Aussie Speak

Just finished an intensive two month course in Australian.  I love language and the variations of word meanings, pronunciations along with accents.  Here’s what I retained from my study.

I woke up this mahning feeling a little toey in the covas and thought about wanking cos I was alone, but I put on my nickas instead and opened the cootins.  Went to the loo and schowad in wahm whadah.  My clothes weh in the wahdrobe and I put some on.  I walked on the foot path so my shoes didn’t get wet in the mohning dju.  The buhds were singing and the skweerels weh prahncing around.  I went to the stoah and got a trolley to load everything I wanted to buy at the mahket.  My list had tomahtoes, cheese from Frahns, rock melon, chook and bum nuts.  I bought a slab of tinnies too.  Been dry as a dead dingo’s donga lately.  When I went to load the boot, I forghat to buy the googs and lollies. Figured I could just skull the tinnies latah, but didn’t want to be a chucky.  Sawr a cute baby in a nappy with a dummy in ha mouth.  Shoowah is a lot to see he-a on Uhth.  I went to get some medicine at the chemist’s and then to the pageant wheha I bought some fairy floss.  The wind kicked up and I put on my jumpha.  Had a picnic in the pahk and sat on my rug because I didn’t want ahnts in my bits.  My mobile battry died.  Bloody hell!  I wrapped my leftovers in aloo minium foil to eat lateh.  All the bee-ah made me have to have a slash and I went behind the shed.  I was close to being off my face.  It was dahk out, so I got out my torch as I drank a spidah on the deck.  Had my own pahdee pretending I was beyond the black stump.  Sawr the yahd needed trimming, so I decided I’d pull out the whippa snippa in the mahning.  The mozzies were thick last night.  Bloody oath.  Good on ya, bloke.  Oi!  I reckon I will be called out as a dibba dobba, septic tank dag now.        

Random Stitches

Not only do clothing marketers get creative with their lack of size uniformity, they also pull the wool over our eyes with insane product names.  Pants is what my dog does after a good run.  How can one thing be plural anyway?  Generally women put on a wedding, evening, summer or night gown and they are dressed.  When I throw on my blue jean, singular intended, am I pantsed?  That word is not even in the dictionary and it happened to me once at Waikiki and it was the opposite of being clothed.  But, I digress.  Guys are supposed to have pants, shoes and shirts that are dress.  What does that have to do with the traditional cover garment of the fairer sex?  Far as I’m concerned, shoes and socks are feet prisons.  Wearing both is like double lock down.  When I have to wear them, I tie my shoes.  I knot my tie and they should just be called nooses.  Shirts have collars, so we are back to the canine age.  When was the last time you saw an athletic competition with the participants wearing sports coats?  And when did they drop “clown” from “suit”?  I get tube top and t-shirt, but I have no idea where the term tank top came from.  Neck lace makes sense, why isn’t it wrist lace?  They got the wrist part right with the timepiece many wear, but I’ve never heard of anybody having a grandfather watch.  It all seems a little cuckoo.  Sweatshirts, sweat pants and sweaters all imply over heated bodies.  When was the last time you played tennis in those sneakers?  If the mood strikes, I’d prefer not to visualize my mate with teddy or muumuu.  Who is this teddy guy?  Formal occasions demand attire of collars, cuffs, imprisoned feet, a noose and a clown suit while resisting excessive sweating, panting or getting the urge to pick up a racket.  Just random stitches that hum through the sewing machine of my mind.                                 

Meesha and Alex Wedding HD Full

Boy With No Name

There was boy

Who had no name

His parents forgot

And it was a shame

Teacher took attendance

Each day at school

Raised his hand

With each name called

Like a fool

Just wanted a name

Like me and you

He didn’t need three

Or even two

Just one, just one

Just one would do

Like an ant

He roamed aimlessly

Give me your name

He asked desperately

No, no I can’t

He heard repeatedly

Until one day

He met a girl

Who made his head twirl

When she did say

If I can have yours

So he married her

Of course

They went to the bank

To open an account

Teller said fill this form out

Name, address

And deposit amount

Mr. And Mrs.

Oak and a sumly sum

The wrote in

And they were all done

This isn’t enough

Information for me

I need a name in my system

Don’t you see?

 And Mrs. spoke up

I used to be

Priscilla Sue

Angela Marie

But my mama

Called  me Beverly

When my daddy put me

Down to bed at night

He said sweet dreams

Penelope delight

But I married this man

Understand if you can

He is Mr. and I am his Mrs.

So we shall take

Our sumly sum

And put it under the mattress

They walked home

Along the crooked path

Climbed up the tree

Where they took a bath

Bank full of fools

With all their rules

They laughed

Started a family

Babies galore

Named each one ten times

Sometimes more

They didn’t forget

Like his parents did

When he was a kid

Without a name

Is not fun

People treat you like

You are no one

Dreams

There was a curious man

Who lived in a strange land

It snowed when Santa came

Except when it rained

He had a friend  who said ‘read this book’

And he decided to take a look

But, he got a job to knock on doors

Counting people till there were no more

He had another friend with Rapunzel long hair

Love of music in common they shared

With llamas and dogs,  she lived in the forest

Her gentle kindness was far from the poorest

She told curious man one day

About a book she might study

Along with internet buddies

And he shouted in excitement ‘hey

I have that book

Collecting dust on my nook’

Curious man was jealous of her

He wanted to too, that much was sure

So she asked the fearless leader

If he could belong

But the tribe was all women

His gender was wrong

They voted as a group

And invited him along

He hollered and hooped

Learning he’d been given a chance

He couldn’t help, but do a silly dance

Every week he did his homework

Tried so hard not to be a jerk

There was something about his words

A little crazy, definitely absurd

There was an adventurous one in the clan

Who dreamt out loud ‘yes I can

Meet these artists in a strange land’

She believed it and opened her eyes

And sold paintings galore to her surprise

So she bought a plane ticket to fly

Far away to meet these women and one guy

They talk so funny

Drive on the wrong side of the street

And the birds sound different

The way that they tweet

Indeed, a very strange place

Chance of a lifetime

To meet face-to-face

So off she’ll go to who knows who

To a land with no kangaroos

But on the other end

Everyone is excited to meet her too

She’ll make lots of new best friends

She’ll return one day in September

A trip she’ll always remember

All because out loud she dreamed

They are attainable that way it seems

Here's The Poop

Ever want to believe something, but you knew deep down it couldn't be?  A writing job fell out of the sky into my lap last week and I wanted to believe.  I applied and was asked to write a test article on irritable bowel syndrome using three key phrases highlighted in red.  Wasn't really taking it too seriously as you'll see below.  I got hired!  Found out the next day the whole deal was bogus.  If you find this article on the web, you'll know I was the author.

Accused of being full of it figuratively is one thing, but literally having ibs-c symptoms is no laughing matter.  Irritable bowel syndrome, left untreated, can lead to death.  Symptoms include stomach cramps, bloating and gas due to constipation, irritability, fatigue, headaches and even depression.  The human body is not meant to store its waste and when one has ibs with constipation symptoms, the result is lack of, infrequent or incomplete discharge. 

The cause of this disorder is unknown.  There are theories there may be an unidentified infection in the digestive track.  Other studies point to hormonal changes as ibs symptoms women are more commonly diagnosed.  It increases bitchiness and decreases sexual desire in women.  Of course, unscientific research indicates men are susceptible to this disorder, especially those who partake in the consumption of liquor.    

Irritable bowel syndrome is a multi-billion dollar industry annually.  One treatment is diet control, limiting lactose and fructose, while increasing fiber intake.  This helps some with metabolism difficulties, but not all.  Another treatment of ibs-c symptoms is medication including laxatives, stool softeners, anti-depressants and magnesium aluminum silicates.  Again, loosening of excrement in the intestines relieves some who suffer.  It fails others who begin to spend all their focus and energy on successfully expelling.  When they fail, they become even more obsessed with their problem, resulting in depression.  Big pharma has magic pills for that, as do mental health professionals with psychotherapy.  It does not treat the unknown cause of the illness, just another symptom of it.  Other treatments include exercise, acupuncture and naturopathy in attempts to reduce stress and improve sleep.  

It is estimated twenty percent of the America population suffer from ibs with constipation symptoms, many undiagnosed.  We all have difficulty sometimes with indigestion and  constipation.  It often appears prior to reaching thirty-five years of age and can control one’s life, even making them incapable of employment.  It is no fun and such a relief to discharge our excrement.

The colon plays a large part in successful bowel movements.  It is approximately five feet long, connecting the small intestine to the rectum and anus. It is recommended that old farts at fifty years old begin having regular colonoscopies.  So much for just a finger up your anus to check prostrate health for men.  It is an invasive procedure and they take pictures while you are sedated.  It should be called endoscopy.       

So the next time it hits the fan, you choose to shoot it, run your diarrhea mouth off, take one or accuse someone of being full of it, have some compassion for those who actually suffer from this debilitating disability.  It is chronic and uncomfortable and verbal comments only contribute to the need for further therapy and medications for those who suffer from it.  Making fun of the constipated is simply crude, rude and unacceptable behavior.  It’s about time people grew up and accepted irritable bowel syndrome as a serious condition and felt comfortable discussing it.  Do the world a favor and show some compassion for the people who can’t  give one.          

  

Birthdays

I just collected another one and am beginning to feel like a greedy hoarder.  Started off innocently enough with the cake face in my highchair, as my Mom captured that occasion in black and white.  I progressed, with pail in hand, grabbing Easter eggs on my fourth.  If I survive another seven years, I can revert to my old ways and do that it again.

Birthdays seem to make one look forward and back.  Bought my first car on my eighteenth, a Mini-Cooper in 1971.  Transferred the title that day and when I came out of the licensing office, it wouldn’t start.  I loved that car, but it didn’t love me.  The next year, my parents bought me a gold watch, flexible band and all.  Didn’t take much time after that to get in trouble.

Got married after collecting twenty-three of them, had thirty when my mom was alive and one more before I became a dad.  My forty-eighth was big.  As the house manager for a benefit concert, the performer sang an impromptu song about me to 1,200 in the audience.  On my fiftieth, my dad was a surprise dinner guest.  Didn’t know it at the time, but we only had two more together.

Now my birthday is sandwiched between National Weed Day and Earth Day.  I fit in there somewhere and share the date with John Muir, Queen Elizabeth and my attention whore, little brother around here, the Space Needle.  Learned over the years world’s fair is a misnomer, but even so, I was flooded with love via phone calls, packages and internet messages from near and farther away than ever before. 

Don’t know how many more birthdays I’ll collect, but I was acutely aware and appreciative this time around the sun.  So, in seven years, I’ll pick up the pail and hunt for more Easter eggs.  And then eleven years after that, I’ll finally hang up my bucket of birthdays as my grandchildren, who haven’t been born yet, will take pictures on whatever the newest gadget is of me bibbed in a wheelchair getting cake faced.  Flying my own flag, I collected years like no other.  Simple, complicated and priceless.