the world needs more lerts

So yawl know that my baby (and in homage to Le Bowski let's call him The Dude) went to the States for three weeks recently, leaving me adrift in a sea of liquor and pussy.

That was totally fine and apart one brief fit of pique about midway through when I might have shined a cat's arsehole or two with his Best Tie and sent a (full) dog's bladder to his parents' house with "Dear mum, please accept this Top Quality Semillion Sauvignon Blanc, love The Dude" scrawled across the front in black nail polish, I actually didn't resent his little holiday whatsoever. I am totally Noble and Good in that way and I have had many men comment that they wish their lady friends were more like me. Anyway.

Since he's been back there's something different about him. It's hard to pinpoint what's wrong but the other night he ejected Sloginski from the laundry without so much as a "hey slug, if you don't stop coming on to the bar lady/talkin that offensive dago russian shit on your portable telephone/eyeing off other slugs' tenticles in the urinal/etc I'm gonna have to kick your ass to Jupiter! achtung!" style warning.

Sloginski was just havin a quiet night with a few pints and a stick mag underneath the washing machine. Like, The Dude was acting like he was just some no name slug off the street. The Dude has also failed to mention the EMPTY VOID that is the bathroom and my heart after the disappearance of Claudie. Not ONCE has he said "hey mister nora where's that six legged floozy who used to stay over drinking all our gin and talking us into late night trips to the pokies?"

I'm beginning to worry that the Amerikins have replaced his thumbs with robot thumbs and that somehow that's destroyed his ability to relate to the bohemian intellectualism of the neighbourhood insects. I've been watching his thumbs while he sleeps and I am almost 100% sure that they are occasionally omitting low frequency Blink 182 tunes.

Anyway, it could just be jetlag, but I will be keeping a Sharp Eye on the situation. Those 'merikins don't know who they're dealin with.


xoxox nora

angry pants

I am Cantankerous like a Goat.

Reasons include:
1. books along the lines of:

• “Become a Boring Arsehole with Concrete Hair and Frightening Teeth Just Like Me in Five Easy Steps!” (Step 1: Lobotomy)
• “How to Get Rich, Retired and Fat on the Backs of Poor Little Tinted Folk Conveniently Located Elsewhere!”
• “Girls, Unless You Follow My Rigid Relationship Manifesto, Your Partner Will Cheat on You FOR SURE (Because You Are Totally Undeserving Of Love)!”

2. Capri pants.

You may wear these if you are 17 years old, you are holidaying in Rome and your name is Audrey Hepburn. You may not wear them if you are middle aged and dumpy and are teaming them with your new gold sandals from Speeds. TAKE THEM OFF. I MEAN IT.

3. Bernard Fanning.

Dude, have a look at your birth certificate. Your name is Bernard Fanning. This in itself means your were Not Destined for Rock n Roll. Your constant attempts to fiddle with the fate dealt out to you by the Powerful Forces of Nature/Your Parents are messing with the great harmony of the universe. Please desist.

4. Anything that happens before 11am.

Except rootin.

xoxox nora

PS dear mister nora,

don’t blog drunk while listening to gram. if you must, please first perform a brief but thorough schmaltzectomy.

kind regards,
mister nora

a land that was nearly forgotten by everyone

He didn't mind that she wasn't very pretty
deep inside his heart he knew she was the only one
oh, but she sure could sing
yeah she sure could sing.


5 Requirements for Listening to Gram:

When listening to Gram, be sure to wear a cowboy hat, aviators, and a cigarette.

When listening to Gram, the sun should be sweet and intense.
(Watch out though, kids: the sun is like a stove, burns you when it's hot.)

When listening to Gram, clink the ice in your drink.

When listening to Gram, bite your lip. Weep softly.

When listening to Gram, your heart: break it.


Your heart must break, or baby, you don't have one.

xoxox nora

Have a Nice Day!

Three things I do not like about Christmas:

1. Polar Bear fur on your cuffs? Like, Santa, that's so 1983 it's not even funny. Get with the PROGRAM, bro!

2. The inevitability of my aunt: CuntFacedShitShapedSpunkBrained Bitch.

3. Angry, sweaty, grit teeth, frazzle haired, short fused: Customers. In my fucking face every fucking day. "I don't know what I want, but uhhh, I know it's green. Can you help me? No? What, are you some kind of fucking retard, huh? Lady? YOU MUST HELP ME. Please. I HAVE A GUN. That's right. Green. I WILL KILL YOU. GET ME THE ITEM."

xoxox nora

PS oh yes, and
4. Little Baby Jesus, and all that he has spawned.

you're nobody until somebody hates you

I've always been a serial monogamist when it comes to my archrivals.

It began with traitorous SN, my best friend in kindergarten who turned against me once she joined the Grade One cool set at our Catholic primary school. Bitch. She was followed in late primary school by TS, a giant Finnish girl, but I can't really remember why I hated her - maybe because she was terrifyingly good looking, and I was at a vulnerable age where I'd only just discovered that the boy who sat next to me in my Sanskrit class has a penis that I might one day want to have a look at.

In years 7 and 8 it was my best friend, who was smart, ugly and mean. Then there was CB in year 10, who looked like a transsexual but who I desperately wanted to be friends with. She was wry and sarcastic and she crushed me like a bug... I exacted my terrible revenge by making faces at her behind her back for the following two years. I showed her, all right.

My current nemesis is someone I work with. She's gorgeous, sweet and capable. I don't believe she's ever sworn at her parents, laddered a stocking or laughed so hard that she accidentally snorted. She's so perfect she's even a perfect nemesis.

Does everyone have a nemesis? I always thought that just like where there is yin there is yang, where there is light there is dark, where there is a coalition of the willing there is an axis of evil, well, I always thought the nemesis thing was universal. After all, they say there's someone out there for everyone.

je suis un merde avec deux pieds et un tete de fromage, non?

I've been feeling bad about my wild accusations against the slug. The unfortunate little creature already has to make it through life looking like a small, sliding turd - I shouldn't exacerbate his misery by bad mouthing him all about town on the basis of nothing more than his Stalinist leanings and fractured grasp of history. Poor kid never made the cut at Box Hill TAFE; how can I expect him to know about perestroika and the fall of the Berlin wall?

Sorry, my oily little comrade. I know you wouldn't hurt Claudie. The little whore is probably off performing show tunes for crackers and cigarettes at the local speakeasy.

NEWSBREAK: today on my way to work I realised that I had, in my haste, clad myself in an outfit that was 60% rural librarian, 30% hippy fuckhead and 10% 14th Century virgin saint. It's the couture of the future, kids, but don't try it at home without sensible adult supervision.

xoxox nora

suspect numero uno

Meet Sloginski:

I'm not sure I trust Sloginski. I keep finding him slithering across the laundry floor in the dead of night. He claims he's just on his way to the 7/11 for Stuyvesants and Pringles, but I know that's just a cover story. The word on the street is that Sloginski likes to imagine he is actually a high level secret agent from the USSR; poor little fella learnt all he knows about international relations from the 1972 edition of Encyclopaedia Brittanica.

I have an troubling feeling that Sloginski was behind the sudden disappearence of Clacky Claudie. Claudie, though mainly a hard drinking dilletante with a penchant for nudity and musical theatre, was nonetheless well known for her fierce interest in politics. I worry that Sloginski discovered her support for lowering taxes and work for the dole, and has had her exiled to Siberia. I've tried to question him about it but he's a sly motherfucker, he just gets all shifty tentacled, looks pointedly at the daddy long legs who lives behind the toilet and says "maybe you should ask Monsieur Octavo about what happened to your little friend, hm?"

Sloggie is messing with my head. I just don't know what to believe, anymore. But I know Claudie is out there, somewhere, and I will not rest until I bring her home. Come back to me, Claudie, come back.

xoxoxox nora

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Show them you're MOTIVATED:

• Aha, Meester Murdoch, you are sly komrade, but you fail to be seeink zat I make to apply for zis skummy job only becauss I dream of infiltratink your filthy organisation of Kapitalizt PigDogz und pretendink to be full of joy at beink exploited und fukked up zee arze by zee sheetleeckink ownerz of zee meanz of produktion, all zee while i be runnink zees mozzerfuckink kompany into zee fuckink ground und maybe if I am gettink very very angry I blow you all away wiz zees leetle kalashnikov I iz stashink in ze leetle briefcaze. Pleeze, you be hirink me, now. Ole!

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xoxox nora

mister nora is going to hell

Dear me, I've been busy as a canteloupe. Racing pigeons night and day sure does take it out of you - and yet I still find the time to respond to your queries! WHO IS A GOOD GIRL? (Jennifer Anniston)


Q. 1: mister nora, did you garner yourself with glorious riches today?
Why, yes I did. I pushed propaganda and whimsy on cunts with credit cards and a forelorn hope of bettering themselves. GO CAPITALISM. Them yuppies/students/psychoanalysts sure do help a girl put brie and Koonunga Hill on the table. (Look at the ends! They meet!) (almost)

Q 1.1: but mister nora, was today not appointed a day of rest by none other than the Good Lord himself?
Why, yes it was. But then the Good Lord himself doesn't have to live in this bleak fucked up godawful wasteland where life's sole consolation is the burning feeling of a plastic shopping bag weighing down your hand like the wretched earth weighs down your black and tortured soul, nosirreebob, I would wager good cash money that the Good Lord does not know the anaesthetising joy of maxing out a carde du credit on a heap of shit he does not want and will not use. AND the Good Lord totally does not have to provide his perpetually hungry fatso pussies with a constant supply of Whiskas and Friskies just to ensure he don't wake up in the small hours with two small but steely jaws clamping down on his fleshiest body parts. So the Good Lord can like fully suck my cock.

Q.1.2: since you mention it, mister nora, do you plan to name your band The Good Lord Can Suck My Cock?
I'm thinkin about it.


Q. 2: mister nora, given the cosmopolitan euro trash lifestyle that you no doubt lead, I wondered if you might have had a meaningless encounter with quasi celebrity or two this weekend?
Why, I'm so glad you asked.

1) I met Bob Brown!!! (no you didn't) Dude. You are so good at calling my bluff. But he sat on the chair that I had recently abandoned in favour of the far more battling and aspirational position of Standing on My Own Two Feet. And that's AS GOOD* as meeting him.

* not actually as good

2) I crossed paths with Jason Stevens
He gave me mysterious urges back when I were just a wee lassie and he were performing Hilarious Antics(TM) on the Late Show. Those days are gone.

3) Alice Garner showed me the money
It wasn't much. But like the whore that I am, I took it.

4) Leunig's missus gave me her telephone number
I called it. I left a message of love, hope and forgiveness. I finished with the words "if you'd like to cancel your order, please call **** ****." I thought that summed up our fleeting and brutal relationship neatly.

5) I met a man called Greg or Graeme or some such shit, who once had a minor role in "Pharlap: The Movie". I AM NOT KIDDING. This guy is FAMOUS AS A FOX. He was the spittin image of Carson from Queer Eye, and looked somewhat like Rod Stewart. He also vaguely resembled the crazy old scientist from Back to the Future. Oh, he is a man of many guises, is Greg/Graeme. Some call him The Chamelon. Others call him Greg/Graeme.


Q.3 mister nora, do you feel like deserting this blogging caper like a hooker with the clap to go make yourself good and drunk as a rat?
My God. Have you been reading my diaries??

xoxoxo nora

if you change your mind, i'm the first in line

It's 1am, you're sauntering through the back streets with some friends, smoking a cigarette. You're feeling breezy. The air is steamy and you're wearing 6 year old thongs from Kmart. Ah, you do love this city.

A man rides up behind you on the footpath. You step aside to let him through, but he slows down alongside you. "Excuse me," he says, looking you over. You smile benevolently. Poor love, is he lost? Does he need directions? How can you be of assistance to this young gentlman cyclist?

"I don't suppose you ladies would like to watch me jerk off?" says the young gentleman cyclist.





What, no you wouldn't? Are you sure? He's very persistent. It's times like these when your potty mouth comes in handy.

Before he rides off into the damp black night, he makes a prediction that should strike fear into your very marrow.

"You," he says, his voice full of foreboding, "you will never have a chance like this again."

Oh, you. Always missing opportunities.

xoxox nora