WHY BEING SICK REMINDS ME OF A CREDIT CARD COMMERCIAL

Give me a cup of Chunky Ebola Flakes served in a mildly tepid bowl of cholerafied milk and call it a breakfast to die for!!! I’ve just spent ten days on my back with some monsterous unearthly plague of a virus that has left me more frail than an 89 year old hip replacement part and more frustrated than pre-pubescent male caught on the same beach as a Victoria’s Secret Summer catalogue shoot.

Yes… ten days in bed… literally dying… and it doesn’t matter what anybody else says – I know I was literally dying…

…Until I got better of course.

Day One: a normal day really – nothing overly special. Most of my days are like that; I get up, trip over the cat; fall into the shower; eat some breakfast (a healthy, heart approved serving of Eggs Benedict with Bacon – who is not a Jewish Rabbi by the way) washed down with a large Soya Flat White, catch the bus to town, talked sports with Larry in Accounts  – well, you don’t need to hear all the detail - Except that later that evening when I got home I noticed that I had a bit of a sore throat coming on and I thought; “great, a Summer Cold”.

Day Two: Who fed me broken glass and razor blades with my chicken soup? This isn’t Halloween!!! Yep, woke up with a whole batch of Iraqi WMDs going off in my throat causing my head to pound and my neck to ache. So I go to Doctor number one – Think his name was Mengles. He sticks a monitor in my ear to take my temperature, looks down my throat – well more like mines down there with a great big spade, full sized Tonka truck and a helmet light – and declares that I have Strep Throat. He then decides to take a swab. The next thing I know he’s got me pinned down with his knee on my chest, left hand firm on my forehead, and he’s thrusting a giant cotton bud so far down my throat that I can feel it rubbing my Spleen. With that, he prescribes some Penicillin and some mild pain killers and sends me on my way – best part $60 for his services.

Day Three: Broken glass and razor blades still there – great! Fortunately they’re occasionally relieved when I throw up some alien acid that burns the crap out of everything between my stomach and the porcelain (which shows vague signs of a melt). And now there’s the fever too – from cold to boiling quicker than a Katie Perry chorus lyric. But the best part is the hallucinations throughout the night – not nice things like flowers or paisley colours or rising stock prices – but horrible things like Zombies with razor blades, kids in Halloween costumes, a meeting with the National Party Caucus to discuss whether New Zealand's low income families should retain their basic human rights…

So Day Four begins with a trip to a second Doctor. Her name was Livingstone I presume. She begins by also sticking the monitor thing in my ear before going for a coal mine down my throat. Fortunately she doesn’t need to take another swab so the bruising on my Spleen will have a chance to clear. She prescribes a different antibiotic and a variation on the same mild pain killers. I mean – razor blades and glass, acid producing vomit and a volcanic-level fever – give me the real stuff for God’s sake!!! But I figure she must know what she’s doing because she has given me a different antibiotic – and she charged $85 for her services – indicating a higher expertise than Mengles. So I’m quietly confident.

Day Five: It’s Christmas Day!!! Yay!!! More broken glass and razor blades. More Alien acid puke. More brimstone exploding out of my forehead. The only good thing is that I’m now so exhausted that after every three breathes I have to go and have a lie down. I haven’t eaten in four days, hardly drunk anything, and at last puke everything was like acidic soap bubbles in the absence of any other substantive fodder to be excommunicated.

So after I collapse at lunchtime – my darling (who I have to concede here with utmost sincerity, was there for me every step of the way – even when through my own frustrations I sometimes failed to demonstrate my appreciation of her) dragged me to our local Hospital A&E department for some answers. Here we get an American sounding Doctor (Elementary Watson I think) who announces that it isn’t an infection like Strep Throat and that’s why the Penicillin and Antibiotics haven’t helped. Instead, he decides it’s viral and calls the nurse to take a bucket load of blood for tests. But I like this guy – he prescribes some major heavy duty painkillers (like these will knock you out and send you to the Moon). Better still, he doesn’t cost anything because he’s part of the public health system – so even if he’s wrong – who cares; it’s very dark up here and planet earth is blue.

Day Six, Seven and Eight are pretty much the same. Broken Glass and Razor Blades, Alien Acid Puke and “Fire in the hole” fevers quelled by Elementary Watson’s super juice and vague trips to the Moon. But I realize this can’t go on. I’m still not eating, still hardly drinking – and my poor darling is at her wit’s end looking after me.

Day Nine: less glass and razor blades – no Alien Acid left to hurl. Can’t sit up in bed without having to take a lie down. But I decide to stop taking Elementary Watson’s super juice. I need to be able to focus enough to get to Doctor number four tomorrow and demand resolution.

Day Ten: Throat feels vaguely human – getting my strength back. I head out to see Doctor number four: Spock. Now she looks at all the tests done by the others and concludes that it’s not an infection – no evidence of that. It’s none of the viruses tested for either – bloods were clean. It’s Influenza – a nasty case. And the best thing you can do is stay at home, take over-the-counter paracetamol, keep your fluids up and ride it out. Oh, and that’ll be $35.

Great! $60 for an initial wrong diagnosis and ineffective pain killers. $85 for a concurrence with that initial wrong diagnosis and equally ineffective painkillers. A gallon of blood for a ‘kind of in the ball park’ diagnosis and some super effective, let's-go-to-the-moon-type painkillers. $35 to be told that I didn’t need to spend any of that money because none of the doctors could really do anything more to help than what my darling could have done at home – PRICELESS

Can I get a refund on a poor diagnosis?

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right.

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS: BLAH BLAH BLAH HUMBUG

Find me three wise men and a virgin in New Zealand and I’ll be a pair of Houdini’s pyjamas - it’s Christmas season once again and although I’ve said it before: everyone I know is acting more frenzied than a lion in a first century Roman amphitheatre.

Take the sad example of my work colleague Teddy who, as I write, is in the process of attaching his baubles to the ceiling directly above his desk. I mean, of all the places to staple your baubles, that isn’t one I’d choose. I mean for crying out loud Teddy, it looks like you’ve just had a giant scrotum explosion above your cubicle!!!

But sadly both you and I know that within five minutes of Teddy completing this decorative masterbeast, half the office staff will head down that way making “Ooooh, Aaaaah” sounds and pretend that they actually like each other – because it’s that time of year and phony sentiment abounds. And suddenly Teddy, who is the Company Accountant (and for the most part of the year has about as many friends as any Company Accountant you know), is the most popular guy in the room. I mean, how does he do it? A three dollar string of tinsel and a 6.99 packet of baubles and everyone forgets he’s a Company Accountant??? Crikey, imagine how powerful the Inland Revenue Service would be if someone gave them a 12.99 set of Christmas Lights!!!

Okay, so you think I’m being a bit of a Humbug. And I get that – I mean it’s true that I’d rather take an 18 volt power drill and bore a 10mm hole through the middle of my skull rather than listen to another bad rendition of The Little Drummer Boy. And what the Charlie Brown is Snoopy’s Christmas all about??? Christmas is a Beagle in a Bi-Plane? That makes about as much sense to me as a Democrat running for office without a sex scandal.

But there are things about Christmas I do like. For example, on the day I do get the chance to be excited over a new pair of socks, a red and yellow floral tie, a rubber beer holder with a picture of a cartoon Moose on it and a vaguely amusing caption that confuses ‘beer’ with ‘deer’, a BBQ apron with “World’s sexiest chef” printed across the front (to go with the set of three I already have from previous years), and a K-Mart Gift Voucher redeemable next time I drive three hours to the nearest town that has a K-Mart in it. Yes, I am soooooo excited about that.

I just hope I got the right present for my Girlfriend this time round. Especially after last year’s incident where somehow, I managed to miss-read all her subtle cues. I’m still baffled by it. I mean, every time we were in town and we passed by that new Steakhouse Restaurant she would comment on how she loved a nice steak. But when I presented her with a George Foreman Fat Burning Grilling Machine as her gift, she was hardly amused.

So this year I’ve paid closer attention and I think I’m on a winner. Over the last two months she’s been less than subtle about showing me the fashion pages in her Women’s magazines. “Isn’t the dress that Beyonce’s wearing nice?”, “Look at those shoes, they’re amazing”, “I like that handbag, it would look good with my summer frock don’t you think?”… “Blah, Blah” …

...Like she’s made it so obvious what she wants… and I’ve gone all out to make sure she gets it…

… A twelve month subscription to that God awful magazine…

Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants… and usually I’m right.

MEDIUMS AND PSYCHICS: GUESS WHAT I'M THINKING NEXT?

Do you ever think for a moment that you could have psychic powers? Like when I watch a Sandra Bullock or Julia Roberts movie, I always know exactly what’s going to happen next, even before it happens! And I always know that when it happens, it's going to be crap! – For me, they’re as predictable as prune juice.

But let's be honest here... I don't really have any psychic powers. Any perception of psychic ability that I appear to have is simply due to my innate genius and nothing more – there is no such thing as psychic phenomenon.

But tell that to my friend.

You see, I have this friend who believes passionately in this bunk. She’s one of those oddballs that likes to have their cards read (what does pocket aces mean?), charts her day according to the morning’s astrology report, and spends bucket loads visiting Mediums.

‘Mediums’… now that’s a lark isn’t it? Like, "I can tell you your future because I'm a Medium and I have crystal balls" (try jumping a barbed wire fence with those). So anyway, what do you call an Apprentice Medium? A 'Fair to Middlen' perhaps? A 'Little Better Than Average'? If I was claiming to be as good as they reckon they are, I wouldn't give myself a professional title that implies 'mediocre'? Why not stand up and be committed in what you are? Instead of 'Medium', call yourselves 'Well Done' or 'Incredibly Proficient' for God's sake!

Anyway, I remember once seeing one of those television commercials for a dial-your-fortune line where you could phone this apparently super famous Australian Medium and he would tell you everything you needed to know (except for next week’s Lotto numbers – how useless is that?). And I remember thinking, ‘why would anyone need a dial-your-fortune line? Surely if the Medium was any good then he would know when he needed to call you’.

And have you ever noticed that the process of visiting a Medium is always the same? The first thing you have to do when you arrive at the Medium’s coven is fight your way through the plastic beads that are strung in the doorway. And now that you’re off-balance, you cop a whiff of some pungent and somewhat hallucinogenic incense and suddenly get a bad case of the munchies. And when you actually meet your Medium, they're wearing some trashy velvet gypsy garb that actually makes her (or him) look like Stevie Nick’s Great, Great Grandmother. And her (his) name is something like Madam Mystique, Elvira Fortune or Colin Fry - a name that convinces you that she (he) must be the genuine article.

At first you both sit down at an old card table and your Medium takes you by the hands (no, stop it! You're thinking of that other profession!!!). For a moment she'll sway back and forth humming and chanting a mystical rhythm (although for a brief moment you think it sounds a bit like 'Mumma Mia'). Suddenly she’ll jump back leaving you startled. Then she says something absolutely profound, “You’ve come seeking knowledge”. Like, wow… wasn’t that amazing? How did she know?

Next, she’ll detect someone from the ‘other side’, at which time you feel an eerie cold breeze cross the room. And depending upon how startled you still are by her previous move, you may also hear voices from the spirit world hidden within the breeze – and just so you know, they kind of sound like an electric fan motor.

At this point she’ll announce that someone ‘dead’ is trying to contact you. Amazingly, you’ll tell her exactly who it is; “It’s my Uncle Eddie, God bless him” (isn’t she amazing, how does she do it?). And she’ll be able to pass on Uncle Eddie’s personal message to you – that you shouldn’t worry about him anymore, he’s in a happy place and he’s with friends and family. And you’re sitting there thinking, “I never thought much of Uncle Eddie… but maybe deep down I did care, why else would she be telling me this? Heck this psychic shit goes deep man…

…and can we light some more incense?”

Now she tells you about your past-life. Apparently we all have past-lives. And interestingly (or fortunately) everyone’s past-life was as someone famous, interesting or critical to an historical event. Like, I know at least 25 people who were Egyptian Queen Cleopatra in their past lives – so she was somewhat busy or confused in her day.

But I want to know how come Mediums never tell you that in a past life you were the son of a leper’s daughter, born in the outlands of Iran where you herded goats until you died of cholera at age 13 and nobody of any significance anywhere in the world ever knew that you even existed.

Or why no-one ever lived a past-life as one of history’s great villains. Like no-one ever comes out of a Reading and announces: “Hey guess what guys? I was Adolf Hitler in a past life”.

“No kidding, apparently I was Attila the Hun and Rodney here was Wile E Coyote.”

No; it’s always that you were Marilyn, you were an ANZAC killed at Gallipoli, you were a Parisian Resistance Fighter gunned down by Nazis, you were a moonshiner during Prohibition…

… And if you ever find the woman who, in her past-life was Eve, please ask her why she ate the freakin’ apple and then give her a good slappin’!!!

Yes, I’ve got a friend who believes in all this bunk! I mean come on, it’s like believing that curried cranberry cheesecake is likely to become a commercial success…

…But hey, that’s just what I think… And usually I’m right.

Oh, and by the way; if curried cranberry cheesecake ever does become a commercial success, remember you heard it here first…

…Amazing!

MY TRIBUTE TO MICHAEL JACKSON

Since his death Michael Jackson has been more popular than a fur seal in a baseball bat emporium. This is in part due to his life-long contribution to compulsive consumerism, but also to his recent successes with the green movement who interpreted his death as a form of high end recycling with possible applications pertaining to poly-carbonates, asbestos and bobblehead toys. After all, prior to his departure Mr. Jackson was a genetically modified biodegradable superplastic with a top end chemical PH balance of 74.

There is no doubt that Jackson’s life was a tragic one. From the foreskin that had been surgically transplanted at the tip of his nose through to his Pepsifried hairdo; Jackson certainly endured a lot prior to his ‘use by’ date last year. Accusations of weirdness, paedophilia and glove puppetry must have taken their toll at times. Nevertheless, Jackson always came back with albums that were consistently destined to trump the elevator market scene – a scene that has always been difficult to crack (Billy Joel and Mark Knophler would testify to that – it took them years to break into the elevator market scene before reaching their current status as the two artists who dominate it most).

But it is interesting to note that since Jackson’s death not only have sales of his back catalogue suddenly skyrocketed, but he has also become one of the top artists being downloaded on I-tunes. It is this I-tunes factor that perplexes me the most and reeks of global music hypocracy. How long has I-tunes been around? But because Jackson suddenly dies people think “hey, I like his music. I didn’t when he was alive, but I’ve just remembered that I’ve always been a great fan”. This must bring untold relief to artists like Elton John who are forever trying to find ways to revive a fading career. Jackson demonstrated what so many before him have demonstrated (Elvis, Lennon, Cliff Richards - oops, he's not dead yet, just seems like it). Indeed, the secret to reviving a fading musical career - death. Good luck with that Elton...

Anyway, it’s at times like these – when criminal charges fly and medical professionals run for cover as pharmaceutical companies hire one-armed men to protect their interests, that we ponder the legacy of the individual. And Jackson’s legacy was indeed great. From his early childhood when he and his four brothers; Peter Jackson, Joe Jackson, Jesse Jackson and Stevie Wonder; formed the super group ‘Earth, Wind and Fire’, through to his solo career as ‘Prince’ – Jackson was always at the forefront of the Latin dance scene. And for this reason alone, he will be sadly missed.

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right.

SITTING ON COMMITTEES, CROCHETING CARDIS AND READING NANO SECONDS

Show me the root'n'toot'n' way outa here coz I hate being on committees and I'm currently on three of the damned things!

The first problem with committees is that they rely on the deluded institution of democracy in order to function. Now I hate democracy - it allows stupid people to vote (you know, people who listen to talk back radio or lay concrete for a living) - but it doesn't compensate by allowing smart people like you and me to have extra votes to negate the stupid peoples' votes. So everyone has a vote and every vote is measured the same - and that is really REALLY stupid!!!!

Further, if you consider all the truely great leaders throughout history, none of them rose to power via a democracy. I'm thinking of the true greats; Ghengis Khan, Atilla the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Joseph Stalin, George W Bush - none of these guys claimed power using a democratic process. No, they grabbed power by taking it by the bal... by the throat and shepherding their people to greatness while conquering the world and crushing anyone who stood in their way (kind of like what a McDonald's franchisee does to local small family-owned food businesses - but that's another story). And let's face it, when you think about the likes of Vlad, Atilla, Ghengis and George, you'll never... and I mean NEVER... find their admirable qualities and characteristics in a leader of a democratic state.

The other thing about committees is that you can have anything between 10 and 25 people on the things meaning that there should be a reasonable distribution of the work programme. Note I said, "reasonable". After all, you and I both know who's going to do all the work, don't we? And it it's not going to be the dottery hair-netted woman who sits at the end of the table month after month crocheting the same tired old baby cardi.

That's another good reason why I hate democracy. Everyone votes to add more stuff to the work programme but no-one stands up to do it. Everyone suddenly remembers how 'over-committed' they are (like the cardi she's been knitting for the last eleven months suddenly needs to be completed next week because her niece's baby is due). So the mountain of work is left to be done by the same two committee members that always do it. And what's even worse, these are the two busiest people on the committee in the first place - they're the ones working 80 hours a week in their day jobs, supporting an extended family at home and caring for an ailing mother who needs constant personal cares... and they're on seven other committees and boards too.

But they're not the ones who will get remembered when it comes to making nominations for the Queen's Birthday Honours List. Oh no, the person that everyone will remember the most is the one who takes the 'minutes' at the meetings. And let's get real here, in most cases the person who takes the minutes isn't exactly considered the brightest bulb in the onion patch - otherwise they wouldn't have let themselves get shafted with the job of taking them now, would they? Like that's the job you give to the rusty lead pipe that can't pass enough water to be classified a drought. But they do it so well, don't they? I mean, sometimes you get minutes that are so detailed and so long that they ought be called 'nano-seconds'!

So when it comes to the Queen's Birthday Honours List, we're not remembering the nano-second taker because they were bright, hardworking or exceptional - we remember them because they put us through hell with their extended depiction of events gone by, written in the style of "War and Peace" and published on the back of three hectares of freshly cut Brazillian Rain Forest... And we thank them for this by giving them a civic award that celebrates their persisent dedication to micro-futility. (No, I said 'Micro-futility' - what you're thinking of is an elective medical procedure).

So if democracy is the root of all evil in a committee then how should we run them? Like I always say; "It's no use complaining if you don't have a solution" and yes, I do have a solution. Committees should be run by consensus - my consensus. I've found by experience that that's the most efficient way to get things done.

And as always, that's what I think... and usually I'm right.

DEMOCRACY OR DEMONOCRACY: DON'T LET THEM VOTE!!!

Tighten my braces, spin my bow tie, pull a rabbit out of my hat and call it a turkey! I’ve just had an experience that rattled my bones like a leaky bladder on a set of bagpipes. It’s name… DEMONOCRACY!

Did I spell that wrong? I don’t think so… Think about it…

It’s like this. In New Zealand we’ve just had a general election – last weekend actually. And being the civic minded responsible citizen that I am, I decided that I would put my hand up to work at a Polling Station for the day. You know, one of those nice people who cross you off the electoral roll, give you your ballot papers, smile nicely and refrain from making any judgmental remarks whatsoever.

And let me tell you, that last part about judgmental remarks – that’s a true test of character and willpower. I mean, call it ‘Democracy’ - I say you should call it ‘you get what you deserve you dumbass’.

It is an incredible and bewildering experience to see who casts their vote alongside you on election day. And to think, yours’ and my votes have the exact same equal value as a multitude of Marmadukes out there who, quite frankly, have the decision making capacity of a mouse in a maze – and not a macaroni maze either.

Take this one guy for example… walks in and straight up to one of the Issuing Officers to have his name crossed off the roll and receive his two ballot papers. Now once he has these papers, he walks up to me and asks, “what do I do with these?” Crikey man! You help decide the fate of the nation with those!!!!...

…or you could use them to make a paper plane glider while you dance and sing; “Do the Locomotion”…

Then there’s the bright one who, having ticked his selection, stands over the colour-coded ballot boxes (one orange and one purple) with his colour-coded ballot papers (one orange and one purple) and asks, “which box do they go in?” I’m guessing you don’t know your right from your left either???

But the biggest knucklewads have to be the ones who come in and say; “although I’ve known about this election for six months and despite the fact that it’s been advertised prolifically for the last three; and given that I’ve received at least a half dozen reminders through the post that I need to update my details on the electoral roll – I’m not actually registered to vote”.

Well that’s okay, because we can organise for you to do a Special Vote (you do seem to be a little bit ‘special’ don’t you?).

But then they reveal that they don’t even know what the election is about:

“Do I have to vote for a local constituent?” (Okay, they don’t use the word ‘constituent’ because it’s a big word- they just say ‘someone on that list’).

“Do I have to vote for a Political Party?” (Well, actually they ask; ‘do I have to vote for one of those little coloured flaggy things?’).

And finally:

“What’s this Referriddly thing all about?”

'Referrendum' Dear, it says 'Referrendum'.

And off they go… into the booth where they ponder… and ponder… and ponder… twenty minutes… half an hour… Come on for crying out loud, it’s two ticks and you’re outa here!!!... forty five minutes…

I ask; “Is everything okay Madam?”

She replies; “I think I made a Mistake?”

“When did you think you made the mistake?”

“When I first came in here and drew a smiley face on the purple paper. Was I supposed to draw a smiley face?”

High velocity lead – that’s what I’m thinking – high velocity lead.

Perhaps they should distribute votes proportionate to intelligence. Perhaps they should carry out an intelligence test prior to allowing you to vote. For example, they could ask critical questions like:

• Do you know who your local candidates are? Good, you can vote.
• Do you know what the difference between the various political parties are? Good, you can vote?
• Do you ever listen to Talk Back Radio, read the TV Guide or watch Fox News? Yes? Well we’re not letting you anywhere near a polling booth.

Stopping eighty percent of the population from voting because they don't even have the intellect of a world champion banjo picker – that would be a true democratic outcome...

...And you and I could still vote...

...Well... I could anyway...

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right.

THEY'RE STILL KILLING ME SOFTLY WITH GLEE SONGS: BLOODY RERUNS

Put some dead fish in a paper bag and wedge them between the hubcap of your neighbour’s truck! “Glee” fever has returned and they’re replaying it every night from the very first episode!!!

Those of you who frequent my Blogsite will already know my sentiments about the TV programme “Glee”. Yes, my 18 July Posting “Killing me softly with Glee songs” made that one perfectly clear.

And you know what? Most of you (well, at least the educated readers amongst you) agreed with that Post. I know this because of the fan mail I received in its aftermath – especially from Gym Teachers and Football Coaches.

Sure, some people who, let’s face it, aren’t really sophisticated or cultured enough to appreciate this Blog – let it be known that they thought I was being a “musically retarded Mormon!” with my comments (I’m guessing they actually meant ‘moron’ because most Mormons I know can handle a bit of a tune – and several wives…). But it is evident to me that the kind of people who actually have an intellectual entitlement to read this Blog agree when I say that “Glee” is just “God damned awful”.

Okay, so I know what you’re going to say next. Back in July my experience of “Glee” was unavoidable – I was guest at a friend’s house for dinner and had little control about my viewing situation. “But come on Jack, change the channel and get over it!”

Well I’d love to. My problem is that I entered into a new relationship this year and I’m still trying to impress my wonderful Lady with my sensitive ways. Yes, I know my readers appreciate them having read my many thoughtful and caring Posts, but when you’re face to face with a beautiful woman it’s an entirely different situation. I can only rely on my good looks and youthful physique for so long you know.

So right now I’m between a rock and a hard place – I have to sit with my Lady, hold her hand and say stuff like; “isn’t it sweet how they just bastardised that Beyonce song” [the one about the asshole sticking his ring on it] “and made American Football look like the gayest thing ever”. But in reality – I’d rather be in the workshop driving a four inch nail through the top of my foot so as to create an agonised scream capable of drowning out any Gleeafied musical number.  

Anyway, having endured a past relationship through 4 seasons of “Glee”, I find out my new Lady never saw the beginning of it. So every night is going to be “Glee” night from now on. And all I can think is that eventually they’re going to get to that killer episode where they do ‘GaGa’ and ‘Kiss’ on the same night – and you’ve already read how that affected me.

But it gets worse when I think about it. You see, the other thing that I actually do like to watch with my new Lady is reruns of “MASH”. We get them every night on the Comedy channel. And who doesn’t like “MASH”? I mean, it has got to be one of the most successfully repeated comedy series of all time. Like this is its umpteenth appearance on our TV screens. And you can bet your bottom dollar that we’ve seen every episode we watch at least twice before – but we still watch it, still laugh and still enjoy it.

But now you can see why this “Glee” thing has got me frazzled in such a fisherman’s stocking. Is this going to be the new ‘MASH’? I mean, there are similarities: the guy who likes to wear dresses, the blonde woman who acts like the anti-fun police, the bi-spectacled social reject whose one saving grace is that he’s good with technology and stuff…

…My God! It will be the new “MASH”!!!!

That means that for the next 20 years I’m going to be watching perpetual reruns of “Glee” – and then I’ll be due to get Alzheimer’s at which time I’ll probably start watching it again and think it’s my very first time…

…And then I’ll probably live well into my 90s so that I have to endure at least another five reruns after that…

It all sounds a bit fishy to me...

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right.

HOW NZ POST MADE ME LOOK LIKE A GENIUS

[NOTE: Parts of this article are based on true events; namely Toyota's implementation of LSS and my experiences with New Zealand Post]

Sometimes I’m a freaking genius!

Yes, it’s all about the proverbial ‘glass half full’ approach.

You see, I work for this monstrous-sized organisation and everything we do is done on a grand scale.

But when everything is done like that – it costs bucket loads of money. And let’s face it, the world’s contemporary CEOs like everything to be done on a massive “we’re better than everyone else” scale; but they want to do it on a budget equal to the price of a McDonald’s Happy Meal. So we have this kind of mismatch between what our bosses want us to do and how they expect us to do it.

Yes… I hear you chuckling smugly – you know exactly what I mean.

And in my organisation the bosses are always crying out “we want value for money” and running around looking for ways to cut costs. For example – if we didn’t have customers draining our front-end staff’s time imagine how much that would save the business. And if we didn’t have to manage all those contracts for which we get paid millions, we wouldn’t need to have people sitting in back-room offices whose job it is to actually develop and manage contracts.

In short, if we didn’t have paying customers and we didn’t need to run profitable contracts; we’d be able to reduce business costs and be far more efficient.

Brilliant!

Recently my company sent me on a training course to learn how to be a Green Belt in the art of Lean Six Sigma. Yes I know what you’re thinking, why would they want me to learn Karate? Well, although it does sound like a martial art, Lean Six Sigma (or LSS) is actually a Japanese business model designed to generate efficiency. It was invented by the Toyota car company who wanted to make their production lines as lean and as efficient as possible.

The basic premise of LSS as used by Toyota was that they could measure things like how many times did you have to turn the wheel nuts on a car before they were tight enough? And could the number of turns be reduced without compromising customer satisfaction?

What Toyota found was that ‘yes’, you could reduce the number of turns without compromising customer satisfaction. You see, a satisfied customer only wants to see that the car has four wheels on it. They assume that the nuts are tight enough – but the assumption isn’t related to customer satisfaction; only the expectation that the car has four wheels on it.

So they worked out that they could implement a LSS improvement by reducing the number of turns. Sure the car isn’t as safe - but the labour cost is reduced and this means that profits are higher while costs to the customer are lower. So not only does the car have four wheels on it, it now has a cheaper price tag. And that means the customer is even more satisfied.

Until the wheels fall off… but hey, you get what you pay for.

Anyway, I digress. As part of my LSS project I had to find a business process that I could improve. And my boss actually had one in mind. You see, our organisation has a lot of paperwork that it is required by law to keep – tonnes of it in fact. And we have to store it all in massive warehouses that cost a fortune to keep and maintain. It’s ridiculous!

And my boss wanted me to reduce our storage costs.

My problem was logistical – the amount of material we needed to store couldn’t be reduced but most storage spaces available for lease at the size required were generally around the same price.

What a headache of a problem.

Then my moment of genius…

It happened by accident really. I wasn’t even at work. I was at home one evening browsing on-line and I saw a DVD that I’d been looking for for quite a while. So I purchased it over the net.

Well the DVD retail company was good, got it in the post the next day and sent me a tracking number so I could monitor its delivery progress through New Zealand Post.

Three weeks later and I was still waiting. According to New Zealand Post’s brilliant online tracking system – they’d collected it but it hadn’t moved since.

I contacted them.

They began an investigation.

They sent me a letter to say they’d begun an investigation.

I got the letter. Still didn’t get my parcel.

Two more weeks…

And that’s when it hit me – the solution to my company’s problem...

So I went to work the next day, contacted our storage warehouses and told them to package up all our files and post them back to our own company. Two months later and we have emptied out all our warehouses and cancelled the leases. New Zealand Post has all our files trapped in their system indefinitely and we’re saving a fortune on storage costs.

Thanks New Zealand Post, I might get a promotion thanks to you.

Anyway, that's what I think and usually I'm right

TEN YEARS AFTER SEPTEMBER 11: HOW DID THEY DO IT?

What a long September it’s been.

Now, unless you’ve been asleep in a coma or living in an isolated cave in Kakadu National Park, Australia; you will have realised that this September has been the tenth anniversary of the 2001 September 11 attacks on New York and Washington.

And what is September 11 all about?

It’s about an ageing Saudi Muslim Fundamentalist (well, actually he's apparently dead now but no-one can be absolutely sure about that) living in a dusty mountain cave in the nowhere space of Afghanistan high above the European sponsored Poppy Fields who has an idea.

But before we discuss his idea, let’s examine the man himself.

This guy (his name is something like Iswana Bin Lazinabout) has more money than a Bacon farmer in Tel Aviv, but he chooses to live in poverty. He’s in constant Renal failure – his kidney’s are dying and the only thing keeping them going is the free and exclusive medical treatment he receives at the American taxpayer’s expense. His family has made their fortune selling oil and camel rides to Christians but this guy loathes Christians (yes, you don’t have to be a white American to be a Red Neck loser). Finally, he is obsessed with global activism but rejects the tools required to achieve it (he has no cell phone, no computer, no ipod and no carrier pigeons).

But he does have a gun though, a pretty mean looking AK47 assault rifle – but he lives in such isolation that he has no-one or nothing to fire it at.

So, in short… this guy appears to be about as intelligent and inspirational as Michael ‘The Situation’ Sarrantino from the TV series Jersey Shore.

Anyway, despite his multiple shortcomings, this guy wants to plan and co-ordinate a major terrorist attack on the USA using an army of young martyrs, four large commercial airliners, some plastic box-cutter knives, and an unpublished Robert Ludlum manuscript.

He begins his plan by sending out a call for volunteers. No-one is sure how he does this given his lack of technological tools – but I reckon he called upon the integrity and reliability of local Taliban Heroin traffickers and asked them to pass a note.

Anyway, our friend (Bin Lazinabout or whatever his actual name is – I’m not a God-damned historian you know!) manages to gather a small group of volunteers who are eager to end their lives for no obvious personal or professional gain (but then, they did come from various substandard Islamic college campuses across the Middle East so a lack of any personal or professional ambition is hardly surprising).

In the next phase of the plan, following Bin Lazinabout’s instructions (passed across Asia and Europe in a hand written note carried by well-focused God-fearing Taliban drug dealers and sex slave traders) the small group of volunteers converge on the USA by travelling ‘in-cognito’ (that means acting like Matt Damon as they pass through various Airport customs’ terminals) and they independently set up house for the next two years in multi-cultural communities such as Ohio, Idaho and Illinois.

And during this time, our volunteers all head off to local Hicksville flying schools where they attempt to learn to fly little two-seater Cessna airplanes. And as surprising as it may seem, no-one ever questions their motives even though; a) they were totally incompetent fliers from the outset and never really demonstrated an improvement over time, and b) none of them had any interest in learning the most critical aspect of flying – how to land your plane safely.

Now the next part of the plan is the most complex and the most difficult to co-ordinate – especially when communication is reliant on passing a hand written note taken from a small cave in Afghanistan, through Iraq and into Israel, by boat across to Europe, ferry to the UK, plane to Canada and then by car across to Michigan where it is placed into an envelope and handed over to the US Postal Service for final delivery. The complexity of the system ensures secrecy and the inclusion of the US Postal Service ensures reliability.

Anyway, upon receipt of their instructions, the volunteers now come together, book various flights to New York and Washington, spend a drunken night engaged with various prostitutes at a local public bar, leave a mass-accumulation of incriminating documentation in their flats, hotels and rental cars, and head for their local airport boarding lounge where they sit amongst other waiting passengers and pray loudly about their impending appointment with Allah. But despite all this, what you have to admire in the lead-up to the main event is the way that these young men managed to totally avoid drawing any attention to themselves.

Soon after, they are all called to board their Boeing-sized planes which they soon hijack using little plastic box-cutter knives and loud voices, and with the precision and finesse of a Thunderbird International Rescue 'Virgil' puppet, they manage to fly those planes into specifically pre-determined targets by performing highly complex aerial manoeuvres that could have only been learned through their mediocre experiences at Cessna flight training school (as we have since learned that even the most experienced US Airforce trained fighter pilots would not have been able to orchestrate some of these manoeuvres if given the same situation).

So in short; September 11 is the result of an isolated and immobile fundamentalist lunatic living on the edge of nowhere in an area that has no radio or satellite reception who, without the use of any electronic or communication device, is able to co-ordinate a group of totally incompetent malfuncts onto four commercial airliners where, without any substantive piloting skills whatsoever, they manage to fly three out of the four with pin-point accuracy into strategically selected targets on different sides of the US continent.

And this is achieved right under the nose of the most sophisticated defence and intelligence systems in the world????

Yes, I can buy that…

Can you?

Actually, I’m not really sure what I think… And usually I’m right

DON'T SIT BESIDE ME PART II: WHY I STILL HATE FLYING

Before another person asks; yes, taking a commercial flight home after a couple of long-winded days of corporate meetings still makes me shit rhubarb into hard marbles. I mean, what was likely going to change about that? No matter what happens on these flights, the passenger beside me will always be a kuckleheaded Rembrandt, the cutsie wootsie Stewardess will always flap her arms to remind me that it is actually possible that we could crash into the ocean and die, and somehow, the God-damned mineral water will always end up in my lap.

In fact, since my 18 July 2011 post nothing has eventuated that is likely to change any part of my perspective about flying. And here's why:

In my 18 July post you will remember my description of how the Stewardess liked to flap her arms about like some manic butterfly as she described how, when we did crash into the ocean, those safety doors would open up and allow the cabin to flood, thereby ensuring that anyone who survived the initial impact could now drown in a cold and silent darkness. Well they haven’t changed this. On every flight you still have to listen to the same perpetual drone that this so-called ‘critical’ message has become.

And you just know that everything they tell you is a lie. I mean, take their reference to the famous ‘brace’ position on the emergency card located in the seat pocket in front of you. This is how they want you to sit should the plane begin a spiralled plummet towards its earthly demise.

…“Not that a crash is likely”, they assure you. “Our planes are regularly maintained to the minimum specifications of safety as required by law, serviced weekly by the lowest possible tenderer using labour sourced from somewhere in Botswana.”…

I’m sorry Miss Sweetie in the designer-labelled flying cap, but your reassurances do not bring me any comfort. On the contrary, only an idiot still believes that the so-called ‘brace’ position is likely to be advantageous when you hit the side of a mountain at 375 kilometres an hour. It doesn’t matter how you sit, a high velocity splat is still a high velocity splat – and the only way anyone is ever going to recover your body after that is with a flat bevelled shovel and a bucket.

The truth is that the ‘brace’ position was originally conceived as a means by which we could best preserve our dental records for identification once our remains had been scooped up and taken back to the on-site morgue for forensic analysis. Using dental records, the forensic pathologist could determine that these were the remains of the occupant of seat 7C, although at some stage they were joined by bits of those sitting in seats 12A and 4D.

Of course the ‘bright sparks’ amongst you are about to ask “why would they still ask us to take the brace position then? After all, they don’t need to use dental records these days, we’ve got DNA”.

True. But as I said, dental records were the reason the position was conceived. The reason they kept using it even as science progressed (meaning that the scoop in the bucket could now be positively identified as passengers in seats 7C, both 12A and 12 B, and 4D), was that it helped stop cabin panic.

In other words, while passengers still believed that the ‘brace’ position offered them some ever-so-slight hope of survival, they’d adopt it and remain relatively calm (at least, as calm as one can be as they plummet to their inevitable doom). Without that slim reckoning of hope, the slightest sense of trouble would result in absolute chaos – and the last thing you need at 11,000 feet during an engine failure is a confined cabin-space full of panic-mad passengers crawling all over each other screaming “We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die!”

Better to have people dying in a calm way. I mean, when your relatives come to pay respects to your remains-in-a-bucket, they can be comforted by the Airline's media and risk spokesperson with messages like “At least they died with dignity”.

I’m sorry, but “splat” and “dignity” appear in opposite ends of my dictionary thank you very much.

Anyway, that’s what I think… and usually I’m right.

Visit Art Deco Town - but you had better count your toes

I recently travelled five hours across the island to attend the wedding of a friend’s daughter. Now I’m just a sucker for weddings – the romance and splendour of it all. I love watching the expressions of love, embracing the coming together of family and friends, experiencing the joy and celebration… and later at the reception I always look forward to investing in the divorce date sweepstake. Yes, weddings are great! And this one was no exception; the bride looked lovely, the groom was handsome, his mother looked relieved and her father cried like a Scotsman at a Braveheart screening.

But this blog isn’t about the wedding, it’s about the town where the wedding was held. Now I’ve visited a lot of ‘better count your toes’ type of towns before (has anyone ever been to Golbourn in Australia or Palmerston North* in New Zealand?) – But this one has got to be at the top of the list; a real banjo and rhubarb pie type of town. And you just have to wonder, like with the breeding stock so low and that, why would people choose to live there?

Now I’m not going to name this town because that would be totally unfair. But the town’s greatest claim to fame is its ‘character’ architecture – the town is renowned for its classic Art Deco buildings. Now I may be wrong here, but wasn’t the original Art Deco period the precursor to the Great Depression? I mean, wouldn’t you agree that a bunch of flat-roofed pastel-coloured stucco-clad sheds are enough to bring anyone down? Not to mention that everywhere you go in the town, there’s a straw hat and bow tie wearing Barber Shop Quartet waiting to jump out and scare the bejeezus out of you. It’s like being mugged by a brigade of octogenarian Dick Van Dykes.

But it gets worse!!! Like, you all know how much I like my coffee. I mean, I alone sustain the subsistent lives of a whole Brazilian rainforest community through my caffeine consumption. And because I prefer soya rather than dairy milk with my coffee, there’s a whole village in India receiving a respectable third world income because of me.

As such, I headed out early Saturday morning in search of a good coffee house. Sadly there are mostly only ‘on a par with Wild Bean and McCafe’ type places in this town - the town of a thousand variations of beige. However, in the end I did find a most excellent little Italian place that was absolutely superb. But after a half dozen flat whites… well, you know what I need next. But by crikey, none of the local cafes have toilet facilities. So I seek assistance from one of the baristas who sends me off for a two block dash to the local park where I will find a public toilet.

Well I can’t believe it.

But it gets worse!!! You see, the main street of this town is bricked pavement – a bland, slightly off-beige Art Deco type of brick. And people are strolling everywhere - it’s essentially an open shopping mall. Only there’s a bit in the middle where cars are allowed to drive down. But unless you’re a local who has lived here for like forty years, you can’t be sure which part is the pedestrian section and which part isn’t. So for us outsiders, any moment along here could be your last.

Fortunately most of the cars that drive through here are at least ninety years old (as Henry once said; “you can have any colour you like as long as it’s black”). So at least you have a half decent chance of ducking out of their way. But it is kind of scary. I mean, these cars are so old that they don’t even have air bags (unless you count the rotund woman in the front passenger seat who seems intent on constantly nagging at the driver).

Nevertheless, I finally make it to the park – and I’m an absolute wreck by this stage. My blood pressure has gone through the roof, my heart is going ten to the dozen, and my anxiety levels are bubbling over… Just as well I drank all that coffee or my nerves would be shot too…

But I finally get to the Art Deco styled public toilet block...

…And you’ll never guess what I find…

…There’s a lady in an Art Deco type booth by the door who is going to charge me twenty cents to go inside!!! I mean, what’s that all about??? In Art Deco town you can’t even ‘spend a penny’ without having to spend a penny????

Art Deco really sucks!!!

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right!

*Famous British comedian John Cleese once said, “If you ever do want to kill yourself, but lack the courage, I think a visit to Palmerston North will do the trick”.

Smoking In Prisons - Lock up the civil libertarians please

We often criticise our Governments and Politicians for the decisions they make, suggesting that for the most part, they make about as much sense as Malcolm McLaren agreeing to produce the next three Cliff Richard albums (imagine that: We Don’t Talk Bollocks Anymore, Mistletoe and Methamphetamines, and The Young Bastards).

But I digress… what I was saying is that Governments are always under criticism – taxes are too high, wages are too low, services are too poor, old people live too long… and so it goes on and on.

But sometimes Governments and Politicians do get it right and I’ve got to say, this is one of those times.

You see, in my country they’ve introduced a new law that prohibits smoking in prisons. And you’ve got to agree that this is a common sense piece of legislation. I mean, we already ban smoking in most public places – bars and restaurants, work places, public buildings, schools and nurseries, petrol stations, hospitals, shopping malls and fire stations – so why not prisons? Why should convicts be allowed to smoke on the inside when most everybody else is told to “get outside!” (I suppose we could tell the inmates to stand outside too but I’m kind of guessing that that would defeat the purpose of them being in prison in the first place).

So you can see that I think this latest stance by our Government is a good one. And you just know that most sensible people would agree.

But not everybody is as sensible as you and I. Like those civil libertarians, they’re not very sensible are they? I mean, as soon as you suggest that incarcerated criminals might have to obey a new rule – out come the civil libertarians shouting how unfair it is and that this is yet another imposition upon prisoners’ basic human rights. Like, we don’t put them in prison for killing our grandparents, raping our daughters, burning down our houses and stealing our ipods just so that they can experience punishment and torment. Oh no, that would be monstrous. Prison is meant to be nothing more than a little ‘time out’ and we need to make it as comfortable for them as possible. And it would certainly be unfair if an inmate couldn’t enjoy a smoke and a beer while he’s watching Sky Sports on his 60 inch plasma.

And these civil libertarian clingerwads don’t stop there do they? No, they also demand that the tax payer provides the inmates with every ‘stop smoking’ cessation programme and product out there regardless of cost… that it’s unfair that we expect them to go ‘cold turkey’. I mean what if they all become edgy and anxious? What if tension levels rise? What if there’s violence? What if one of these convicted little sociopaths gets so stressed that they actually attack one of their cellmates?

… we never saw that one coming… it’s such a tragic loss… Snake was well-loved by his peers and an inspiration to us all… he will be missed… (Ferret and Jimmy will be giving out free memorial tattoos in the dining room after the service)…

So I was listening to talk back radio the other night after the Government passed the new law. And you guessed it, all the civil libertarians were calling in determined to defend the rights of our poor and oppressed (with no chance of parole) victims of their own circumstance. And there was this one caller, a real sea-sponge short of a heart and lung transplant, who had given up smoking after taking a course of hypnotherapy…

… Oh, you can see where this is going can’t you? He thought that maybe we could hypnotise all the inmates so that they could give up smoking too.

Yeah - Like if that was going to work we’d hypnotise them to STOP DOING CRIMES!!!

So for you Mr. Hypnotherapy - and in keeping with your fruitful suggestion... sit back, relax, close your eyes...

 “You are a dumbass… you are a dumbass… you are a dumbass…”

... And now let me snap my fingers...

 

That’s what I think… and usually I’m right.