a number of beers, I needed to use the bathroom, being the surprisingly polite person that I am, I asked the host, where their bathroom was.

“Mate just go anywhere over there” he replied, with a sweeping movement of his arm indicating some 200+ Square metres of land in which to urinate.
“nah seriously man, I am not going to piss in your yard” I replied
“Poof” he said, as he proceeded to walk over to his fence and just start pissing on it…….

When in Rome I figure, and found my own fence paling to paint yellow.

However I could never quite shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong, at every party and opportunity I still prefer to use the toilet rather than someones yard.

What strikes me as amusing though is that at my last house some of my Queensland friends would walk past the toilet to go piss in yard. I mean seriously, why walk past, and further than the toilet to piss, or worst still was another friend, who at times would piss, just outside the toilet window in the garden……crazy man.

I guess, it’s better than pissing in the spare bedroom….but that’s another story altogether……

“Do you see a ring on this finger” was a phrase made popular by Eddie Murphy, and it left a generation of men sitting there, believing that the outlandish shit proposed by our dear friend eddie, would all be possible once we placed that little slither upon our fair ladies hand…….but no men…don’t believe it, it’s just a way for your bitch to show that she owns you.

It’s been one week and Blokeman has has lost a massive part of his blokiness, well to an extent anyway.

Thankfully blokewife…..or as she has been known for the last week “Wifey” understands what it means to a blokeman to be a bloke, and a wonderous thing happened this week, you see Wifey works in advertising sales, and this week she visited a homebrew beer store, in here region trying to sell some advertising in her paper. Oldmate, and an honoury blokeman legend and possibly someone more blokey than I, managed to get Wifey to have a free glass of homebrew beer, enough that she came home telling me she enjoyed it. Now there is an upside and a downside to this

1) UPSIDE:Wifey can handle drinking beer
2) DOWNSIDE: Wifey may want to drink MY beer….there was nothing in our vows about that though

So me and Mr Homebrew need to have a word about priorities and a man’s beer is his beer and not Wifeys. But one thing I have to praise the man for is that when Wifey was in there he showed her the “Keginator” and wifey said that once we have paid off the last of the wedding, she is taking me in there to get one and a full keg setup…….oh how I love homebrew man now

So 2 weekends back there I was minding my own business, well actually we rushed back from the shops as the mother in law had arrived at our house, so that we could meet up with her, putting a dampener on the plans we already had. She brought her little dog with her, and I use the term loosely. It is a tea cup Pomeranian, nuff said.
Now I will be the first to admit that I am not the biggest fan of this “Dog” but I tolerate it as I do all animals, however this is what I was greeted with

1 – I sit down the dog jumps on my lap, covered in pee where it had wet itself, I shove it off and go wash my hands and change clothes
2 – I go inside and my partner lets the dog in. It pees on the rug. I clean it up and sit down to watch the football
3 – I catch the thing pissing on my carpet!!!!! I yell at it and tell it to get out. Granted not in nice tones, but 3 strikes, come on, don’t piss on my carpet, the dog is over a year old it should be over that and I would have thought after I had said it pissed on the rug, the matter would have been resolved by the dog being removed from the house.
But no. It proceeds to piss on the carpet, and I caught it right as it was starting to pee. So I yelled at it, with a sound of utter contempt in my voice and shooed it from the house.

This has greatly upset the inlaws, and we are currently not on speaking terms, I have to keep reminding my partner that the dog is a dog and not a child, the dog does no rationalise, it knows it did something wrong, something very wrong, and if it is ever in my house again will think twice about pissing on my carpet.

The thing that irks me is that I am being treated like I yelled at a 3 year old child, I didnt even yell that loud, I just did the standard “uh-uh” and “Outside, get outside NOW” shit what a terrible thing to say, how dare I yell at a dog. I cant stand people that treat their animals as if they are human, they are animals, with no rationale, just instinctual.

I guess the silver lining is that I wont have to bother yelling at the dog for a while, because I am barred from seeing it because I “Hate it, obviously”……no I hate animal piss on my carpet!

I have been confronted, with snakes, almost run down by kangaroos, spiders as big as your hand, grasshoppers that are directly from the Jurassic period, rain so heavy you would swear you were swimming under a water fall and coming to terms with owning a home and the various activities that go with that, i.e. building and maintenance.

It looks like now, I will be confronted with my first ever cyclone. A cyclone is a severe tropical storm, known as a Typhoon or Hurricaine in other parts of the world. The one header our way is apparently the same in size and power as Hurricaine Katrina that devistated New Orleans in the USA. At this stage the cyclone is sitting a fair way North of us but is heading nearly directly towards us, but only moving at about 15km/ph. There is an eerie feel about the town, though by and large people are just going about their business.

Tomorrow will be the exciting time for us. We are likely to go from Watch (48 hour warning) to Warning (storm going to hit within 24hours). Basically that means, we are in iminant danger, and it is time for us to not only clear all loose objects and tie things down, but also to prepare to either evacuate or if staying, get inside and stay inside. Winds are picking up and we need to make our decision by midday tomorrow of whether we are staying through te storm or whether we are high tailing it to safer ground. The Blokeman in me says stay, chain myself to a tree and take that sucker on, the adult in me says pack the car, photo albums, dogs and fiance and get the hell out of town…….though I think we will take the middle ground secure the house, have some friends and family over and ride it out together in the hallway of the house…….

Bring it on………………….

Last night I was awoken with a sudden pain in my stomach and as realisation dawned upon me through the haze of the world between awakedness and comforting slumber, I threw back the sheets and made an all out dash for the bathroom, kicking my little toe on the door frame on my way through I swallowed down a scream and continued my dash of mercy.

Making it to the bathroom in the nick of time, I managed to remove said boxers and proceeded to spray paint the toilet bowl a violent shade of brown and probably yellow I spent the next 30 minutes or so sitting there, my legs a cramping, sweat beading on my brow and fighting off sleep, lest I slip from the porcelain throne and project my body produced art on the walls of the bathroom.

Thinking it was all over I cleaned up and decided the couch would be the best place to rest my head, due to it’s proximity to the bathroom and not wanting to wake my other half.

It was whilst sitting there, that I was reminded of an advert from my childhood, that wen a little like this: “How does it feel <insert something that you have done>, it feels like a tooheys” obviously, this advert lent itself to many a school yard variation, it was one such variation that came to mind and reminded me of the easer of youth.

“How does it feel, when you’re sitting on the Dunny and yours shit’s all runny and the doorbell rings”

For my non-Australian readers, a “Dunny” refers to the toilet.

I started to ponder on this little ditty, and thought how very apt and descriptive of the youth who came up with this, for I believe that many of us have been in the situation, where we have in fact been sitting on the dunny, and the doorbell rings, humans being naturally curious creatures are then split between finishing what you set out to do, on your journey to the bathroom, and getting up to find out who was at the door. For many the mystery of never knowing would be too much and they would have to get up, to others, well it’s a matter of getting through the ordeal and preferring to never know.

However…..when you’re shit’s all runny, well the choice, is taken from your hands, you have no way of getting up, unless you leave a slippery trail of disgusting mess, this is the true genius in the song. Because everyone knows exactly what it would feel like to be sitting on the dunny, with their shit all runny, and the doorbell rings……

So for years my family ridicule me for being the only non-tradesman in the family as if it is some form of effeminate thing not to want to toil away behind tools all day for less pay than I can get perched behind my computer at home.

However, now the tides have turned and I can happily smother my family with the ridicule they once reserved for me. Geocaching has swept through them, a craze like a wild fire. I take such wicked delight in reminding them as oft as possible of the sorts of single 30 something men with only their mothers for friends, who generally partake in this activity globally.

They have provided me of tales where they have bumped into fellow geocachers and described exactly the type of social retards you would expect of this sort of activity, red haired, freckle-faced with coke-bottle glasses.

In short now my Family are NERDS eeegads

“A hot summer night, fell like a net
I’ve gotta find my baby yet
I need you to soothe my head
Turn my blue heart to red”

Ok I get the first part, very poetic, the heat descends upon you like a net on a hot summer night, though not where I am from, instead it descends on your like a hot fucking humid cloak. But that is all fair enough, i can get the soothing the head part, I can let it go and in the context of later mistakes, the “Turn my blue heart to red” even works, though we then have to assume that this Doctor, is in fact some for of heart surgeon or specialist.

“Doctor, doctor give me the news
I’ve got a bad case of lovin’ you
No pill’s gonna cure my ill
I’ve got a bad case of lovin’ you”

This is the part of the song that really has me wondering. Now, whilst the general interperetation is that the man is in love with someone, this lyric chunk actually is saying that said singer is in love with the doctor. Now, with that said, I ran some searches to see if I could find any female heart surgeons or specialists, the net result being I could find vague references to only 1, however, this Doctor, at the time of the song being published, was not yet a heart specialist. Meaning that the singer of the song, must be in fact in love with his male heart surgeon. I mean I know the guy likely saved your life, by fixing your blue heart and making it red again, but surely this is breaking the bounds of the patient-Doctor relationship isnt it?

“A pretty face don’t make no pretty heart
I learned that buddy, from the start
You think I’m cute, a little bit shy
Momma, I ain’t that kind of guy”

Ok so let me get this straight, first of all he is looking for love from his surgeon, now he is getting all prissy and bitchy because he is saying that a pretty face, doesnt mean she has a nice personality. Obviously Mr Heart Surgeon has rejected our patients advances. He has at least let us know he is male by saying “Buddy”. But now he is starting to big note himself and bullshit too, “You think I am cute, a little shy” talk it up big fella, and this song really highlights that shyness you mention. But who the fuck is he talking to when he mentions his Momma?

He busts back into his Doctor Doctor routine again then, and all of a sudden is all back in love….come on guy I know you just had a major heart operation, but lets make up our mind here hey, our Doctor doesn’t have the time, he is a busy man you know.

“Wooah

You had me down, 21 to zip
Smile of Judas on your lip
Shake my fist, knock on wood
I’ve got it bad and I’ve got it good”

Right so now, his fantasy is starting to get a bit over the top. He starts with ecstatic screams of woah and then talking about how his doctor likes it on top, I mean surely his doctor hasn’t taken the relationship that far, and if he has there are some serious questions about his professionalism here, not to mention the fact that it goes for so long he doesn’t know when it will stop.
Then what is he talking about 21 to zip, a game of vollyball?
And I like similes, metphors and poetic technique as much as the next guy, but what is the point of this whole Judas lip and fist shaking, it sounds like some kind of kinky heart surgeon sex game to me, and it sounds like our dear singer is loving it.
Overall I can see the idea of being in love so much it seems like you are sick, but this guy is sick, truly sick, and after such massive heart surgery, shouldn’t he be resting anyway….ZOMG!!!!!!!!!!

Blowout Aftermath

First lets be clear, that in Australia, “Thongs” are no underwear, they are not a “G-String”, no, thongs are in fact footwear, what you would call “Flip-Flops” in other countries, however here, they will remain thongs, an iconic part of your typical Aussie males wardrobe, most guys have their bash around thongs, and their good “Going out thongs”.

Now generally speaking, they are not footwear for the inexperienced, you have a breaking in period with thongs that could last anywhere from a few days to over a week, this period for any type of thong, is characterised by a pain on the edge of your foot from the straps rubbing into your foot as you walk, and often once you have broken in a pair of goof thongs you are unlikely to give them up without a fight, including many a home repair job to fix them. A good pair of broken in thongs, transcend their monetary value and become as much a part of you as say your hair.

One of the greatest tragedies which can befall your much-loved footwear is what is commonly referred to as a “Blowout”. A blowout is when the plug that holds the straps in, and generally it is the toe strap breaks, rendering your thong useless apart from a warped frisbee, or as a float on a crab trap.

This tragedy struck me on Saturday night. There I was drinking with friends in a place where footwear is advisable, due to the various critters that you crunch underfoot on your way to cut one loose in the bush. My good going out thongs, my Havianas (Shameless plug…send us some freebies) were one minute attached to my foot, and seconds later, my world came crashing down, my right thong threw a plug, and there was nothing left to do but pout.

The boys, being the boys they are, consoled me for a short time, before quickly digging into me about buying “Double-pluggers” and the wonderous benefit of never having a blowout, but even these wise words of advise, fell on deaf ears, my world was completely consumed with the pain of my loss, and the thought that my world, at least for a short time will never be the same, and once again I will have to break in a new pair and forever feel like I am betraying my besties.

The pain is so great, I don’t even know how to finish this blog post, my world is all consumed by my loss…..oh woe is me!

Molicious Damage

That time of year is upon us once again, that’s right Movember. Last year Blokeman was a participant, and at about the 20th of the month declared aloud to all that would hear, that he would never again participate as a Mo’grower in Movember.

Well a year down the track, and a drunken night boasting the prowess of last years lip dressing to a new group of mates, in his new home, Blokeman once again has been suckered into the event. For 10 days I thought I had escaped the agreement, until a chance encounter with his mates on Monday night, and the embarrassment of being the only one with a naked upper lip, convinced him to once again join the fuzzy lipped elite.

So now, with a 10 day deficit on my mates, I am speedily attempting to grow face fur, using every trick in the book and hoping that come the end of November I do not end up with the embarrassing wooden spoon of moustache growing, known as Peach fuzz.

A few years back, I had an argument with the bottom of a pebblecrete pool, and ended up taking a fair few layers of skin from one side of my chin and the middle of my lip and nose. The event left me with damaged hair follicles in the middle of my lip and chin, meaning a classic mo designs such as “The Hitler”, “The Bottle Brush” or even “The Full Sanchez” are out of my blokish reaches, this my friends is the Kryptonite of Blokeman, the inability to grow a moustache that Tom Selleck would be proud of. No to my own ire, my Movember achievements are an embarrassment to me and my team mates, but I shall persevere and do my best.

If you don’t know what Movember is, head over to http://www.movember.com, but in a nutshell, during Movember men grow moustaches and raise money for prostrate cancer (the pain in the ass part). You shave on Movember 1st  and then do not shave your upper lip for the entire month, you can not grow a beard or goaty, and the Mo must be prominent. You then raise money which goes towards the Porstate cancer research.

This year, the team I am in is called Molicious Damage. If you would like to donate to my team, all men would be extremely appreciative. As I say if you do want to donate, please follow this link https://www.movember.com/au/donate/donate-details.php?action=sponsorlink&rego=2090721&country=au

Oh Dear!

My partner often says that I am weird, I try to retort with the fact that I am eccentric, until it dawns on me, I am not rich enough to be eccentric, so am resigned to being weird.

One thing recently raised this comment from my dear partner, we were driving a long and we went past two veterinaries however instead of being called a “Vet” they instead had “Animal Hospital” written as their name, seeing one, went unnoticed, but seeing the second brought a chuckle out of me, and my partner asked what I was laughing at, so i broke into the following:

“Every time I see “Animal Hospital” it raises pictures in my head of dogs and cats laying on their backs in hospital beds like humans with IV drips in them and heart monitors, and cats dressed as Nurses walking around and dogs dressed as Doctors, with stethoscopes and all, talking to the other patients. Kind of like the animal version of Scrubs.

And the cat nurses walk up to a bed with another cat in it, but then they realise it is another cat, so they start hissing and mowing at each other, and a big cat fight ensues, then the dogs join in and it becomes a big mess, then it Droopy the dog walks in in a white jacket and says “Oh Dear” and starts to try to calm everything down.

And Wiley Coyote is laying in a bed in the corner all wrapped in plaster and bandages with his leg up in one of those leg slings, and all you can see is like a mummy outline of Wiley Coyote, but just his eyes are showing, and then just outside the curtain, Road Runner is talking to a dog in a jacket in hushed tones to see whether Wiley will survive”

All of this popped into my head in a matter of about 2 seconds, so I explained it all to my partner, who chuckled a little, looked at me very strangely out of the corner of her eye and said “You’re Weird”, but seriously, what else am I supposed to think when you call a place an Animal Hospital?