This site is dumb and keeps breaking, and yes, it's entirely my fault for being a noob and all, but I can't be fucked trying to fix it. So head on over to: http://truethepirate.wordpress.com/ instead. The end.

Today I went through and deleted a tonne of old posts which I now consider to be sub-par.

I've got 2 hours before I'm leaving for work so I may even end up writing something. Fancy that.

I've been considering for a while doing something different with this site, but I haven't quite decided what yet. Something really nerdy I think, that's the genre I'm most at home in.

Some dude down south was charged with (and I shit you not) discharging a missile after throwing a computer hard drive at a bouncer's head. WTF?

A computer hard drive is hardly the stuff that the military are going to pack into their guns and shoot enemies with. Bullets are still cheaper than hard drives in bulk quantities, although I suppose if you're going to shoot someone, shooting them with a hard drive with a guns usual projectory force is going to do quite a bit of damage and they're a bit bigger than a bullet so the chances of missing someone are substantially reduced.

So charging him with discharging a missile strikes me as being incredibly humorous. He was charged with assault too; you'd think just being charged with assault would be enough, given that he actually did assault the guy, but apparently whoever wrote up the charges had PMS in a big way. It seems kind of stupid to me that if they're charging a dude who lobs some hardware at someones head with this, it would make sense to charge people who shoot and kill people with both murder and discharging a missile.

Anyway, I think I'm missing the most important issue here.....

Where the hell did a guy get a computer hard drive from in the middle of the night, in the middle of town, to throw at a guys head?

Today I've been going from one blog that I read when I remember to another and clicking on every single link to equally awesome and random blogs and have spent the last 5 hours doing nothing but going through every page on every website that I open.

I think I'm totally in love with the internet.

I'm a little creepy and I love looking at other people's houses, particularly at night when the windows are open as you drive past and it's like seeing animals in their native environment in the wilds of Africa. Then somehow, and seriously I really can't even recall how I found this blog but it is pure awesome, I found this website, LovelyListing

I'm in love. Seriously. For a total house perv like me, this is the ultimate. Be warned though, it's not for the faint of heart. These aren't your standard houses like your neighbours have. No this site contains real estate listings of the serious WTF kind! For instance, today I have seen a perfectly normal looking house from the outside with an inside that looks like zombies with hammers have had at it, a creepy serial killers crack den complete with inbuilt torture dungeon , a house you certainly don't want to take any psychotropic drugs in and several places that I can't even believe real estate agents have the gall to advertise like this little gem here! Do yourselves a favour if you do go visiting this site and click through to the original agents listings, seriously that last one they want $379,000 for! WTF? I wouldn't give you a bag of chips for that heap of shit, I'd be afraid some big gang dude will snuff me.

Those last two pieces of ridiculousness were both Australian listings too. Actually most of the seriously weird shit had come from Australia or New Zealand. Hardly surprising given I read a statistic somewhere that we're in first and second place for heaviest consumption of cannabis worldwide.

Seriously, fuck the hell off with the spam comments would you?

I have just deleted a zillion pages of spam comments, so if I accidentally deleted yours then I'm sorry. I can't make the stupid spam filter work at the moment, so all comments are in an approval queue.

Over the last few weeks while travelling around this giant country of mine, I have had the opportunity to observe a large number of females in their different natural environments. I have found that women of all shapes, sizes, climates and cities all have one thing in common:

THEY DON'T WEAR PANTS!

Leggings are not pants. They should definitely never be substituted for sturdy outerwear, particularly when wearing a whimsical piece of fabric across your torso that can't make it's mind up if it's a shirt or a dress.

Here are some facts about leggings that I have observed:

1) Despite what you may think, they are not cutting edge fashion. Maybe they were in the 80's, but that was 20-odd years ago and no fashion that emerged in the 80's should ever be revived.

2) They make your arse look fat, regardless of whether your legs are the size of spagetti strands, tree trunks or barns.

3) They aren't warm. Women in colder climates should pay particular attention to this point because this takes suffering for fashion to ridiculous heights. Sure, if you're forced by patriarchal mandate to wear a skirt to the office, I see a reason for leggings and tights to exist. Beyond that, no.

4) You look like a hobo who can't afford a pair of real pants.

5) Older women wearing leggings in place of pants to capitalise on the fact that they 'have still got it' just look desperate, not hip.

6) In all likelihood I can actually see your arse, particulary if you wedge yourself into a tight pair, forcing the threads to separate, like that chick I saw in Adelaide. This is why your mother always insists you wear underwear.

7) Ratty and tattered leggings don't scream 'boho chick', but rather scream out 'crack whore'.

8) If you can't be trusted to dress yourself with any amount of skill, how can you reasonably be expected to make it through life at all? You certainly won't be getting that promotion you so desperately want if your boss thinks you're too retarded to dress yourself.

However, that said, there are only two legitimate reasons for leggings to exist:

1) To wear under our jeans/snowpants when the temperature is subzero and you're likely to get hypothermia and die.

2) In the case of being pregnant when either nothing else fits or is comfortable.

Therefore, if you wear leggings and you are not an eskimo or up the duff, you are stupid.

Running and I do not share a mutual fondness. I believe running is for people trying to escape serial killers and should not be included on anyone's list of favourite pastimes, let alone be considered a competitive sport. Surely the people left alive at the end of the killer's rampage are testament to their running prowess? However, I'm fairly certain that if a serial killer came a-knocking I'd develop a sudden urge to indulge in the activity if; A) his knives are bigger than mine; B) He's twice my size and thus my inner Liam Neeson decides to hide under my skirts or C) he's packing a bazooka.

I loathe running and it most certainly does not agree with women with large breasts and previously dislocated knee joints therefore we avoid each other as much as possible,

I find that people who run for fun are snobby, lycra-wearing, elitist pigs who disdain those of us who prefer to get our sporting kicks in a manner more courageous than pissbolting away - does it strike anyone else as odd that people are praised for what essentially amounts to cowardice, running away? And I now have proof that running for fun will in fact cause you harm!

Feast your eyes on this!

Take that elitists! Be careful who you next mock for their inability to complete a 5km run in under an hour - you might accidentally die in a fire. Running will kill you.

When I eat at fast food places (I decline to call them restaurants as they are clearly not designed for a gourmet eating experience to rave about) I have a dilemma. A BIG dilemma.

I like burgers, but....

I hate sauces. Tomatoes are disgusting and I refuse to eat them in any shape or form, especially as a sauce, mayonnaise is made from eggs which make my intestines act crazy and tastes like crap anyway and barbeque sauce is only tolerable in very small doses. Everything else seems to be a weird combination of all of these sauces. What kind of sick bastard puts tomato sauce AND mayo on a burger anyway? Freaks.

I also firmly believe that salad has no place in fast food. Oh I have no problem with salad itself, I just hate it when it looks and tastes like it's been in someone's sweaty arse for six hours, which it inevitably does at every fast food outlet.

Finally, I love bacon. Who doesn't love bacon? Bacon is the king of all meats and should ideally be consumed at every meal.

So how do I address these issues? Well I ask for bacon burgers with meat and cheese only. Every fast food place has a button that says "meat and cheese only" on it. Simple you would think wouldn't you. But do you know what the real dilemma is? I say I want a bacon cheeseburger with meat and cheese only... guess what I get asked EVERY single time?

"Do you want bacon on that?" WTF!!!! Bacon comes from pigs, pigs are animals and therefore meat. It's not a dairy product, soy based pretend food or a salad. Of course I fucking want bacon on it you bloody twat or I wouldn't have ordered a goddamn bacon cheeseburger, I'd have ordered a cheeseburger!

I got a death glare from a McDonald's manager today. The sweet 12 year old youth at the counter knew exactly what I was on about and processed the order perfectly (yes, I checked). The pimply apathetic wanker teenager out the back making the burger yelled out at me "Do you want bacon on that if it's meat and cheese only?" The death glare came when I just yelled back "Bacon IS meat, or at least it was the last time I checked"

People are fucking stupid.

The University of Maryland, who I know nothing about for reasons mostly due to the fact that I'm Australian and have no desire to ever visit the USA, have won my respect for attempting to curb students boozing it up until the wee hours of the morning by screening a full length porno flick. Unfortunately, the screening has been cancelled after government dweebs threatened to pull the uni's funding.

Apparently it's not the done thing over in the USA to allow adults to watch pornography together. One is curious to know how many of those government officials who are crying foul over this have pictures of boobies on their computers and a Playboy under their bed? My money is on a significant proportion.

Anyway, the movie they were going to screen, Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge, actually does have a plotline and if you took out the sex scenes (or at least the graphic penetration ones) it would make a passable C-grade movie. I'm guessing anyway, I haven't seen it. But I did see the first one. How could I not? It was called Pirates!

What's the big deal anyway? They're all adults who can choose whether or not they feel it's appropriate for them to watch it.

If only my uni had such great motivational tactics!

Earlier today a friend of mine mentioned that she had been introduced to fmylife - a collection of short little snippets of how much peoples lives suck. The jury is out of course on how many of them are actually true, but for the most part they're pretty funny so I tend to overlook that. I hadn't checked the site for a while and just spent the last few hours reading 42 pages worth of interesting things, some of which I may even use as plot devices in a book, they're just that good.

As I was reading, I started wondering what my classic 'bad day' story is. I actually have several of them truth be told, because A) I'm the kind of person that random crazy shit happens to, and B) I have 'interesting' (read: dubious) friends around whom all sorts of shenannigans occur. The best one however must be from about 4-5 years ago and was the first one I thought of when I thought of having a really bad day.

Once upon a time I wasn't feeling very well, I was very tired and I had to go to work very early. I got dressed, got in the car and headed off to work which was very conveniently quite a long distance away from my house. About halfway there I realised I wasn't wearing any shoes. PANIC! I immediately turn off the main road onto a side road and then onto another side road where it was safe to park.

I popped the boot to my car. As anyone could tell you, I'm famous for leaving my shoes in the car. I had just cleaned out the car but I remembered seeing a pair in the boot. So out I hop, shutting the door behind me so an oncoming car doesn't hit it, and I check out the boot. Shit. I'd taken them out. Oh well, looks like I'll have to go back home and get them I think to myself as I slam the boot shut and open the door. Fuck. It's locked. I've accidentally pressed the lock when I've gotten out of the car and because the keys are still in the ignition (!!) it's locked all the doors, which it doesn't do normally because it won't lock unless all the doors are closed - except if the ignition is on!

Panic stations again. It's about 6 in the morning, there is nobody around, I'm locked out of my still running car and my phone is on the passenger seat. What do I do? Something terribly clever of course, I cry. I still can't think of what to do and a random passer-by walking home from work asks if I'm ok and after relating the sordid story she lets me borrow her mobile phone and I call and wake up my still sleeping boyfriend (who was pretty grumpy) and asked him to come and bring me some shoes and his phone so I can call RACQ. For the record - I didn't know the RACQ number so I would have had to fart arse around trying to get it so I figured it would be easier to let the kind lady go on her way and not wrack up her phone bill by calling people to see if they knew what it was. The RACQ number was on the back of my RACQ card, tucked inside my purse, inside my still running car.

Ben showed up eventually, I had no idea where I actually was and didn't see any street signs when I called him to tell him where I was, so it's amazing he even found me at all. He brought me shoes. Yay. One problem solved.

Then I grabbed his phone and rang my dad. Dad knows everything. I asked him if he knew the RACQ number. He said to look on the back of my card. I screamed down the phone at him my situation and he laughed and then told me. Bastard knew it off the top of his head. Why couldn't he have just said that instead of being a smartarse?

I hung up on dad and called RACQ. Ben's phone went flat. Fuckity fuck. Now what do I do? Meanwhile, at least 40 minutes has gone by and my car is still happily idling away. Ben kept change in the front of his car (thankfully) so I grabbed some change and said I'd go find a payphone. I was parallel to a main road and I knew there were payphones scattered along it close to where a friend lived. I instructed Ben not to let anyone steal my car and off I trotted (wearing shoes) and eventually found a payphone a few blocks away.

First I called work and told them I would be late. Not good enough. I had to tell Jon exactly what was going on. I was treated to even more laughter. Then I called RACQ to ask for assistance. Turns out that my membership had expired the week before and I hadn't paid it (the bill was sent to my old address and good old Australia Post decided not to forward it even though I'd paid for redirection). The very helpful operator told me that I could renew my membership over the phone with my credit card and then they could send a car out to help me. I explained that my credit card was three blocks away in my still running car that I was locked out of. She had to discuss it with her supervisor because their policy is not to send cars out to assist people who aren't current members. Eventually they decided they would help me. Great.

I ran back to my car thinking that the day's troubles were going to be over finally. We sat down to wait since we were told it would be at least half an hour. As we were waiting a car pulled into the street and decided to park behind my car. The driver noticed she was blocking a driveway and decided that instead of moving up the street in front of my car she'd park as close as humanly possible to the back of my car and hit it. She got out, looked, shrugged her shoulders and walked off. Normally I'd be screaming blue murder at the bitch but I was just so gobsmacked I was actually lost for words.  The only saving grace of the whole incident was that I had been too lazy to take the bike rack off the back of my car after BMX the night before so she dented the bike rack and not my actual car.

Eventually the RACQ man showed up, let me back into my car and I went to work. Upon my arrival I found that Jon had told everyone in the building what had happened so the rest of the day was a universal 'pick on Kaitee' day.

Now how's that for a bad day? :p