Vegetable Rights and peace, man

No sex, please, you're a carnivore. A new phenomenon in New Zealand is taking the idea of you are what you eat to the extreme.

Vegansexuals are people who do not eat any meat or animal products, and who choose not to be sexually intimate with non-vegan partners whose bodies, they say, are made up of dead animals.
.

...One vegan respondent from Christchurch said: "I believe we are what we consume, so I really struggle with bodily fluids, especially sexually."

more...

Hundreds of thousands of years eating meat allowed the human race to live long enough to breed cretins like this. What about all the dead veges, hmmm?



No wonder the human race is so fucked.

Amplified

Ian and I took a mini road trip today through the back road to Rotorua to pick up an amplifier and cd player I bought on Trade Me. I needed a new one because mine stopped working a few days ago. Mine was being used because I dropped the old man's one and broke it. I sort of mentioned that a few posts back.

The drive was fun, the weather was shockingly not fun - torrential rain, gusts of wind, flooding on the road etc. You know the type. The weather coming back was worse than going over, and some poor bugger in a council truck found the going a bit tough when he parked it head first into a bank and broke it. Big time. It wasn't there going over, but it was coming back and in the interval he must have been taken away because all that was to be seen was the munched up truck, the driver of which would probably have needed medical attention, and one police car, whose occupant was walking the road looking for clues at the scene of the crime.

When I got home, the kids' Sperm Donor was on the premises. He came to bring Adam a birthday present (Ads turned 14 last Wednesday). SD was grumpy, well he always is, he was having a txt argument with his sister in Palmy, about his brother (a convicted paedophile who also once stole SD's girlfriend after the loose-legged, brillo-pad hairdoed thing had taken all SD's money and sent him bankrupt) in Palmy and his brother's presence at the upcoming 70th birthday party for their mother, also in Palmy. The kids knew he was grumpy because he bitched (again) about the quality of the cup of coffee H made him. He's always a rude, pig-ignorant wanker when it comes to displaying basic human manners like gratitude. Then, in the middle of setting up the new amp, I bumped the thing and it let out a loud squelch. SD went off and, for a change, I told him that if he didn't like it he was free to leave. He bit back (silly man, never did know when he was out-gunned) so I sent him on his merry way, with a parting suggestion that he find some manners when in other people's homes and, specifically, to fuck off out of mine until he had.

Kids said he was grumpy because he came here twice and thought we were all out because my car wasn't home. If I'd known that, I would have suggested he learn to use a telephone for more than just txting and actually ring to make sure people are home, rather than automatically assume we have nothing better to do than sit around all day awaiting his pathetic presence. Anyway, he screamed off down the driveway (as usual), H went back to her MSN conversations, I went back to setting up the amp (I love my amp!) and Ads went back to the neighbours to help doing the sort of blokey boys-in-sheds type shit his SD should do with him. Ads also got a ride on the forklift and a small driving lesson on it down the road at the neighbour's workshop. Wet, cold, hungry, dirty, happy Ads.

So this evening, H went to church and I did the pick up/drop off for Heather's friend Jade. Jade lives not far from us, a couple of kilometres away up the hill. On the way to drop Jade off after church, about 9pm, there was a boy-racer car parked off the road just down from our driveway. It was parked back in, at right angles, down a bank, in a culvert on the corner at the bottom of the hill. God only knows how he managed it, I'd have trouble being that precise in daylight, and under full control.

Look, here it is



Those green things top left and centre in the pic are the supports for the cabling pipes that carry all the phone cables and stuff safely out of reach of the water in the culvert. We hung around long enough to watch the towie pull him back onto the road, and watch him drive off up the hill with no lights on, after almost driving into the culvert on the other side of the road. I'm glad he isn't my kid; I'd probably feel the need to cut my throat in shame at having unleashed such a brain dead waste of space kid on the world.

Punctuation

Happy birthday baby

At 1.13pm, 14 years ago today, Adam made his entrance into the world. Just in time for lunch, too.

Typical :-)



Happy birthday baby, we love you.

For the Love of God

How many categories do YOU fit into?

PS - that poor, sad wee chap looks like he's way overdue for some decent clothes and a darn good blowjob by a money-loving, racist, kid-killing, sex-addicted, drunken, athiest, pot-smoking, two-faced, transsexual Mormon thief. Don't you think?

MS means never having to say you're soggy

I'm going to talk about MS. I'm going to speak in generalisations because MS issues are generally quite widespread, both in the type and frequency they affect their unwelcoming hosts on any random day. I'm doing it because I've had cause this week to attempt to itemise the reasons why I can't just go off and do stuff like everyone else can and somehow I need to get it together in my head to explain it properly to someone. So loosen the levers and let's roll.

---

Multiple Sclerosis means never having to say you're soggy

People with MS don't often tell others what is bothering them. Fact. Why? Because on any day there can be a huge range of stupid little things mixed with big scary things going on the Person With MS (PWMS) might not want to tell the listener in specific terms.

PWMS don't talk about continence issues - "sorry I can't get up but I pissed my pants and I'd rather stay warm right now, thanks". PWMS don't talk about their erectile problems - "sorry, I can't get up".

PWMS don't talk about their cognitive issues - "sorry, I just can't see what you mean", nor will they always talk about their vision issues "sorry, I just can't see".

PWMS often don't talk about their fatigue - "sorry but I can't be bothered right now" and PWMS don't always want to talk about why they can't walk somewhere - "sorry but that ramp is too steep and there are too many steps".

PWMS seldom talk about the emotional issues that can accompany MS "I can't feel what you feel" or their lack of sensation "sorry, I can't feel".

PWMS don't talk to each other about symptoms because it often sounds like a symptom competition "my dysesthesias rises higher/further, burns/grips hotter/harder and lasts longer than yours does"; they don't talk to normal people about what they feel because that opens them up to being called self-pitying, moaning and hypochondriacs - "really, you've always got so much wrong with you, it's really boring, do you have to go on?".

PWMS don't always mention their pain. There isn't much point when it never stops anyway and a panadol or 10 won't make a difference.

And people with MS don't cry. Crying gets a (likely unvoiced) dose of "don't be such a drama queen, you just want me to feel guilty because I'm well and you aren't" eye-rolling and once started, a crying jag can take a hell of a lot of stopping. Crying makes other people feel helpless - helpless people turn off. It's easier not to feel in the first place.

PWMS live with a disease that's invisible, untouchable and inaudible and PWMS who mention their issues are often unsupported in their mission to simply be understood.

Sometimes feeling misunderstood is the hardest burden to bear.

---

As for me? I live in the upper levels of consciousness and deal strictly with the 'now'; I generally avoid thinking about what I'm missing, what I've lost, what I can no longer do or have, the dreams that melted away. Looking any deeper is self-destructive. I don't look forward because on any given day, plans might not be viable. I don't look back, there is no going back. I don't talk about stuff much because not all facets of my disease are appropriate for all kinds of friends. I exist, watch the World go about their business and think "I wonder what it's like to be them" and I don't wish things were different any more.

I don't talk about my MS in any detail, I know that often it makes people feel guilty for their own good health, mobility, ABility even. I don't need sympathy; I don't need to be seen as self-pitying if I say my eyes can't focus, I can't process visual information, my legs won't hold me up and I burnt myself in the shower because today I have no heat/cold sensation anywhere; I don't need to hear that I'm a party pooper because I can't participate.

If you know someone with MS and they have any importance to you, the best thing you can do for them is to read the literature, accept their limitations, support them in both the good times and the bad and understand that "no" means just that for a very good reason, one that you probably can't understand. I don't turn stuff down to be difficult; I do it to protect myself from the stuff I can't necessarily explain to you. No doesn't necessarily mean I don't want to; it can simply mean that I can't. Wishing otherwise is pointless.

"If wishes were horses then beggars would ride" - and what a ride we would have, if only we could.

[/end MS crap]

Love it.

Cheerful little bugger, isn't he.

Bedtime stories

I always like to read a little right before bed. Often, that reading is confined to pretending to proof read my blog.

Tonight's first offering is much better bedtime reading and just perfect for children as it's educational. I wish it had been around when mine were young, they would have got a bigger buzz than they did from telling their schoolmates that the reindeer pelt their grandfather brought back from Sweden was the new, slimline, sleigh-pulling Rudolph.

Enjoy a little dark bedtime ABCs - The Gashlycrumb Tinies.

The former is much better reading than what our local paper reported today although this one was certainly "lights out" for the victim concerned.

Just one punch ended David Van Berlo's life - and just one word sealed the fate of Paul Carmichael.

Carmichael, 28, yesterday pleaded guilty to manslaughter after dealing a single blow to Mr Van Berlo's head on April 19 in Bayfair Tavern's carpark.

The attack happened on the eve of Mr Van Berlo's 30th birthday.

In Tauranga District Court yesterday, details emerged about an evening in which a man's jealousy got the better of him with tragic consequences.

It was a Thursday night and Carmichael was having drinks with his partner at Bayfair Tavern in Mount Maunganui. Shortly before 1am, another patron at the tavern took exception to the way Carmichael behaved towards a woman and Carmichael was punched.

The tavern was immediately closed with about 15 people asked to leave.

Carmichael's partner went out to the carpark and was sick because she was so drunk.

At that point, Mr Van Berlo saw that Carmichael's partner had dropped her handbag and sweatshirt. He picked them and approached her to give them back.

But when Carmichael noticed Mr Van Berlo talking to his partner, he became irritated.

In later interviews, he described himself as a possessive, jealous type.

Carmichael punched Mr Van Berlo once in the head, causing him to fall backwards. He hit his head on the concrete carpark, immediately becoming unconscious.

Carmichael was walking away when a witness suggested he check his victim was okay.

He returned and lifted the man's head and shoulders and said "are you alright, bro?" before dropping his head back on to the concrete again.

more...

There are some dumb, low life, no-hoper bastards out there, eh.

I wonder why...

A special deal of half-price puppies and dogs resulted in the Auckland SPCA arranging 25 pet adoptions over the weekend.

"The Adoptathon has created much more interest, which is great because we were jam-packed with puppies and dogs at the village," said dog adoption counsellor Emma Ginsberg. "We have been matching people with the right dogs and they are taking them home."

Usually, SPCA fees are $250 for a puppy and $230 for an adult dog. But at the weekend this was reduced to $115 and $135 respectively. This included first year's registration, micro-chipping, desexing, vaccinations, worming and a vet check.

Is owning a dog now something only those with surplus money can enjoy?

SPCA is there to help animals - oversee welfare, monitor cruelty, rehome. How does being in a position to fork out megabucks make someone a better owner, or guarantee a better uptake of animals being rehomed at the expense of those who never find a home simply because less people want to pay or can afford to pay that sort of money for an animal? How many end up being euthanised simply because they have run out of time and no one took them home?

I posted a few weeks ago about our new family member Rowf. Rowf now has many names and few of them are complimentary owing to his, shall we say, individual personality and habits.

Rowf is a stray; Rowf needs his nuts off and Rowf's nut-job will cost $65 at a local vet clinic. Tauranga SPCA, recipients of a million dollar bequest, will not deal to Rowf's rear baggage until December "when the de-sexing van comes around again".

WTF? They are happy enough for an entire male cat to wander the streets playing Lords and Ladies with any local queens for 5 months rather than provide the service? The other option is to surrender custody of Rowf to them so they can pay to feed him, house him, de-sex him, vaccinate him, and finally pay to euthanise him when no one wants to pay $75 to take home this bag of hissing, spitting, whining, snivelling, thieving meanness.

No wonder SPCA shelters all over the country have too many pets. No wonder people aren't rehoming animals. No wonder the SPCA in general and specifically the Tauranga one are regarded with such contempt. They earn it.

Devils dance on Black Friday

I have been known, in the past, to do a blog piece about the history of days that have special significance in our cultures; April Fools Day; Boxing Day; My Birthday...things like that.

I can't be bothered today, sorry.

Now go wash your hands.



Click on the pic and have your credit card ready. I'll have 2 sets, thanks.

Paint it black

So I'm driving home from Ian's tonight, right? I drive up the hill towards the shops and there's a road marking truck with flashing lights there and a couple of guys standing staring at the road.

I drive over the top of the hill and start down the other side, there's a pedestrian crossing sign on the road in the opposite lane, you know a white diamond thingy. Tonight this diamond thingy is wearing a couple of very tall, pointy cones to say "don't drive over me, I'm all wet" which are barely visible in the dark, owing to their not being next to a street light. But nowhere near the approach to the cones is any sign, warning light, anything to say they are there and I think to myself "if I was driving up the hill and about to run into those cones which I can't see because there is no light and the reflectors aren't so flash and the flashing orange truck lights 150 metres further on at the shops on top of the hill have grabbed my attention, which way would I go? Hard left = a bank and wall; hard right = across the centre line on the brow of a hill. Straight ahead = fucking great cones all tangled up under the car.

I tell ya, I'm glad I'm not a road cone, their job is wayyyyy too hazardous for MY liking.

AND it was only an hour to Black Friday... *nod*

Not a sausage

I went to the bank today. Exciting huh. I had to cash a cheque. I had to get the cheque altered first to accommodate the new bank policy that sees every cheque book printed with NOT NEGOTIABLE across the middle of every single cheque.

Despite the fact that people might not want to write a closed cheque.

So the lady at the bank says that if one wishes to write a cash cheque, one must scribble out the words NOT NEGOTIABLE (right across the bit where you have to write the amount, and the bit where you write the recipient's name) and initial it and write CASH PAYMENT PLEASE on the recipient bit at the top.

Wow, thank God the bank figured out that, even though someone has probably just forged the signature, they won't be clever enough to forge just the initials to cash it.

Our millions are safe.

PS the bank should start telling its OAP clients what they are supposed to do with crossed cheques to make them acceptable to a teller. For some reason, they don't all know.

Not a sausage? No links.

Cheesy

We saw a fab product in the supermarket today - vegetarian cheese. Now, I don't know about you but I didn't ever think that something like cheese needed a vegetarian version. Ok, a vegan wouldn't eat it, but there is no live animal stuff in cheese... is there?

Well, there must be cos Fonterra make a vegetarian cheese, we saw it today. And it's made of, yup you guessed it, milk products. Just like ordinary cheese. In fact, a quick comparison between it and ordinary non vegetarian cheese showed pretty much the same ingredients. Which begs the question, are vegetarians A. made of bucks, B. illiterate, C. unable to tell the difference (or in this case non-difference) between vegetarian cheese and ordinary cheese or D. too stupid to read past the word "vegetarian"?

Hospitality

It's 2.29am.

Adam and I have not long got home from Tauranga Hospital ED. This is why.

Wednesday July 4 - Surgery day:

Objective: remove his tonsils, have a sinus flush, and cut and tack where the tonsils used to be back against his throat to open up some breathing space.

Desired outcome: fix his sleep apnoea and get his migraines and chronic fatigue under control.


7.30am - admitted to childrens ward to prep for theatre.

9.15am - pre med

9.45am - into theatre

10.30am - awake in recovery

11.00am - back in the ward

6.30pm - discharged.

Despite his age and the surgeon's thoughts on his ability to bounce back from theatre, Ads did great and was up around a couple of hours post-op.

So far so good.

Couch, pillows to prop him up (can't breathe lying down), pain relief and soft food, remote in one hand he was ensconced for the evening with Mum at his very beck and call. Gargling anaesthetic mouthwash took the edge off pain wise so he could swallow all his panadol liquid and anti-biotics ok.

Thursday July 5th

A rough night was followed by starting the day's routine of pain relief. Only there isn't much relief happening. He can hardly talk, he can hardly swallow. The mouthwash almost makes it possible to get the stuff down him without crying, but it's not working very well.

Lunchtime came, so did the next round of pain without gain. He ate instant pudding, he ate some creamed rice, he cried because it hurt so much. He gargled vile tasting green shit so he could swallow his pain killers that don't kill anything.

Dinnertime came. He ate some ice cream, had more panadol, more ab's. He cried some more.

10pm - his pain has increased, he's getting tired and upset and had enough. It's 36 hours post op and he's getting worse. So I rang the children's ward, spoke to a nurse who said take him to ED and get his throat looked at. Into the car and off to the hospital we go. It's not very busy, maybe 4 patients in the waiting room, this shouldn't take long.

[insert Tui ad here]


11.15pm - taken from the waiting room and into a cubicle in ED. It's quite quiet in there, nurses are chatting and wandering around. Doctors are writing up notes. There is no sense of urgency. A couple of people come in via the ambulance bay and are dealt with, put on beds, wheeled away to wards. Other people go home. We wait.

A nurse does the nursey bits, pulse, oxygen, BP etc and wanders off to do nursey bits elsewhere. A bit before 1am, a doctor comes along, asks a few questions, tries to stick a tongue depressor in Ads mouth, Ads is taken aback, says its very sore so the doc orders up a couple of syringes of stuff to swallow to calm his throat, one a shot of local anaesthetic, one a shot of lignocaine. Then he disappears. Ads takes his medicine. We wait. Ads starts to feel nauseous, the nurse says it's the morphine. We wait some more. Then, for something different, we wait a little longer. The doc comes back, asks Ads to stick his tongue out so he can look inside. "is it still hurting?" "Yes". Says "we'll leave it a bit longer, it's not working yet" and goes away. So we wait. And wait. And wait. Some staff are assisting patients but there is no drama happening, just nursing staff wandering around chatting, drinking coffee and eating cake, doctors and nurses filling in their paperwork. Two staff have a loud disagreement about treatment of a patient who has left the department that carries on for the best part of 30 minutes. Someone left their professionalism at home tonight, but listening serves to pass the time. The stuff they've given Ads hasn't even taken the edge off his pain.

In the end, at 1.55am, we decide we have had enough. So far they have made him swallow stuff, lie in a cold room without even a sheet to keep warm, given him stuff that makes him feel nauseous but has done absolutely nothing for the pain and haven't actually looked down his throat - the reason we came in. Nursey says "bring him back tomorrow if it's not better" [insert another Tui ad].

We walk out the front door of ED - the waiting room is packed with unhealthy looking people, the police are there with a bunch of young guys and it's 2 in the morning. They have wasted the best part of 4 hours, with a kid taking up a bed in the emergency department for 3 of those hours who only needed his throat checked to make sure it was all OK post op and some effective pain relief to let him drink some much needed fluids.

And they weren't up to it. 10 points for hopeless and unprofessional conduct Tauranga Hospital ED. You suck.

UPDATE:

Took the wee man to our GP's clinic this afternoon. A fast and gentle peek down his throat, confirmation that something with more clout than paracetamol is needed, wrote a script for morphine syrup and sent us home. Time taken - 10 minutes.

Now, how fucking hard was that, hmmm? Too hard for ED staff, obviously. No wonder our hospital expenditure doesn't cover what's needed by the community, they are wasting resources and hiring monkeys on more than a peanut wage.

When good Teens go BAD

Unfortunately, this one says she is mine...