Over The Hedge.

Totally and utterly over it.

Yes, Yours Truly has a job. A job in Finance. Yours Truly, the one who has a strong design/creative/writing background, is working for a Hedge Fund, and sweet weeping Mary it is *diabolical*.

It's a bit like this really: Take a body. Say for example you're a gonad cell. You work away in a creative role. You like what you do. Other people like what you. You make pretty stuff. And whilst you're not a heart cell or a liver cell, you still perform a very necessary role in the body as a whole. You are by no means a toenail. Then one day, the blood stream knocks on your door and whisks you off into the dizzying heights of the skull. You're in the brain and everyone's wearing grey. They're all talking in ones and zeros and zipping to and fro, frenzied and freaky. And you start to feel stupid. Completely and utterly f*cking useless. Whilst you're specialised in what you do, this is clearly faaaar away from home. Except, of course, if you happen to be a male gonad cell, in which case the two types of cells are practically one and the same.

Whilst it may sound like I'm working as the treaurer for a tiny branch (hahaha. ahem.) of National Parks, or a charity for prickly vermin, this is not the case. There are numbers. There are acronyms. There are codes and Index thingys. Bar charts, pie charts, squiggly lines. Every f*cking email is cc'd to every creature in the ENTIRE f*cking hedge, and what makes it worse is that it means nothing to me. It might as well have been written in a Japanese dialect of Siberian Yiddish (spoken predominantly in East Timor) whilst on acid and chewing a donut. Gigabyte upon gigabyte of nonsensical numeracy. And there's a lot of paper. I'm scared of the paper. Ridiculous but true. It wants to cut me. It does. Every piece i touch taunts my delicate little hands and i can actually hear a potential paper cut creeping up on me. The A4 Xerox wants to slice me and suck my blood, leaving me lacerated and twitching amongst the 4 billion different recycling bins and endless supplies of chocolate Hobnobs.

Screen Grab.

Muggles Need Not Apply.

In the run up to Harry Potter mania in July, Yours Truly has decided to run a little competition. It's called:

Who Wants To Own The Dark Lord?

The Prize:

Voldemort himself.



Beautiful, pristine, and enshrouded in mystery and magic of a dark and terrible kind, He Who Must Not Be Named has lain, hidden from the world since November 2005, gathering strength in a secret chamber far below the city, venturing out only in the dead of night, his shiny blackness a shadow against the night sky. The PortKey within has carried dark wizards for 12 000 kilometers, and comes with the balance of a 2 year Reparo charm. With more enchantments than your heart could ever desire, the magic under his dark hood will amaze and Stupefy you.

The Competition:

The first person to deposit 2666 Galleons, 10 Sickles and a Knut (roughly R90 000) into my secret Gringott's account wins.

The Rules:

The use of charms, spells, jinxes, curses and other incantations is severely prohibited. This includes and is not limited to: Accio, Evanesco, Wingardium Leviosa.
Voldemort is protected by a Finite Incantatum spell and a Hex Deflection as well as a Shield Charm which will cause any forbidden spells to rebound upon you.
This competition is open to Death Eaters, members of Slytherin, and Parseltongues over the age of 18.
Potters, Muggles, Mudbloods, their families and advertising agencies need not apply.
E&OE.

Failure to adhere to any of the above rules will result in prosecution by the Ministry Of Magic with the threat of an extended period in Azkaban.

For more information please direct any queries by Owl or email (thegrannywrangler@gmail.com).

Tuesday Tourettes #2

Fuck. This. Shit. I'm on the warpath. Anybody who posts in any 'humour' section today and fails to make me laugh, get the fuck out of my way because i swear to the King of fucking Fray Bentos I will fucking kill you until you fucking die. Don't make me spell out PMS you fucking unfunny people.

God, i'm such a stroppy little bitch. A bloody good smacked bottom is what I need. *sigh*

Burning Sensation.

British Sensationalism, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways for you shall I?

Holiday time in a certain British household. Mom and Pops pack up their thronging herd of blonde children plus all the usual crappy paraphernalia and head to the airport. They've had shots for every disease known to science, because honestly, you never know when you're going to get bitten by a rabid olive when you haul down your broeks for a quick squat on the side of the road. With the tail pipe sparking off the asphalt they're bound for Gatwick, leaving practically nothing behind. Sure the kitchen sink could cost them in overweight baggage but again, best to be prepared you know.

The holiday goes swimmingly until one night, when the folks, digging around in one of the suitcases, have a startling realisation.

Pops: Oh bugger. It would seem we have left our Common Sense behind.
Mom: Oh that is a shame. Oh well, lets leave our children sleeping, all alone, in an unlocked room, in a foreign country and go out for a spot of dinner.
Pops: Splendid idea! I might just put my finger in a wall socket whilst we're out too.

Hands up who can guess what happens next?

Splendid. You're right. 1 X missing child.

Cue instant Media Orgy - Sky News is practically having one massive on-screen orgasm, flashing BREAKING NEWS on a shitty yellow scroll banner (which doesn't really go with their whole red/blue theme they've got going, in my opinion) over and over again, splashing cute blonde-haired blue-eyed tennis gear pictures with an 'Aaaaah' factor to rival the f*cking puppy in the loo paper ad.
Emails start flying around the world with the tennis pic - Have You Seen This Little Girl? (A goat herder in a little village in Tibet swears he saw her clinging to the underside of a llama but he only checked his email on his blackberry a few days later and besides, it could have just been the mixture of shrooms and goats piss on an empty stomach).
Lakes of Tesco's shitty mixed-bunch flowers, candles and teddy bears spring up all over the place in true British style, websites are set up, Facebook groups are set up (get lives you sad sad people) "ordinary" people fly down to help in the search, appeals for money are made. MONEY i tell you. Because money can solve anything you know. I bet you its a fake site. Its the guy who wanted people to donate money so he could buy a Hummer but nobody fell for it.

What the hell is this all for people? SERIOUSLY. Is it because she's blonde? Is it because she's cute? Is it because those tennis shorts just tugged at the heart strings? Do you know how many fucking children in this world are abducted or go missing? In America alone 2 185 children are reported missing EVERY GODDAMN DAY! Children in Khayelitsha disappear at a frightening rate, getting gang raped again and again and left strung to trees, their broken bodies swarming in flies. Where's their f*cking media attention? Do you see the appeals? Do you see the thousands of Rands wasted on shallow floral bullsh*t lining the streets? I don't think so. So what makes this one little girl so special? My god people, its a f*cking tragedy, yes, but you know what? She ain't the only one.

What's In A Nail File?

It's just before dawn at a secret location. There's a chill in the air and somewhere an animal howls a deep and mournful cry. A woman slips silently out of an armoured vehicle, her head down, dark hair knotted loosely yet perfectly at the nape of her neck. Punching in a 43 digit code she has imprinted in her memory, the door swings open and she enters, her well heeled footsteps echoing off the marble.

Down a flourescent hallway and through another steel door where her retina is scanned, she enters her laboratory. Vast whiteboards cover the walls, their faces swimming in a patchwork of equations and what seem too crude to be blueprints yet more refined than simple sketches. The numbers, letters and brackets are dizzying. To a mere mortal it is both deeply unnerving and overwhelming.

She places her Hermes on the desk beside a titration column where a velvety violet liquid is condensing and trickling and she peers closely before scribbling a note in the adjacent pristine notebook. The letters appear to be symbols. It is Japanese. And yes, it is a Haiku.

Walking over to her towering super-computer the fingers on the woman's left hand start to fly across the keyboard at an astonishing rate as effortless strings of code begin to fill her screen. With her other hand the woman reaches for a mechanical glove which she slips on. A screen to her left springs to life and an aerial view of an operating theatre swiftly comes into focus. A man is lying on the table, his brain exposed, surgeons and nurses are standing by ready for the woman to begin her surgery by satellite link up. As the steady flow of code continues in front of her, so does the rhythmic heartbeat of the patient on who's brain she begins to operate.
A knock on the door. A thick file bearing the MI8 insignia is deposited on her desk by a robot which beats a hasty retreat. 17 seconds later, with a flick of her wrist, her last stitch is tightened and the Alaskan operating theatre erupts with deafening applause. Another life saved. Another space shuttle system designed. Another terrorist plot foiled. And all before 6.30am.

A satisfied smile spreads slowly across her flawless skin and she sighs as she telekinetically draws a double espresso towards her from across the room, smug in her achievements as a London receptionist. Because really, that is what London receptionists do. Ask any Temp Agency in the city. Any temp agent. Who happens to not be lying in a pool of their own blood, my stiletto puncture marks rammed into their ashen temples, inch-deep scratch marks down their faces and sawn off street poles protruding from their ruptured spleens. Because as far as I was aware, being able to identify between a stapler, a punch and a box of Redfern's ringbinders should pretty much crack it. But clearly, in London, this is not the case. It is not the f*cking case at all.

Poking Around In My Wallet

My Job, My Wallet and I have always been pretty close. We've added each other on Facebook and write on each other's walls all the time. Admittedly i think my messages are the funnier of the three but I'd never actually come out and say that. Feelings get hurt. Things get messy. But at the end of the day, no matter who is ultimately cooler, we just love each other to pieces.

Not so long ago, however, things between My Job and I got a tad unpleasant. The friendship was waning as I guess some fickle Facebookers friendships just do. We tried to get along, we really did. I'd leave comments on photos and write on My Job's wall but it was never reciprocated. Despite the 'no poking' pact we'd all made (poking just complicates things, especially in a threesome) our friendship came down to a few half hearted pokes now and again until eventually I couldn't bring myself to click that little button anymore. No matter how hard My Wallet tried to convince me to stay friends with My Job my mind was made up and one day I snapped. I logged in, found My Job in my 'friends' list and positioned my mouse over 'remove friend' before clicking down hard.

And then we were two.

My Wallet held a deep seated resentment towards me for my hasty decision and the two of us bickered and grew snappy, but we took a long trip to Africa together in the hopes that things would settle. Instead, after two weeks the relationship was taking even more strain and we'd both lost a few pounds. My Wallet, unfortunately, more so than me.
It was upon our arrival back in the UK that we decided that in order to maintain a healthy friendship we'd need to spend less time together. It was designed to make that quality time mean so much more. So we took a bit of a breather. We see each other occasionally but whenever we do I put on a brave face and try to pretend its just hayfever that's making my eyes water. I miss the fun we shared, tagging each other in photos and inviting people to silly groups we invented when we were bored. Happy times. But I do know that I'm the one who caused all the hurt and if i ever hope to rebuild the relationship I need to invite another Job to join before My Wallet will consider playfully poking me again and suggesting we go for an impromptu little Mojito.

When i logged in this morning i saw there'd been a lot of recent activity on My Wallet's mini-feed. Yesterday My Wallet was listed as in a relationship with Penny. A lump rose in my throat. And then i saw it. The updated status message taunting me with four little grey words:

Your Wallet is empty.

Oh sweet f*ck.

The Envelope Please...

Tagged by The Lush a few days ago to spare a few kind words about a couple of other blogs, I thought it was high time i got my lazy arse into gear and handed out a trophy.

Thing is, the whole thing's a bit like choosing your bridesmaids. Not everyone gets to wear the hideous minty green satin sack at the end of the day and along the way there will be many a lip oozing from gravel rash. Solution? Choose only one maid of honour (or in this case Best Man) and you hopefully minimise the damage. Ever so slightly.

So without further ado, The Granny Wrangler's Golden Statuette (a plated Zimmer frame) goes to: Christian Bale. Or rather the man who Christian Bale looks like: The witty, dangerously deep dark and talented, 'when i type i swear to GOD there's angel music' Monsieur *Kyknoord*.

Cool and classy with a deliciously intellectual humour, The Other Side Of The Mountain is a thing of blogging beauty. Pant-wettingly funny, sad, poignant and arbitrary bordering on genius. Never a spelling mistake, positively dripping with grammatical prowess and the use of wonderful words like 'defenestration' makes both blog and writer a duo i can only aspire to be like. Technically and grammatically sound, this is writing at the highest standard (in my ever so humble opinion) so when the SA Blog awards were frivolously tossed out with a giggle not so long ago, i thought it an utter travesty that a blog so deserving of Best Writing didn't win. The award was meant to be about the art of writing and not merely topically controversial content. Everyone's a couch critic (check the Malibu beach houses of all the American Idol judges), hence I'm making my own awards up in my little head and guess what Kyk? You bloody win hands down! MWAH! Love your talented ass!

Oh shit, the music's starting already.

Google’s Anatomy.

Episode 24: Season Finale.

A group of NHS nurses are sitting around eating chips and watching Eastenders reruns, arguing about who’s turn it is to pomp doctor McRaj, consulting a crude roster one of them has thrown together on the back of a latex exam glove, which, unfortunately, looks like it may not be as sterile as one would hope as it embarks on any form of cavity search.

Somewhere a telephone rings.

Spewing forth a mouthful of Lays (uncanny that) the one who, it would appear, was given special permission by the pope to wear her legs upside down, answers with a “yeah” which might as well have “what the f*ck do you want” tagged onto the end of it.
On the other end of the phone a timid, helpless, gasping-for-air South African accent croaks down the line but is drowned out by a loud hammering. The vibrations can only mean one of two things. Either this is yet another “the cake mixer and I got a little drunk, wound up in bed together and now I can’t reach the off button without getting my fingers stuck in the blades” scenario or her feverish body is clearly wracked with a dark and dangerous tropical disease. Whilst the nurse detects a mysterious hint of a ‘baked goods’ tone in the young South African beauty’s voice it is unfortunately the latter.

“Whatcha problerrrrm?” Nurse Cankles enquires with the enthusiasm of a sun baked dog turd.

“Well,” replies the polished (and wildly intelligent) South African on the other end, “I’ve just been in the bowels of deepest darkest Africa and judging by my symptoms I am concerned that I may have contracted Malaria. I was hoping you could advise me as to what i should do."

“Can I have ya postcoooode plaaayze”. (Trying to work out whether there is an off-license en route, no doubt). Much admin is entered into, pfaffing and shuffling, whilst our heroine is dangerously close to death’s portal. "Malaria you say?" (hours later. clearly not the quickest enema in the colonoscopy ward) "Whatcha sim-timz?"

The well versed list is rattled off. It reads like a W.H.O checklist.

[[silence]] [[clickety click click]] [[silence]]

"Eeeeerm. Well Google's giving me a list of similar symptoms here... You may tr..."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, WHAT? What the F*CK did you just say? Did you just say GOOGLE?? Did you just actually type G-O-O-G-L-E-.-C-O-M into your browser? Jesus CHRIST lady, my life is hanging in the freaking scales of Hades' ARSEHOLE and you're F*CKING GOOGLING MALARIA?????? Is somebody f*cking kidding me? Are you seriously f*cking KIDDING ME?? Please please for the love of f*cking GONADS tell me there is a camera crew dressed in Spur uniforms and smoking crack ready to come charging around the corner singing "i don't know but I've been told" before i die from an embolism. Or Malaria. Or Typhoid. F*cking HELL!

4 days, 3 blood tests, 2 doctors and one massive f*cking Google search later, the South African waif still teeters precariously on the edge of the precipice of death but knows that she has a reason to live - she has the necessary qualifications to be an NHS nurse. Hell, nursing today, surgery tomorrow - you should see her down a bottle of Tequila and then play Operation. Yee-F*cken-Haaaa party people!

Bankrupting The Tooth Fairy

If you don't like chocolate cake please raise your hand. Ok would someone please toss out that doos at the back. Come on, everybody loves chocolate cake. A heavy handed slice of pure unadulterated deliciousness to make your knees go weak with every nibble, laden with enough calories to make Dakota Fanning look like a pretzel, and oozing with seven different kinds of wicked. So widely adored is this wonderful creation and yet sadly, so often frowned upon and guiltily avoided. But then I suppose rules and diets are always made to be broken, so it is only natural that one day, when you've been on celery sticks and rice cakes for a looooong time and you've walked past the bakery a thousand times but haven't dared go in, there comes a time when you catch sight of the ultimate Cake Of The Day. The cake of all cakes. Death By Chocolate. Tiered. Solid. Yummy. Standing in the window. You get giddy from the smells wafting on the breeze and you start to salivate. In a relatively attractive way of course. Not drool all down your front like i did on the plane last night only to wake up when the guy in front of me (seat 74K, you know who you are sir) let his bowels go in a most disturbingly thunderous manner, to discover i looked like a spring break wet t-shirt contestant, minus, of course, the heady blend of silicone and peroxide. No, i repeat, attractively.
All of a sudden your 'f*ck it' switch trips, you fly through that bakery door, stumble over the sofa... uh, step... and throw yourself headlong into the gateau, fervently gorging yourself silly, caution, amongst other things, thrown to the wind. And when it ends with a happy sigh your eyes glaze over, your knees give way and you think to yourself, by god if that wasn't the most incredible chocolate cake i've ever tasted...

Godammit, i'm hungry again.