Archives, eh
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# He thinks he's people.
the mere fact that they were not realistic representations of human beings did not mean that they could not be considered people.
You heard it here first. Australian Supreme Court judge deems that, amongst other things:
- Monkeys are people
- Your L70, Tier 7.25 bedecked Human Pally is a person and that Cow Shaman who ganked you last week should be charged with murder.
- So should the handful of borderline sociopaths that I personally know that have trapped a Sim inside a pool or a room with no doors. Murderers!
- The sundry Barbie and Brats dolls I have – in fits of juvenile behaviour – arranged into lewd poses should have me charged with sexual abuse because, damn it, they are people too!
- Oh, and amateurishly drawn Simpsons’s characters depicted engaging in sex acts is child pornography, because Bart & Lisa & Maggie are people.
I wouldn’t – as the saying goes – piss on this Alan John McEwan guy if he was on fire but there is no crime here. No child was abused and arguing that it will “fuel demand for material that does involve the abuse of children” is a first step down a very short path into absurdity.
I’m going to be very interested in what the social conservative whack-jobs have to say to this one. On the one hand they are only a couple of outrages away from being readily parodied as believing ‘bathing your own child == child pornography’. On the other they love to depict all animal rights activists as believing your dog should be given citizenship. I suppose they’ll just be intellectually dishonest and pretend the judge didn’t say the line I quoted.
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# I should start a career as a screenwriter, develop a show about the Wild Monkey
Tonight there will be weeping, and gnashing of teeth. Actually, I am pretty sure the shirt rending and foot stamping has already commenced at school, but she won’t have as much fun with the antics until she gets home and unleashes it upon me.
Anyway; DISASTER!!
CALAMITY!!
HAIR FRIZZ!!
There was earlier this year some concern that the Big Dance Concert that tWM will no doubt be a lead performer in would clash with that other highlight of the social calendar, the Year Ten Formal. And before I go on, allow me to metaphorically chase young’uns off my lawn by pointing out that in my day, we didn’t have formals for Year Ten. And in my day there was a much larger percentage of the year actually leaving school that year for apprenticships, jobs and assorted dole-bludgery; thus a Year Ten Formal would have made more sense than it does these days when practically no-one leaves in Year Ten; therefore making the Year Ten Formal just another milestone in the ongoing seppoification of Australia.
Aaaaaanyway, reassurances were sought from the Dance Teacher that the concert was not going to be on the same day as the formal. Relief!
Until now. The school was moved the date of the formal. No, nothing as obvious and sympathy-generating as moving the formal to the date of the concert. No. It has been moved to a friday night, the night of the last class at the dance school before the concert. Upon hearing this, tWM proceeded to run down her phone credit with SMSs to D so angst ridden that Optus called us to complain that there was a sympo-morphic resonance occuring in their systems causing the SMS network to start dressing in black and theatrically running a straight razor across it’s flesh-belly-white wrists.
What a predicament. The school has cruely forced her to decide between the formal and the last dance class. Sure, it’ll be the first class she misses in twelve years of attendance at the dance school, but you’d think this would be a no-brainer, neh? Teenagers, eh!
Oh, and the Friday the formal is moved to? Dec 5th. Same day as the office Christmas party. This may be a good thing; saves me having to explain to all and sundry on the night that there never was any chance of me coming dressed as a Flintstones character.
UPDATE: And because the date moved, the appointment made with the hair dresser a couple of months ago obviously needs to be moved. Can’t be moved. The hair dresser is a family friend who called all of her bookings on the Friday to try and open up a slot, to no avail. And I quote: “I can’t even have one good night!”
