And then God said...

Well hello there. Long time no see.

I am (obviously) extremely stressed as dissertation is due Monday.

It is taking all of my (not so extensive) self-control to be inside this tiny, fly-infested library (FLY IN THE LIBRARY!!), watching Hannah eat ham out of a paper bag, for two more days. I have cut down to one game of tennis and four meal breaks per day. It is killing me. I am, however, making up for this by increased caffeine consumption. Is it working. Possibly.

Lots of love, you stressed little students out there. 

(To anyone who isn't; Touche, sir. My hat off to you.)

CIAO BABEZ

Ruby

Drop Bears and Bored Catz

Hello.

First: You should probably click the little box that says 'Join this site'

Second: Look what ad came up when I was not looking at midget porn:

It looks like some kind of midget wrestling. I'm disturbed.
After a little sleuthing I learned that Halfpint Brawlers is the top midget wrestling company in the USA.
Go aMurica!

I just played a game with my laptop called  'Even though I have known for the last 10 minutes that you are about to run out of battery power I will still wait for you to say '0:00' and then move faster than a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat to see if I can get my charger before you die on me'. If I make it, I win. I get a point.

I often play games with myself. Here are some more!

- See if I can hold my breath until the end of class. I usually do this when I think class is nearly over. If I make it without passing out or breathing, I get a point.
- This is probably my favourite game. When I go for a run in the morning and it's still dark, to make myself run faster I think of scary things like clowns, rapists, and drop bears. I only just learnt what a drop bear was the other day. They excite me coz they JUST FUCKING DROP. WOW! I wish there were drop people. Or drop midgets. Who lived in trees. And they drop on unsuspecting people. If I don't get attacked by any of the aforementioned things then I get a point.
- If I wake up just before my alarm goes off, I get a point.
- If I get the front wheels of my car over the lines when I am exiting an intersection before the oncoming car gets their back wheels over the same lines then I get a point. This is really easy because my car is so speedy.
That was a lie. It's grey (grey cars are the slowest) station wagon which is older than me.
- If I spot someone who I don't usually see and I was JUST thinking about them then I get a point.
- If my iTunes is on shuffle when I'm not the only one listening and no embarrassing songs play then I get a point.
- If I find something on the internet which only has one result when I look for it on Google then I get a point.

If I get 10 points in one day, then I'm allowed to buy an icecream. I realise that icecream is supposed to  be two words but I like it as one. Same deal with thankyou. And dropbears.


I got a point today:

1 result, bitches! And it was super fast.

More importantly...

 No.

 After some intense research I learnt it is actually not possible to die of boredom or live forever.

But...aquagenic urticaria. That really sucks.

There are only a handful of Pokémon which can talk.
Meowth used to be in a street gang in Hollywood. He was in search of fame and fortune; he wanted to get noticed so he taught himself how to walk and speak like a human. Meowth joined Team Rocket because 'rocket' was the first word he learnt.
What a shit story.
Squirtle is the best.

This is all I have today.

Bye

From Liz Tritops 

Epidemic of academic. A polemic.

So, in between playing tennis with small children, listening to Step Up soundtrack (something for which I will never be ashamed. Slightly more embarrassing was my week in which all I could listen to was Carrie Underwood songs, for which I totally blame Glee.), youtubing Bon Qui Qui videos, and inventing every way possible in which to insert "next minute" into a sentence while still remaining vaguely coherent, I have managed to write TWO PAGES of my dissertation.

I know right.

To be fair (though I have a feeling my supervisor would be less than sympathetic to any of these reasons), quite a considerable margin of my time has been taken up with constructing flow diagrams of rugby world cup probabilities, and writing short poems in iambic pentameter* about how stressed I am**.

But, now that it seems that NZ will be out at the semis (Joke! Joke! Don't shoot me!) and nobody has ever read Keats (and only seen the movie cos of Fanny Brawne, ding DONG!), it seems to me to be about time to finish up in Dunedin and move on out into the worrrld. Get a job in public health. A lovely socially-acceptable same-sex relationship (ideally involving a great deal of interior decorating and home-made preserves). A six pack like Jillian Michaels. All very likely occurrences. (Sarcasm here is variable according to political persuasion; I try to cater to all masteries of ironic cynicism. You hipsters. I have a bike, too. And one time I bought organic shampoo. It made my hair smell like like SBW's armpit in Ramadan (dead lemons mixed with rexona, for the curious) and clump in an interestingly vertical yet aesthetically displeasing manner).
(I also want to learn to spell occurrences without spellcheck, that is up there on the wish list, just beneath unpasteurised cheese and rhyming better.)

Babe, amiright. I would be fat anyday to put on gym shorts and be abused by her.

Anyhow;
[brief sojourn into apathetic politics.]

Do other people worry about these things?

I mean, not cheese so much. The future. Do you worry that you may not have matching sofa cushions one day? Or that you will never own a home? I am somewhere between the two. Unfortunately, I also acknowledge that it is not only what I do that will make me who I become; it is where I came from and the people I (and my family) know. I have been a little occupied, you could say. I'd like to do something about it. Explain to people that they are all part of a larger functioning society, and what is paid back comes full circle. But I will have to muster my thoughts somewhat. Cut down on Glee time. And maybe read something not containing "pooled relative risks were controlled for intra-examiner measurement error and eighty-three other adjustments, rendering the secondary analysis completely worthless haha shame you had to read 30 pages to figure this out, loser postgrad". Before I can figure out exactly WHAT is wrong (if anything) with the world.

[Over now. Well done. Continue.]

To conclude; I get to go in a plane on Tuesday. I am very, very excited.

Some people hate planes (David. Hysterical*** woman off Bridesmaids. Terrorists (I assume, from the evidence.) It is safe to say I do not. In fact, I get so excited by planes that one time Dad seriously offered me codeine in order that he would not have to play eye spy with me one more time. Eye spy (in the sky) is often difficult once we get beyond the regulars of W is for wandering albatross ("you did not!" "Dad! They fly more than 100,000km/year! They obviously move a hell of a lot faster than you can see, it's not my fault you're old and decrepit, one point for me. Hah!"), S is for slipstream, and C is for circulating air generating differential  lift.

I absolutely LOVE looking out the window. (I always request a window seat, and if anyone takes it I just look at them. Like this. Until they move. Heh.)

I ADORE free coffee! Even though it is very shitty and requires addition of three tiny sugar packets and UHT milk (fondly reminiscent of the time I accidentally ate melted spatula off the stove-top because I thought it was just old cheese.) and also makes me have to pee. Which I love as well! The hilarious noise! Vacuum-cleaner loo!

I TOTALLY get off on (inappropriate? Too late.) landing. So exciting! I know (from PHSI102, which I passed. I know physics gets all up in your grill disproving magic but I swear to the Higgs boson they were just impressed by my patronus. (It is a bear. Just in case you were wondering. One of those sunbears they have in Wellington Zoo that look like cuddly little snugglebuddies but would rather eat your kneecap than watch Gossip Girl with you. I assume. (Dear androgynous outmoded primitive self-help system, I want a bear. I will call her fluffypants and take her jogging and yes, maybe she will eat Jack Russells but I will kick her bone-filled poo off the path afterwards and give tearful ex-pet owners a stolen airline mint each.)) that planes stay up coz of like, the wind goes faster underneath than above? But still, YOU ARE IN THE AIR ON NOTHING! Awesome, right.

And I think this sums up nicely exactly what points I have been trying to make!

1) Tennis is fun. But do not play the day after you play squash unless you want to have to chase balls down Opoho hill for 20 minutes. Hannah, one day I will beat you. (Dad: you; I probably never will.)

1a) I want a job. (Employ me. I am fun and can make pina coladas. Fact.) But, I would like a bear more.

4) Cheese is the best thing ever. (Yeah really? Typical. And yes it is. I would totally rather have sexy cheese than cheesy sex. (This sounds vaguely unhygienic also.))

16) The end. Have a nice day.



*why do people not know things. It mystifies me.

**Hemm heeeemmmm:


Iambic pentameter thesis.

I did receive a mail that said to me


"I do believe the page has not been writ"


I hit reply "I fear it will not be...

complete before the date that was foretold."


My lecturer then sent another mail

"if you do not hand in on time; you fail."

I now return, from net to word, to try...

and type some words. Against my fate I rail.

***THIS is proper usage of hysterical. Thank you.

Cake, Caffeine, and Bookshelfporn

Hello. 

How are you? 

I made some kind of a flow chart because I should be studying today. It kinda sums up my life right now. 

I hope you're excited about pirates, cowboys, and vikings.

Maybe tomorrow I will get some study done.

LOVE

Liz Tritops

Hipsters, dinosaurs, and pencils. (with 75% less dinosaur)

A short poem entitled "Are you calling me a hipster?"

...but...but... It is ME!
How can this be?
I've never thought myself a hipster,
but now, I worry,
that my op-shopped clothes,
not of poverty bode,
but of deliberate anti-fashion,
calculated disinterest in the "mode".

My liking for pencils
and long rambling (poe)ms,
my pensive diaries
and retro headphones.
My Tolstoy, my Kafka,
my copy of "out of africa"
my penguin classics library
and (not really) ironic love of Bridget Jones.

It's clear that this category
was designed with me in mind
(I even have a compost,
and write rebuttals in, average, rhyme)

But hear me, you people,
before you condemn me.
We're the way of the future
and although I'm condescending,

and judgmental, quite often,
on your choices of clothes
your appalling taste in music
("subjectivity" is not a word I know)

The world needs us! At least I think so...
White kids from the 'burbs
we re-invented social conscience,
choose to distinguish ourselves from the herd.

We like banjos! They are fun!
Tweed pants! Suit everyone!
Old movies, new photos,
black coffee, vegan samosas,

milky tea! democrats!
greenhouses! (not gases),
Music made in sheds!
Ironic hats!

So!
I do ride a bike
I choose eggs from happy hens
But if given the choice, dear jury,
I'd do it all again.

A feminist NEVER spills her drink.

Today I was thinking about feminism.
(cos I just read Caitlin Moran; like Germaine Greer with a sense of humour and also more of a babe).

More specifically, I was thinking about how awesome it would be if this happened.

I would buy this woman a drink.
(And then possibly try sleep with her.
But only if she let me cos she is obviously a self-empowered woman.
And also would kick me in the ovaries if I crossed that thin line between admiration and inappropriate touching.)


Also, on a vaguely unrelated note, this morning I went to the supermarket and bought bandaids and tampons.
Checkout guy: "Anything else?"
Me: "Hmmm, na. I think this should about cover it."

GOOD.

Peace out homos.
Ruby.

Nothing to be afreud of.

Kudos Jasper Fforde.

Today I was reading on the way to school, and tripped over and fell in a grave (I was walking through the cemetary).

Awkward.

My friend asked me (on our run yesterday. My first run in 2 months. I would probably have died except I'm not entirely sure what my parents would say if if their favourite daughter [you know it, puffin-face] had to have written on her death certificate "cause of death: alcohol and adipose tissue. Also chips". Possibly it would be something along the lines of... Can we get a refund? We have receipts covering the last hideously expensive 23 years.) if it is ok to get drunk in graveyards.
I said well, people in Mosgiel get drunk all the time.
Boom.
(But seriously. No joke. One time I was stuck there. FOR AN HOUR PEOPLE! I was nine months and three minutes away from obtaining a stroller, taking my shoes off, and opening that vivid lid.)

Have a lovely day you special people.
(Especially you, Liz).
Ciao
Ruby

The unholy trinity

Recently I have been very stressed.
So I made this cartoon.
It seems to have helped slightly more than Glee and slightly less than tennis.
Have a nice day.
Ruby.

I Like Marsupials and Naked Cartoon Characters

Marsupials are supersweet. They have pouches.
Here are some of my favourite marsupials:

- Koala

- Bandicoot (mostly coz of a little dude named Crash. I like it how he spins like a tornado and destroys shit. I don't think other marsupials can do this?)

Hey, Crash. Where's ya shirt?

I love how cartoon characters dance to the beat of their own drums re: appropriate attire. Look at Crash! He's half dressed, and it's ok. Sonic only wears gloves and shoes. Badass. Squidward Quincy Tentacles doesn't wear pants, and the mice from Cinderella get to be fully naked (despite being in charge of making Cinderella's dress. Ironic or humbling?)

I'm confused. When is it alright not to wear pants?

I have a theory on Mickey Mouse (no shirt) and Donald Duck's (no pants) decision:

Mickey has a huge cock so he has to wear trousers, whereas Donald's is probably oddly positioned, small, and masked by his duck fur. Also, he couldn't get his webbed feet through most pants anyway. He would probably have to get them tailor-made, and who even knows if their are tailors in Duckburg. The poor little guy was banned in Finland for not wearing pants.

Going for the casual 'tie-only' approach, like Yogi Bear, is a secret life goal of mine. I feel like the tie is what makes him smarter than the average bear.

The only thing that trumps being half-dressed or tie-only is being able to wear pajamas all the time. I would trade in everything to be either Alvin, Prof. Farnsworth, or one of the Bananas in Pajamas. Not only do B1 and B2 get to be in pajamas, they also get to run down stairs, and they live on Cuddles Avenue. Nice. I bet it's cuddly there.

Back to marsupials.
I also like:

- Pygmy possum (I think anything in a pygmy version is ridiculous. Especially pygmy people. Be short in style.)

'Yo! I'm DeShawn, and these are ma mates Tyrone,
DeAndre and Jamal. We're short because we have evolved
to adapt to the low UV light levels in the rainforest. WIN'

- Wallaroo (it would be better if it were a hybrid as a result of a wallaby rooting a kangaroo. But no.)

Imagine for a minute that you have a pouch. You get to give birth to a micro-baby, then just chuck it inside your pouch. When it's ready, it can just jump out and hop back in.  When there's no joey inside, you could store your things there.
Also, female marsupials have two lateral vaginas, and the males have a double-pronged penis.

That's all.

Much love,

Liz
xoxo

Guest blog: the traumatic childhood of a troubled pooer.

Welcome, Alex! Nice to have you here with us for the third in our series of why our privileged upbringings still managed to traumatise us sufficiently. Pull up a seat. Have a beer. (Oooo sorry nope looks like I drank the last one! Have a soy milk.) Get nice and comfy now, and start your story. Good.

Ruby. 

Alright. First entry for your ass (Ruby), 

Alex is my name, and wishing I could retract statements is my game. 

Good. 

My childhood, as interesting as ALL of it was, here are a few stories that shall we say have stuck with me.

Why I hate pooing in public.

First of all here’s a picture of when I went paraponting in the French Alps when I was 9. Same holiday we also walked through the Alps from France to Italy. How pleasant.

Ok, why I hate pooing in public. It was year 4, I’d nipped to the toilet during class (probably during PE because I hate that class) and “I decided to go for what would be one of the more eventful shits of my life,” (Inbetweeners quote, check). I can just hear it now, the dreaded noise (I was obviously too young to know the toilet-paper-down-to-silence-the-plop-trick). I need not repeat the potential onomatopoeias that can be used to describe the inevitable sounds one hears during this very personal moment. 

Anyway, what followed next was not a satisfying relief of a quiet solitary bowel movement but the interruption by two girls (lets call them Gert and Kim) who felt compelled to say “Ewwww, that must be Alex”. Really, REALLY! I immediately panicked and pulled my feet above the line of the bottom of the cubicle and waited until they had left. My life was over, everyone was going to know that I poo (girls don’t poo right?) and worst of all make a hideous, echoing sound when I do it.

A week later it occurred to me that Gert and Kim didn’t really know for certain it was me who did the poo. I mean after all I waited for them to leave (it didn’t occur to my 8 year old brain that they saw me walk into the cubicle and I was the only other person in the toilet at the time). I had just been gifted with some new school shoes by my mother (big ups) and so I thought just to really cover my tracks and shift the focus off me (which, looking back they probably would’ve forgotten that same afternoon, whereas the dreaded incidence still haunts me) I would casually give them a reason to think it wasn’t me in the toilet at the time. 

Genius! 

How wrong I was, and how what I said to them only emphasized more that it was me, the girl that plopped.  After assembly the following week I went up Gert and Kim (who were on ‘collecting hymn book duty’) and without any pleasantries (hello or otherwise) I proceeded to say to them, “It can’t have been me in the toilet; I’ve got different shoes”. 

At which point the girls looked at me confused and I then realised I just placed myself at the scene of the crime, I’d given away my potentially anonymous identity and put a huge ‘I poo loud’ sign above my head.

Only last year did I begin to conger up the courage to do a number two in public, it’s a slow process but I’m getting better at it. The toilets in the link by the museum entrance are becoming quite a regular spot for me. In third form camp (4 days) I didn’t poo the whole time. What up. Never underestimate the power of a little, seemingly insignificant event in one’s childhood. Word.

Moving on to lighter childhood memories.

It seemed logical that the video player should act as a letterbox. I decided to post lots and lots of pens and other really hard-to-get-out objects to some unknown recipient.

My sister and I used to dress up as the deputy principal of our primary school and knock on the front door of the house pretending that we were in trouble.

Once, I went to pick my dog up from her boyfriend’s house, but the owner wasn’t home so I just thought I’d give Bonnie a pat through the letterbox and the BOYF (Fred) bit my hand. Good.

At the end.

Here’s a question for you all. When does childhood end? Surely its different for everyone.

I think mine ended sometime during my first year at high school (11 years) in England when a girl the year above me came to me with her continuous problems, one of which was that she was pregnant. Good, what advice does an 11 year old give, I can’t remember but I think it was something of the lines of get an abortion and stop smoking. Oh and hearing about that girl that shoved an alco-pop up her vagina in front of some boys. Good.

The end,

Alex Retractive

Angry People in the Rain

I quite like rain. For some reason, other people don't. I will probably never understand why. Word on the street is that it can be wet...

Because I like rain but no one else does, I get so much pleasure from seeing angry people outside.  All of a sudden there's countless amounts of disgruntled people for me to watch, or in this case, be creepy and take photos of.

This is the same cyclist that abused me the other day.
If you see him round, set a booby trap.

I wish I got her face...she was so pissed!
I find the umbrella...ironic.

This dog was outside the post office.
I think he's just sad 'coz he has to wait in the rain.

This dude has a green shirt on. Wait...it has 'GREEN' in
white print! What does it mean??!!

Ma Fave!

Children apparently don't like being rained on either...

LOL

Lollipop man #1 (Quite angry)

Lollipop man #2 (Very angry) Well...this was awkward. He saw me.
Maybe he wanted me to STOP? I took this awesome photo of his face
 and then he yells 'Oi! What the fuck are you doing?' At that point
I decided to call it a day. 

Here is a wet cat:

Bye kids.

I think you're all ok.

From Leeeeeez. 

Daniel Bennett: Please find me some angry Nebraskans in the rain. 

 

My Childhood (Was not as interesting as Ruby's)

Ruby has written about her childhood. I thought it was high time I spun a few yarns about mine. Recently I turned 22, and recently I also decided it's so much more awesome being a kid. Here are my reasons why:

Oregon Trail and Other Silly Games:

Effing awesome game. If you're pissed at your family, name all the characters after them, feed them meager rations and watch them get cholera.

I thought this guy kinda looked like a pedophile.

Who stops hunting when there's a massive fuck-off bison.
Bison = more bang for your buck.
Rabbits = little shits.

NEVER 'caulk the wagon and float it'. 

I also wasted countless hours playing Holiday Lemmings and Load Runner. Both highly sadistic games I feel.

Tree Huts and Forts: 


When you're bored and it's raining, build a fort. When you're bored and it's not raining, play in the tree hut. I still really like tree huts, and when I'm a multi-millionaire I will have an sweet as tree hut or five that I will rent out to like minded people.

When it's so nice outside, and my comrades think to themselves:
 'I wish I were a squirrel',  I can offer them a place in my awesome
tree hut and they will be a step closer to that dream. 

Achieving Sweet Fuck All:

This is what progress for progress sake looks like:

Me being awesome. Age: 2-ish (maybe?)
Not much has changed.

Lego:

Lego, like vikings, is one of the awesome things that comes from Scandinavia.

Hey! It's an impossible staircase. How impossible!

Here is a Nazi death camp. Ironic, or humbling?

I have the imagination of an earthworm (see 'Art'). So whenever I played with lego I would just play by the rules and follow the instructions. I loved the pirate stuff. You get all the sweet shet about pirates (weapons, flags, monkeys, parrots, missing limbs, and sharks) without the bad bits (scurvy, alcoholism, and unattractive wenches). I always wanted the badass pirate ship, but Mother and Father never delivered. 

The toy I always wanted but never got.
My birthday is on May the 23rd.

Not getting the pirate ship has been one of the major problems I have had to deal with in my life.

Art

One of the best things about being a little person was the consistent encouragement to play with crayons, paint, Oobleck etc. Most kids create with reckless abandon. I struggled to paint the most basic of pictures.

I would stand for 20 minutes watching other kids paint houses and people and cats. I would paint lines of dots. 

Drawing by me - Circa 1993. 

Drawing by more normal child - Circa 1993

Jayde Fleet: Hopefully I have forced you to read this. Please psycho-analyse me. 

The Crayon Incident

This one time when I was three, I had an accident with a crayon. Because I didn't draw with crayons like other children, I decided to stick it up my nose instead. It was wedged so far up there that no one could see it. I few weeks later my parents noticed a rank smell which seemed to follow me everywhere. The crayon was rotting and that was the only reason they realised it was there, and it was subsequently removed. I also used to fall asleep on the toilet. Many times. I was a smart child. 

That is all. 

Much love

Liz Triceratops

Moderate ruminations on a morning researching.

It's a sunny day up in Wellington, and I'm ruminating about things. Not, actually ruminating. Though I would if I could. How handy would that be? "Wouuuuhhp think I have a little snack down here somewhere... Sandwich, take two!" Even rabbits have it sorted; they can re-eat their own poo (I learned this from reading Watership Down. Also that rabbits are vicious little bastards and are all named after plants; you better watch out if you're trapped down a warren with Viper's Bugloss, just saying.) All we humans get is two-minute noodles and cup-a-soup (do not try tell me these are not previously digested food products).

Anyhow! Birds are squawking in rubbish bins; small children have had large floppy hats forced down around their tiny, handle-like ears; and the wind is whistling through the exposed downpipies and ex-soviet concrete corrugations of Wellington Hospital in a chirpy and exceptionally brisk manner. ("Chirpy and "brisk"; I imagine a well-kempt grandma with a perfectly draped shawl stopping off at a farmers' market in east Auckland for two apples and a small loaf of artisan bread, before stepping elegantly back into her mini and fwooshing back along the country roads to tea, tai chi and maybe a little Wimbledon on tv) and I am thinking about what I am doing (not much) and why (not sure) and how (not very effectively) and really, what is the point of being here, at the library, ON A HOLIDAY! It outrages me. Abit.

I have successfully read through one journal paper, and even made relevant and thoughtful (complete illegibility being a well-known mark of scientific acumen) comments in red pen. It is now third coffee time (being 11am. This is actually not very bad at all. People (who drink coffee. A requirement for being one) are either extreme and unabashed coffee drinkers, maintaining a solid 80bpm and twitchy hands from 8am til the bar closes; or trying to cut down (irritable and twitchy until 10am, when they cave under the influence, then asleep in the brain after 3pm and useful only for napping, heterosexual sex, and golf)). In terms of coffee, I am a moderate extremist. My extremities are extremely moderated. No. My extremes are. My moderation is extreme. I'm extremely moderate. Fuckit. Off to get coffee.

(It was shit coffee. Again. Over the course of this week I will compose a vitriolic poem dedicated to purchasing coffee from the med school cafe. It will be entitled "Fine, you bastards, take my three dollars, Fuel is three minutes walk away along the corridor watched over by the lady in charge of requisitioning medical supplies and my utter fear of her gaze combined with my (non-denominational) hatred of spending my (subjectively) hard-earned money will cause me to, once again, patronise your cafe". I patronise often.)

This brain narcolepsy plaguing me today has been possibly induced by the imminent prospect of having to one day find a job in public health (every year of my life seems to better qualify me to be a government employee), but more probably by the sideways rain coming past the window. Sideways! The only reason it's hitting the ground is that the wind forces it into buildings so hard it bounces back and creates an interference pattern. Seriously. There is a huge flow of it to the north, then a smaller flow coming south again after bouncing off the hospital. It's quite impressive. I will make a diagram.

Figure one: the buildings in Wellington often interfered with the progress of the horizontal humidity.

So, why am I here? Last week, I was a builder. Well, a labourer. On a building site. I had earmuffs, a tiny hammer and some gloves (after my mum came to the building site and abused the boss for not meeting health and safety standards when she saw I wasn't wearing any. He took me aside and said "Jesus Christ Ruby, I would ban her from the site, but she brings us hot cross buns. So wear some f***ing gloves!"). I carried things up and down hills, swept things, made coffee, and opened the beers on friday afternoon. And it was lovely. But not something I think I could do for the rest of my life (mostly because I am only 15cm taller than a piece of gib-board). Which is why I will sit here for the rest of my holiday, reading long, boring, and probably irrelevant papers written thirty years ago by people with impossible-to-pronounce names, and staring out the window at the sideways rain and nicer cafes, dreaming little dreams about pushing paper and having a really low-carbon-emissions bike.

Figure two: twitter's foray into online dating was brief (if exciting).

And just to finish off, this Sunday (afternoon, of course), I'll be heading down to the Hutt river, if anyone cares to join? I'll be the one sitting with arms wide open.

Cheerio.*
Ruby.


*required by law to be at least 49% animal flesh and 1% red food colouring. Most authentically served with tomato sauce. Delicious boiled or deep-fried. For maximum diabetes, enjoy with a cup of orange fanta and a party hat today.

Sneans, Backpacks and Nice Teeth

Warning: Contains more generalisations than you can shake a stick at; these may or may not amount to racism?)

It's time to tackle the real issues. This is high-brow. This is the kind of insightful writing that you have been waiting for.
Gracias a Wikipedia, I learnt that the United States is a hell of a lot more productive than my humble homeland (New Zealand). They are the fourth most productive country in the world (per capita), and us Kiwis are stuck at number 18, sandwiched in between Spain and Iceland. We all know that Spanish productivity at 2pm is a direct result of a hearty lunch which could feed 20 African children, followed by nap. Iceland is plagued with vikings, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and the highest Coca Cola consumption in the world. What does New Zealand have to answer for? Well...probably ALOT.

Productivity happening in Christchurch, New Zealand

More importantly, how the hell did the USA get to number four?
I have a theory.

1. One word. Sneans. If you are American and you haven't worn sneans, feel free to call me out. Yes, the dreaded combination of sneakers and jeans. Some people like to call them jeakers. While I don't find the use of sneans to be aesthetically pleasing, it does have it's benefits.
a) You can easily participate in most activities that may spontaneously call for your ACTION. Such as running away from rapists and jumping just that little bit higher should you need to reach something in an irritably high location.
b) Thanks to the jeans, you have leg protection, comfort, and durability.
c) I guess you can still get laid with sneans, just so long as your partner is into it. Otherwise, GAMEOVER.

If this guy didn't have sneans, he would be cold and unproductive;
he may have even slipped over. Thank God for tread.

3. Americans love backpacks. Fine by me. The more things you can carry, the more things you can get done (this increases exponentially).

Just think of all the amazing things this little
guy is gonna do today.

4. Nice teeth and infectious smiles. With this epic combination, you will get shit done, simply because you are irresistible. Right?

5. Flannel is better than regular cotton garments because it feels softer to the touch. Cotton is less flammable than other materials (it is easier to get things done when you are not on fire). It is also moisture-wicking and made of natural material. Cotton is farmed in the States, and because Americans demand flannel, they are helping their friends in Arkansas and Georgia (who are hopefully also wearing flannel) to be more productive.

6. Beards. Americans have nice ones.

I have to go now.
Bye
From Liz