We have a lot of birds where I live. Most of them make beautiful sounds…all except one. The Sulphur-crested Cockatoo.
This is what the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo looks like.
Beautiful, isn’t it? (Image source: Wikipedia)
This is what the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo sounds like it looks like.
I swear, the second I put ham on the chopping board my pets turn into The Hoverpets – they’re worse than flies!
So, this is how I see my pets…
…and I’m pretty sure this is how they see me.
Lately my cats have been getting on my nerves. It’s just little things they’re doing – like dragging blankets through the house (my blankets, not theirs), stealing the dog’s food, play-fighting on the couch – so violently that couch cushions end up all over the floor, scampering across the kitchen counter (I’m looking at you, Cherri) and just being generally irritating.
They have, in fact, been so annoying lately that I am starting to wonder if they have some kind of beef with me. There is a lot of debate on whether cats can be vengeful or not; some people say yes (mostly cat owners) and others say it’s not possible for a (non-human) animal to have an emotion like revenge. I tend to lean towards the side of Hell, yeah, they are!
It started me thinking… what if I decided to get revenge on my cats? Of course I wouldn’t actually do that, but if I did…how would I go about it? Here’s what I’ve come up with so far…
How to get revenge on your cat
1. Cats are attracted to boxes like moths to a flame. Put a giant empty box in the lounge room. The vengeful part? Make sure it is completely sealed.
2. Keep the door closed to just one room of the house. It will soon become the only place your cat wants to be.
3. Eat bacon in front of them.
4. When cats encounter something new in their environment it really freaks them out. Put an object in a place where there is normally nothing (like the hallway). It doesn’t even have to be anything scary-looking; for example, a lamp will do nicely.
5. Borrow an annoying puppy for the day.
6. Deny access to your lap.
If you have any more revenge ideas feel free to e-mail me. If I like your idea I’ll draw it and put it up here.
When you’re a hypochondriac it can be rather difficult to get your family and friends to take your health concerns seriously. I mean, they’ve heard it all before, right? I figure there are many of you in the same boat as me, so after giving it some thought I believe I have finally come up with a new way to garner sympathy and coddling from your loved ones. It simply involves dressing up your words a little bit.
For example, you can make a hangover appear more legitimate (thus evoking more sympathy from others) by referring to it as “veisalgia”.
Painful cramps? Not anymore, now you have dysmenorrhoea!
Pins and needles?
Feeling itchy is for commoners!
Hayfever Shmayfever!
If you ever want to simply perplex your loved ones, try this…
…and lastly, may I present the ultimate excuse for not going into work…
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go because I have some major obdormition happening in my arse cheeks!
Remember that scene in The Evil Dead where that regular, everyday douche-bag suddenly turns into a terrifying, supernatural douche-bag? You know, this guy…
Well, every time I watch that scene I do this:
Every.single.time.
Over the years I have noticed a common trait in horror movie buffs – nothing really scares them. I know there must be others like me – horror movie buffs who crap themselves through each and every scary movie – but I think we are definitely the exception. In fact, most people I know who crap themselves watching horror movies tend to avoid watching them.
My husband, daughter and I are all horror movie buffs, but they belong to the former category and sit through every horror movie looking incredibly relaxed, if not slightly bored. I am the exact opposite to them and have developed a variety of ways to get through horror movies without too much trauma; some of these include:
Not actually watching.
Using husband as protection.
Making the most of visual impairment.
One night a few weeks ago we were all watching a particularly scary horror film. I was doing my usual thing, feeling unbearably anxious and trying to somehow watch without actually seeing anything.
Tired of my endless fidgeting and my constantly asking “What’s happening – is the scary bit over yet?” my daughter handed me one of my son’s toy guns.
I know it was meant to be a joke, but I took the toy gun and aimed it at the television. Immediately something came over me – a feeling of calm, a sense of, dare I say it… power.
From that moment on every time some demoniacal monstrosity erupted on screen I would shoot at it like my life depended it. It became fun and after a short time I found myself looking forward to the scary parts just so I could shoot the television.
Naturally, as the movie got scarier, I had to get a bigger gun.
So, if you’re a major scaredy-cat like me, try arming yourself the next time you’re watching a horror movie…trust me, it works.
Oh, and as for my zombie apocalypse nightmares, I reckon I’ve got them beat.
As a youngster I was an enormous nature lover – I spent most of my days looking under fallen leaves for beetles and breeding tadpoles every rainy season – so it’s no surprise that Harry Butler was one of my childhood idols. I believed he was magical because every rock or branch he turned over revealed an animal of some kind. I wanted to be just like Harry and never missed his show, In the Wild with Harry Butler.
One day my dad and I were in our backyard when he called me over and pointed to a small creature attached to a tree. It was hideous. It looked like a cross between a tarantula and a naked mole rat.
To my surprise, my dad pulled it from the tree and held it out to me, as though I was supposed put my hand out to hold it. I looked at him like he was about to set me on fire and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I would not be touching it anytime soon.
My dad tried to convince me that it was harmless, that it wasn’t even alive and was, in fact, just a shell. But it was the creepiest thing I had ever seen and I refused to go near it. I didn’t believe it was just a shell; I thought it was alive and perfectly capable of biting off one of my fingers.
After many minutes of trying to convince me of its harmlessness my dad gave me a choice: I could either hold the cicada shell or I wouldn’t get to watch Harry Butler that night. I was devastated – it was like Sophie’s Choice!
I thought about how repulsive the cicada shell was and how much I loved Harry Butler. I cried and pleaded with him, but he was resolute. I came to the conclusion that my dad was the meanest dad alive.
My love for Harry was so strong that eventually I closed my eyes, held out my hand and waited for my dad to drop the repulsive creature in it. Suddenly, I felt the lightest touch on my palm, it was like a feather. I opened my eyes and took a closer look – it really was just a shell! I was instantly fascinated. From that moment on I was the cicada queen (and I got to watch Harry that night).
Not only was I no longer scared of cicada shells, I would seek out the live nymphs, put them on my shirt and let them hatch on me. I would then wear the empty shells on my clothes like badges. Cicadas were the most fascinating creatures I’d ever encountered.
One day I found an unusually large amount of cicada shells on a tree in our front yard and instantly had an idea.
Dad, thanks for making me hold the cicada shell. Mum, you can blame dad for that one!
For a long time I thought my cat was just wonderfully cuddly or wearing her winter fur, but after being asked if she was pregnant by at least nine people (including the guy who came to fix our bathroom tiles) I began to think that perhaps my perception was a little distorted.
There were definite signs that she had a problem.
Like the day we realised that our fish tank was just a big, glass pot-plant holder.
It’s not like I haven’t tried to help her slim down, I really have, but she always finds a way to thwart my efforts.
The other day I fed the cat and dog and, as always, I fed the cat on top of the dryer so the dog can’t eat her food. After a few minutes I heard growling and barking coming from the laundry. This is what I found:
That’s right, apparently her food was just an appetiser and the dog’s food was her main meal. This discovery left me wondering two things; firstly, how many times has she done this without me knowing and secondly, why is my dog such a wimp?
So, I put my cat on yet another diet yesterday and I thought she was doing pretty well…that is, until I went to take the clothes out of the dryer.
As I bent down to retrieve the toasty-warm clothes I heard footsteps thundering so loudly through the house that, for a brief moment, I believed it might be the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
I was confronted with a full-on assault!
My cat, in the mistaken belief that (because I was in the laundry) she was about to be fed, leaped through the air with such force that she butted me fair in the head, knocked me off balance and crashed into the box of laundry powder atop the dryer, spilling its contents all over the floor.
She then attempted to look cute and ask for food.
Although I know this diet is good for my cat’s health, I’m not so sure that it’s good for mine.
It was just one of those days. Nothing really dramatic happened (apart from in my imagination).
I felt really sick all day…
and tired…
and ambushed…
and annoyed…
and alone.
So I went to bed.
I was a pretty naughty kid and got into my fair share of trouble. My real problem was that I just never fully thought things through. Like the day I found my little sister, Christie, emptying my favourite cereal onto the kitchen floor. She was having the time of her life.
I was horrified! This was my favourite cereal in the whole world and it was being wasted! I was so mad! I was so shocked! I was so going to tell mum!
I turned to go, when I suddenly realised that I had a real opportunity here to get my angelic little sister into a lot of trouble. The floor didn’t really look that bad, so the first thing I had to do was completely destroy the kitchen.
I made a game of it.
It was kinda fun.
When I thought the kitchen looked bad enough I ran off to tell my mum. Christie was going to be in so much trouble. For once it would be her and not me; I would be the good child! Everybody would talk about the day that my sister destroyed the kitchen and wasted all that cereal. They’d talk about how naughty she was and shake their heads in despair. I could hardly wait for my mother to come and see what she had done!
I raced into mum’s bedroom and started shrieking hysterically about what Christie had done to the kitchen and how I had tried to stop her, but she was unstoppable in her rampage!
My mother didn’t even look up from her magazine. She just said “Oh well, be a good girl and go clean it up.”
Not only did Christie not get into any trouble, not only did I have to clean up what can only be described as clown vomit, but I was forced to eat boring, old Weet-Bix the next morning with the full awareness that it was my own stupid fault.
I was one of those kids that chased anything that moved – bugs, lizards, birds, cats… I’d pretty much pick up anything that wasn’t fast enough to escape my clumsy, but well-meaning clutches.
So, when my parents took me to a beach that was covered in scuttling crabs I thought I had died and gone to heaven. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of the little beggars rushing about, popping in and out of little holes in the sand. They were so cute and I was having a blast chasing them around trying to catch them, when suddenly, I hit the jackpot! I found a huge crab and I wanted it so freaking bad.
This crab seemed to know it was bigger than the others; it didn’t even try to run away from me. It just sat there – daring me to pick it up. Although I wanted more than anything in the world to do so, I was very aware of the size of its claws. So, I just stood there for a time trying to work out the best way to pick it up, while also trying to estimate the potential pain if those claws got a hold of me. As I was pondering these things a kindly old man wandered by and saw my dilemma.
He explained to me that if I just reached from behind and picked it up with my thumb and index finger then the crab’s claws wouldn’t be able to reach my fingers. It sounded plausible; he seemed like a nice old man and why would a nice old man lie to me? Plus, old people knew stuff about the world. Now that I was armed with this new knowledge I decided to pick up the crab using the kindly old man’s technique.
I picked up the crab feeling super confident. I turned the crab to face me so I could look at it closely. I was so cool – I knew how to pick up crabs! Suddenly the crab began to reach underneath itself with its giant claws. I didn’t care, because I knew how to pick up crabs!
Apparently the crab didn’t know about my special crab-picking-up technique because it casually reached under its belly, grabbed my index finger and pinched it violently until it drew blood. I let out a blood-curdling scream and flung the poor crab to the ground. The old man was nowhere to be seen and I ran off bleeding, screaming and crying to my parents.
It was about another fifteen years before I understood their enormous amusement when I told them, while crying hysterically, that I was never, ever trusting an old person ever again!
Where did the old man go and what happened to the crab? Who knows?
I have a pretty good idea, though.
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