HIGH TERROR ALERT

Front page headline of today's local paper concerned a MAJOR MOTHERFUCKING WORLD ISSUE. It's worse than Israel/Palestine; it's bigger than global warming; it's MORE PRESSING EVEN THAN THE CRICKET.



You will have guessed already, I'm sure, but let me spell it out for you:

MARAUDING MOTHERFUCKING PIGEONS ARE STEALING FOOD FROM OUTDOOR TABLES AT LOCAL EATERIES.

CAFE OWNERS ARE IN UPROAR.

As well they should be. The time to hesitate is through: I DECLARE A WAR ON PIGEONS.

Are you with us, or are you with the RATS OF THE SKY?


xoxox nora

Do you know the way to San Jose?

By now, it should be clear to just about everyone that mister nora is a boundingly successful cosmopolitan wit, a firecracker of a woman who spends her long summery days sloping around town making chit chat, drinking peach daiquiris and denouncing reds/towel heads/all variety of unaustrayans at every possible opportunity. This might sound idyllic, but despite fulfilling all my lazy childhood dreams, it turns out that being a boundingly successful cosmopolitan wit is in fact NOT ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE.

The authorities have decided that in order to expose under-serviced rural communities to the thrilling experience of mister nora’s je ne sais quoi, quid pro quo and tinea pedis, mister nora must be posted to WHOOP WHOOP. If you’re not familiar with Whoop Whoop I suggest you purchase a subscription to National Geographic, in which there are many fine and informative articles analyzing the quirky rustic practices of Whoop Whoop locals, which lately include “Plucking Your Monobrow”, “Having Sex with Uncle Ned” and “Catching Typhoid”.

On Sunday, I am off. Out. Gone. Poof. Fini. No more Danny’s Burgers for the likes of me! Clacky Claudie is coming with me, The Dude will soon follow, and I’m leaving Sloginski in charge of the house. Meanwhile I’ve booked the Pussycats in to a meditation and relaxation retreat (for the terminally evil).

So au revoir, steel smelting Melbourne. Salut, North of Nowhere. I will return, but will I be the same woman?

Let's hope not.

xoxo nora

Dude, what colour is my parachute pants?

Since the Beginning of Time, or maybe the Beginning of the Week, I have been having a motherfucking career crisis. As you will know I am a Go Getting Style of Action Woman, and so I recently tackled the MCC Head On. As a result I have come up with a list of potential career options:

WISTFUL ARTISTE

WOMAN WITH SHITLOADS OF CASH

GREAT MESSIAH-ESS WITH NOBLE DEEDS LEADING TO SALVATION OF WORLD, ETC

RECTAL EXAM SIMULATOR FOR MED SCHOOL

A TYPICAL MIDDLE AGED GUY CALLED IAN

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  Please forward recommendations. The drug addled insects are not very fucking helpful in this regard and although The Dude is dutifully interested in my dilemma, lately he has taken to slouching about the house in his aviators, a blue cowboy hat and a pair of frail and elderly underpants, and CALL ME UPTIGHT IF YOU MUST, but I am skeptical about relying on wisdom dispensed by The Man With No Trousers.

  
  
  xoxox nora

Your existential crisis sorted. For FREE.

Last year The Dude and me went to the States and in the depths of Wyoming we found out the answer to a question that has been troubling us for some time:




















Answer: no.

xoxox nora

Just in case you were wondering...

Claudie is lying unconscious under the kitchen table

Sloginski has thrown up in the fruit bowl

The Pussycats are drinking Bloody Marys

Monsieur Octavo has come out of the closet

The Dude is somewhere in Vegas

I am back on The Piss.

xoxox nora

Drugs? NO WAY!

I've been having some down time re the blog, known in more literary circles as "drunk time", but as of today I have had 2 (TWO!) AFDs in a row, and also am now a bona fide Non Smoking Gun. I am good and clean like a morally righteous fox, you bet. I do not even have a butter menthol under my belt (I have heard on the Grapevine that it in fact is Cockey Slang for Ethanol, who would have thought!), nosirreebob, I am facing the Horrible Sludge of Humanity with nothing to shield me but my contact lenses and a glass of diet lime cordial.

And you would never have guessed it, my friends, but the healthy and Incandescently Pure state of my Liver/Lungs/Soul is all thanks to a visit from my friend the Roach!

On Sunday, while Sleeping in a Bed, I was stirred into wakefulness by the gentle touch of a single Claw scratching at my eyelash. The Claw was tapping "mister nora, mister norrrrraaa" out in morse code, which was quite sootheful until it started saying "mister nora is a SNORER", which shook me back to the Terrible School Camp Episode of 1991 (GOD, IT STILL HURTS) and my eyes snapped open like a duck.

CLAUDIE! SITTING ON THE BED! Offering me a cup of DECAFFEINATED TEA!

She had snuck her way in to the house, making a Complete Mockery of our JamesBondVillain-Style Security Network, and it turns out that all these weeks, these months, when I have pictured her lying under the bridge at Flinders Street Station, high on Crack Cocaine and Mortein, when I have pictured her lost and addled and nude and unable to find her way home, little Clacky Claudie, once my greatest Drinking and Stripping Buddy, has been in a CENTRE FOR ROACH REHABILITATION and GENERAL GOOD HEALTH for PESTS OF ALL KINDS.

And now she is back, clean as an iceberg, and she thinks she can lift me up to her level. I am sceptical, but out of Loyalty to our long friendship, I am trying out this "Sobriety" thing for a short time. Sloginski thinks I am a fool, and right now I am inclined to agree with him.

We'll see how things turn out; if by Friday night I have not stopped wanting to Kill Myself, I intend to give Claudie a Bath in my Martini and bring her back to the fold.

xoxo nora

I am drunk As A cnt

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