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March 2004
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TTTRARaARAAAAIaaiiiiNNN SSTOtooooRRRIeiieeeeeSSSSSS ## 3!!
By Michael - 8:08 AM, Tuesday, March 30, 2004 - 3 Comments |
Episode 3
They're all playing, but nobody makes eye contact. Some of them pretend to stare out the window. Some of them pretend to read their books or the daily paper. But beneath this superficial disinterest, all of them are impatiently awaiting their turn.
The train rounds a small corner. The empty gatorade bottle begins rolling to the left side of the carriage. A small Asian businessman casually turns to the next page of the Herald Sun to detract from his footwork. He gently clips the edge of the bottle, shifting its rolling momentum 90 degrees, and with a feigned leg cross, rolls it to the right of the carriage.
Now it's Uni Student Girl's turn. She feels something at her foot, lifts her highlighter from her law notes, foolishly uses up her one "Look at the bottle" card, and with all the subtlety of an elephant in heat, kicks the bottle to her friend's feet.
The amateur pass does not go unnoticed by Yuppie Web Designer Guy on the left who, while looking out the window the entire time (although I suspect he was more interested at the reflection), shuffles his feet in preparation of the attack.
The train approaches Richmond station and begins to brake. Before Uni Student Girl's friend can make his move, the gatorade bottle takes on a life of its own, scuttling toward the empty end of the carriage.
No man's land.
The game, it would seem, was over.
THE END... ? |
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TTTTRaAAAAAINnnnnnn STTTTOOOORRriiiiIIEEEESSSSS EPPiiSSOODDEEE (****#2****
By Michael - 7:28 AM, Tuesday, March 16, 2004 - 6 Comments
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 Today's Train Stories episode brought to you by Uncle Misogynist.
Look girls, it's not that I hate you, well, okay, I do, but that's beside the point, and seriously, if you're going to insist on paying for something with loose change, would it kill you to get the correct amount ready while you're waiting in that line for five minutes instead of waiting to be told how much it is, then fishing around in your palm, purse, and pockets for the exact amount in the smallest change possible so you can save having to carry around a couple of coins in your pocket? It's really not that complicated.
Guys like loose change. We collect it. Nobody quite knows why it happens, but every male desk is generally peppered with the most meagre coins of local currency. We doesn't quite know what to do with them, so usually, when desk space is at a low, we scoop them off the desk with one hand (along with all the dust they've accumulated - two birds with one stone!) and put them into a jar, small cardboard box, tin, drawer, or old pair of socks which we then use to hit things with. Hitting things is fun.
Oh sure, there's a national change shortage in Australia I hear you say. Well the only change shortage I'm seeing is the reluctance of females to change their payment habit.
Food for thought.
Especially for that girl that made me miss my train because she fumbled around with her god damn change.
It won't be so funny when I hit you in the head with my loose change sock. |
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Moving
By Tim - 7:52 PM, Monday, March 15, 2004 - 6 Comments
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So I made an announcement what seems like an eternity ago that I was going to move, that my life sucked, wah wah wah.
Anyway, the move went okay in the end. Sure it involved two movings guys who did Movieoke the whole time (and seemed to favour Guido impressions too) and the following conversation with the eastern European cleaner:
Him: "So - you two are twins, yes?"
Me: "Yep, sure are, why do you ask?"
Him: "I had a twin. Had."
Me: "Oh really, what happened?"
Him: "He was shot in the head. Bam. I felt it for three months afterwards."
Me: "My god, that's terrible."
Him: "You have no idea. One day you will."
But yes, I'm in the new place, if not quite settled yet, have trashed it already. I've discovered a few things about Toowong since I moved in though.
1) Toowong has bogans.
2) Toowong has trolleys.
3) Lots of trolleys.
4) I can now walk to the Regatta easily.
5) Did I mention Bogans?
6) I've moved onto a street which is used by rat-runners. For 20 minutes, very early in the morning, hoons use it to practice their racing lines.
7) My neighbour is a fruitcake.
8) A townhouse is actually not any more private than a unit.
etc.
Anyway, it's working out. Sort of. Miles likes it, and that's what counts, yeah? |
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Yes I know this is totally inappropriate.
By Miles - 8:43 AM, Wednesday, March 10, 2004 - 6 Comments
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 You know, maybe it's the sad delirium of being unemployed and incredibly bored talking, but after all the war documentaries I've seen lately I've been starting to think that maybe Tim's idea of invading New Zealand isn't such a bad idea after all.
I mean, why not go the whole way and adopt all the Nazi party's ideologies while we're at it? We could wear those natty SS uniforms, I would have some actual use for my german, and we could finally show those New Zealanders who the "true aryans" are. And just think of the possibilities! Instead of them bludging on our dole on Bondi Beach, we'll have them in slave labour camps in the Yarra Valley, making sweet delicious wine for us glorius conquerers.
See you on the beaches of New Zealand meine Kameraden. |
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Destruction
By Adam - 4:49 AM, Friday, March 5, 2004 - 12 Comments
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The pressure was unbearable. I couldn't breathe. It was as though the pain of a million tonnes pressing down on my psyche was slowly, agonisingly, parting me from reality. With every ounce of strength I forced the next inhalation and braced myself for the inevitable: Wave after wave of nausea, unstoppable, inescapable. All I could do was close my eyes and hope against hope that it would go away; that the soul-destroying pain, the blinding agony, would wash over me just once. Just once. Maybe then, and only then, would I have the vaguest chance of thrusting myself from the viscid depths of despair and grabbing hold of anything that might pull me from this wretched horror, this black force of nihilism, that threatened to swallow me whole and erode the very core of my being. That's the last time I watch The Hothouse. Fuck it.
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TRRRAaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiN STOOoooorIEEEEESSSS!!!!!!!!!!!
By Michael - 4:28 PM, Monday, March 1, 2004 - 11 Comments
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 Episode 1
I'm waiting for the Sandringham train. I do it every day. Waiting. For the Sandringham train. It's how I get home. Fuck the trams around Melbourne. The new ones are shit. They have no seats, and expect people to find tacky yellow frames and white plastic to be attractive, in a tastless, graduate Industrial Engineer kind of way. I scramble down to the station. Okay, so I wasn't waiting, I was late. But anyway, the train is about to leave, beeping away, the doors threatning me with their imminent closing. I jump aboard. It commences moving in the wrong direction. Fucking spoon - it's headed for Spencer St Station - wrong direction. I contemplate my retardation as the 3 minute train trip progresses. I get off at Spencer St, and am elated to find a Whitman's Sampler of hot chicks around me. I should come here more often. Of note, a particularly stunning Indian babe wearing a tight white top and a miniskirt draws my gaze. Right as my brain is at the "Fucking hell... that's a bit of alright" stage, she looks directly at me. I'm staring at her arse. I slowly raise my eyes to hers, and realise I've been staring at her for far too long. Her look says: "Mmm, find me attractive eh? Nice... (long pause) You're still staring. It's polite not to stare. (long pause) Seriously, you fucking sicko. Stop staring." It is at this point I begin to think I should pretend I was looking at something beyond her. I look at a bin just past her, as if it were performing a once-only special of Kylie Minogue's 'Body Language' wearing nothing but a torn garbage bag. She calls my bluff and looks at the bin. Nothing's going on over there. It's dead space. I climb aboard the train, which takes me back to Flinders. She decides to make it ultra awkward by sitting opposite me. Doing my best to look distracted, I pull out my rivoting travel book, "The Manager's Handbook". Oh good! This chaper is devoted to Manufacturing Manager! What crazy shenanigans will the Manufacturing Manager be up to this time? Making sure raw materials are supplied on time and on budget? Or ensuring backups are readily available should the machinery break down? Angry Anderson or someone just like him (but much, much fatter) sits down next to me (ie. on me). His presence reminds me of Oshira-Sama, the Radish god from Spirited Away. All he can do is sit there, breathing on me, his disgusting stench basting itself upon my skin. He begins to take interest in my book and subtly turns his head to read it, his leather jacket informing the entire carriage of his movements. Fucker. Finally we arrive at Flinders St station and I get off to wait for the right fucking train. And there weren't any copies of Mx (the free daily newspaper). Fucking shit. (But then the right train came on time and I pretty much just got on it and got home without incident after that. But I won't tell you about that part because it doesn't really make for good reading. Don't read that last sentence.)
Stay tuned for the next rivoting episode of....
TTTTRAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIINNNNNNNN SSSSTTTOOOORRRIIIIIIIIIIEeeeeeeeeesSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |
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Wow.
By Miles - 9:21 AM, Monday, March 1, 2004 - 4 Comments
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 We ARE getting lazy aren't we? Only two posts for February, three for January... at this rate we're only going to get 30 this year! Back in the day we used to do much more than that in a month. Oh the shame! I blame the the forum.
Oh well, hopefully this picture will amuse you and distract you from the complete lack of substance to this post.
Maybe my current lack of employment will mean good things for the front page. Then again, maybe not! :) |
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