Wednesday, November 22, 2006

A lesson in not caring.

Having a job that starts at 10pm and finishes at 6am, with only minimal tasks to complete leaves alot of time for getting things done. So far, I have spent most of my downtime in the toilets thinking: "wow, Sam Brett has probably urinated in here". It took me two full weeks to realise that I was in the men's, and that Sam Brett probably saves all her urine for the chest of her older lover. She's very sexually open minded, you see.

I've also managed to make friends with the security guard down stairs. When I ask him how he's been going, he usually replies:
"Good mate, finished work this morning, few bourbon and cokes, few ciggies, read a magazine, watered some plants. Slept like a baby mate." I tried to explain to him, that if he is listing things with commas in between, he should say "and" between the last two: "read a magazine (AND) watered some plants".
He wasn't interested. This is part of the reason we are so close, it is a friendship built on working during the night, and continually justifying to other people why working all night is awesome, and that you wouldn't be doing anything else. When really, people work during the night because the people that are better/more experienced at the job, prefer to work during the day.

Last night, in between listening to licence checks and whispering sweet everythings to my security mate, I decided to write a blog entry. An hour and a half later, I had covered nearly everything: Nina's party last Friday, wanker dress policies at shit pubs in Double Bay that you didn't want to go to anyway AND why Myf Warhurst had five female body guards surrounding her at all times at said party. Alas, failed me, and I ended up losing it all. Rather than recreate what I lost last night, I thought I might to a textual tribute to the career of Ian Thorpe. This proved harder than I initially thought, as you really can't do Thorpie justice with text only, pictures are essential. Nevertheless, I did a few "20 to 1" style interviews with people on what they thought about Thorpie, his career, his early retirement AND what his future held for him. The only people that were available to comment were Molly Meldrum, Tracey Grimshaw AND Simmo. Here for your reading pleasure is the only one of the three subjects that really captured what the "20 to 1" format is really about.


BCorTM: So Simmo, what does the name Ian Thorpe mean to you.
Simmo: I think it's fair to say, without any reservation, that Thorpie was not only a bloody fantastic swimmer, but also a fine ambassador for this country in every sense of the word.

BCorTM: I hear you are quite close to Ian?
Simmo: Well, I'm not gay like you if that's what you're suggesting. You probably need to leave the interview early to go set up for the Mardi Gras you're so gay.

BCorTM: What about...
Simmo: (cutting in) Where's this interview going anyway. My agent said that this gig would just be a few "kicking arse" quotes, then shots of me saying "Pie-Powerade-Bed". I only came here to plug my book, this shit would have never happen if fucken Rove hadn't cancelled his show. You probably haven't even read Simmotown... Who do I have to root in this city to get some publicity? Fucken Borat has taken all allotted "novelty alter-ego" attention and there is nothing left. Well, fuck this, there are too many unopened beers in this world for me to be fucking around with this publication. You aren't worth me wasting any quotes of pre-packaged suburban cricket vernacular on. Welcome to first grade, I don't think you'll last long.

Simmo was seen later that day yelling "WHO CARES?" at terminally ill children out the front of Randwick Children's Hospital.


nina said...

so, how was the party?

htrain said...
love it.