Horses really just chucking a sickie!

Victoria remains free of horse flu after tests revealed yesterday that sick show horse, Harry’s Boy, in the state’s south-west was actually trying to pass off his cold as a flu.

There have been leaked reports from the Randwick stables in NSW to Lucky Boris Yeltsin is Dead!, that some horses allegedly diagnosed with the Equestrian Flu are in fact faking it as part of a unionist conspiracy, organised by the Equestrian Workers Union (EWU) to bring the Racing Industry and the Howard Government to its knees. The still slightly-nasal Harry’s Boy launched a scathing attack at a Hamilton Race Track press conference this morning.

“Fair crack of the bloody whip! This industrial action is well over due! The horse/human relationship has become untenable since the Work Choices legislation was introduced by the Howard Government.” Mr Boy said. “Look, whether it’s shaving a second off your best track time or trampling over your quota of uni students, the pressure to perform for a horse is immense. We don’t think it’s right that on top of that stress, we now can be sent to a pet food factory without any fair warning or reason the moment our human employer wants. What’s worse, we’re expected to work on the Melbourne Cup public holiday – and the pay is peanuts. It’s just screwy and it makes me want to kick the living bejezzus out Howard and his side-kick Captain Smirk.” Brayed Boy.

Pixie’s Prince, the NSW EWU boss and thoroughbred, rejects Harry Boy’s claims and has repeatedly denied accusations that Sydney horses are chucking a sickie or are part of some plot by the EWU or Federal Labor leader Kevin Rudd.

Neigh – Neigh!

Which means you’re so

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Where’s my freaking *understanding*?

Dear Clive Peeters,

Thank you for having that lovely store manager call me yesterday. I appreciate that. I really do. And I can’t wait to get that letter of apology and $100 voucher in the post (it hasn’t arrived, by the way).

My concern is, Clive (can I call you Clive?), I’m not entirely sure that you understand where I’m coming from. This washing machine is really important to me.

You see, I was raised by a household appliance. I say that without a hint of recrimination. The TV has taught me more than you can possibly imagine. For example, I know precisely what to do if: (a) I am an orphan/robot/twin/golden girl/puppet; (b) I am lost on a desert island/in space/in the dreamy eyes of a doctor/lawyer/nanny named Fran; or (c) there is a hole in my car’s overheated radiator and all I have is a pocket knife and an egg [For the record, you crack the egg into the boiling water in the radiator. The egg poaches and blocks the hole. You use the blade of the knife to check your mullet]. How many people can say that?

Sure, there are downsides: I truly have trouble distinguishing events in my childhood from things that happened to Alex P. Keaton on Family Ties. For a while in my pre-teens, I spoke with a Canadian accent (what was that aboot?). And when I try to spoon with the telly, my hair gets all static-y.

I’m sharing this with you in the hope that we can understand each other a little more. I, for one, am really glad we’ve had this chance to talk.

And I’m really looking forward to your letter of apology. I still think you’re a pencil-dick. But I’ll take your money.

Isn’t it

Lucky Boris Yeltsin is Dead!

An amazing elephant story…

In 1986, Mikele Mebembe was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Monash University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Mikele approached it very carefully.

He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant’s foot and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Mikele worked the wood out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot. The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Mikele stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away. Mikele never forgot that elephant or
the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Mikele was walking through the Melbourne Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Mikele and his son Tapu were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Mikele, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Mikele couldn’t help wondering if this was the same elephant. Mikele summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right
up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, then wrapped its trunk around one of Mikele’s legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.

Folks… was there a lesson in that? Don’t call your kid Mikele – what a cumbersome name! One wonders what he was studying – probably Arts. Anyway there’s so much we DON’T know about poor Mikele….   it’s lucky he’s dead now, just like we are…

Lucky Boris Yeltsin Is Dead!

Where’s my freaking machine?

Dear Clive Peeters,

A little over a week ago, I purchased a washing machine from your store. It is a fine Scandinavian washing machine – which I understand is so advanced, it will gently nuzzle my clothes clean. The machine was due to be delivered to my home on Friday afternoon. I stayed home from work to wait for the machine and to sort my whites from my colours.

But the machine did not arrive.

I rang and was assured that the machine would be delivered first thing Monday morning. In good faith, I spent the weekend dirtying my clothes and rotating my sheets, bath mats and tea towels.

Today (Monday), I waited at my house with three piles of soiled linen (white, colours and utility fabrics) and new tub of Omomatic. Again, the machine did not arrive. Apparently it will arrive tomorrow, but let’s be honest with each other: I can’t really expect that is the case.

You already have my money, and if your salesperson hasn’t lied to me more than twice, I won’t need another washing machine for 20 years – so it doesn’t really matter that I won’t be back to your store. And it’s not that my expectations were unreasonable. I don’t need exceptional service, special fidelity or anything other than the barest contractual relationship. I don’t have an interest in becoming a valued customer, frequent flyer or good ol’ boy.

The truth is this: you just don’t care. I came to you having spent ten years using laundrettes, which are not as sexy as a middle-aged mortgage-humper like you might imagine. I gave you my money, and I asked you to do one thing: give me my machine. You are nothing but a filthy Capitalist jerk. In truth, a decent Capitalist would have appreciated the principle of actually exchanging goods for payment.

Choke on your bonus, you swine.

You’re

Lucky Boris Yeltsin Is Dead