Duct tape me down

Holy shit . . . if this works, I'm about to have a dressmaker's dummy. Sweet. Sweet. Sweeeeet.

The Mater is coming to visit this afternoon for the weekend, on her way to good old Perfidious Albion. I'm pleased, but our apartment is absolutely filthy. You know, in recent weeks I've been thinking about my family and considering the possibility of blaming them more for my problems. This is something the F-word rides me for occasionally - thinking everything in the world is my fault, which he feels is unhelpful and a form of rampant, unfun egoism. I blame the Mater for that becase she does the same thing. Hah! Success. Also I'm going to blame them for my being a pig, and for the apartment not being clean enough for her visit. Hah! Double success.

I could get used to nothing being my fault . . .

In other news, my favourite Australian show, the Chaser's War on Everything, has been pulled off the air for two weeks due to a particularly tasteless sketch about dying children. I agree that it wasn't awfully funny or topical, rather amateurish actually - except for the Zac Efron part, which had me galumphing with laughter. Judge for yourself:



This is from the same men who showed me why I have to move to Australia: their nationally funded channel (their equivalent of the BBC) paid Craig Reucassel to say "Australia . . . it shits all over everywhere else" to tourists.