Where are you now, when I need you?

The Dude and I are heading west today for some melancholic hikes on the moors and gazing out to sea with furrowed brows type action.

Actually we plan to sit around on the sofa in matching tracksuits, drinking red wine straight from the bottle, watching Britney Spears videos, pulling bongs, stuffing our bloated bodies with rice crackers and maybe belching a little. Could life be any sweeter? Only if it contained aspartame, man.

So, the moral of this story is, no blogging for a week. CAN YOU LIVE WITHOUT ME, DEVOTED READERS (yeah, I know you're out there, in your thousands, MILLIONS, possibly even GAZILLIONS, you're just somehow evading the watchful eye of Sitemeter. Oh yes, you think you're clever, but I am on to you LIKE A FOX, my friends.)

I will totally be back soon though to update everyone on the fine details of my glamorous lifestyle. I just need a break from the paparazzi, man. Why won't they just let me and K-Fed live our lives in peace? We're people too you know.


Um. So...like, later dudes.

xoxo nora

The end of the affair

I, mister nora, of the Slovenly Pit of Mutual Filth, do solemnly swear that never again, not even in the pits of alcoholic slothfulness, will I purchase alcoholic products from the Northcote Wine Monkey.

I swear not to believe the Wine Monkey when he says the wine is “Good, yes that’s a good wine, very good, very good. It has medals, see, it’s good.”

I swear not to smile at the Wine Monkey as he slurps cash from my credit card so that he can keep himself in sweaty shirts, garlic, aging hookers and dirty Bulgarian vodka.

I swear that not even in the midst of detoxifying desperation will I ever again buy and drink bottles of “$18.99! Is good!” liquor, liquor that any right thinking person would use to dissolve the battered bodies of murder victims in a steel bath while smoking a cigar and chuckling to oneself in a quietly sinister fashion.

I swear that next time I am thirsty, I will make like a fox straight to Liquorland. Even if it does mean walking an extra 500 metres. IN THE RAIN.

I swear on my mother’s grave, on Jarvis Cocker’s pants, on Vladimir Motherfucking Nabakov, I swear that I will not continue to support the filthy wine merchandising of the filthy Northcote Wine Monkey and the filthy bat’s piss he insists on selling me at outrageously filthy prices.


Fuck you, Northcote Wine Monkey. I may be a lousy lazy drunk, and you may run the nearest bottlo, but I’ve had enough. You’ve pushed me too far.

You and me, Northcote Wine Monkey: it’s over.


xoxo nora

The hair in there is square as well

You know it's my birthday soon.

I am turning one of the following: -7, 7, 17, 27, 37, 47, 57, 67, 77, 87 or 92.

I was going to put "97" but dude, I know that would never fool any of youse. As if I am gonna live that long with my "Wild and Crazy" partying lifestyle!

(Exhibit A: it's a typical Wednesday afternoon, the beige sky falling like dust over the silent suburbs. mister nora stares at the computer and asks herself, 'it is time for another cup of "Not Wine"?' She's still wearing her dressing gown, and has the ghostly, vacant look of a girl who's stayed up late to catch the Channel Ten Late News. 'I gotta stop this madness before it kills me', she thinks, pulling the crocheted blanket tighter around her knees. 'A woman my age should be watching ABC news at 7pm.' Oh, but will she ever learn to age gracefully? Who knows, man, who knows.)

My life should totally be XXX rated right now; IMAGINE IF THE KIDDIES SAW THIS SHIT AND TRIED IT AT HOME? The moral fibre of the nation would be turning from wool/silk blend to 70% polyester overnight, no fucking kidding.

So anywayyy, back to my birthday. My star sign is cancer (totally the best ever: you get associations with pubic lice and terminal illness: TOP THAT, you fuckin libran/leo/sagi/cap/fishy/tauran/etc cunts), and I've been looking to the skies for career advice. Apparently jobs that suit cancerians are:

Cook, dietician, farmer, fisherperson, gardener, genealogist, historian, builder, hotel worker, landowner, lifeguard, manufacturer, merchant, nutritionist, non-profit founder or manager, plumber, rancher, sailor.


So basically my future goes like this:

I start reading about like, the dead (all of them), and during my research I take a particular interest in the dead who are related to me, and discover that I am totally in line to inherit a farm from some far flung dead great-great-cousin-uncle-whatever. When I move in to my new digs at the dinky little farmhouse however I find out the toilet is totally not flushing, but when I try to fix it I instead cause a flood, which might phase a non-cancerian but doesn't worry me because with my superb handyman skills I build a damn to like, slow the flow. To celebrate my prowess with tools I go for a boat ride with my dearest tool, The Dude, and when The Dude falls out of the boat (or I push him), I totally dive in and save his life, BECAUSE I AM HEROIC and also like swimming (I am a crab/have crabs, afterall). While in the water I catch some fishes, which I cook up according to the latest modern scientific health advice and then because I am "Jesus-esque" in my work with the loaves and fishes etc, I have to start the "Feeding The Peoples with The Fish" Foundation just to get rid of all the fucking fish. I get a bit jack of working with the fishes however, seeing as I am a vegetarian, so I decide to throw it all in and fulfill my lifelong dream of working in a seedy Queensland hotel, which doubles as a drug factory, but it's so poorly managed (by me) that we go bust, and I get busted for poor management (also for making drugs), and sent off to the clink where I whittle away my final days planting gardenias etc and herding prison cattle (the cows will never fucking tell me what they did to get put in the slammer; I suspect lesbianism/unnatural sexual relations etc). Then I die.

Oh my god I have so much to look forward to. My frown has totally turned, if not upside down, at the very least at right angles.

xoxo nora

blogging fast and loose

oh my god so i was sitting in my house today drinking like 203102840 cups of tea and reading about how to deduct your inputs from your franks or some such shit and wishing i had a fucking panadol and maybe eating too much not chicken,

ASIDE: fuck have you ever tried not chicken IT'S TASTIER THAN ACTUAL CHICKEN, and as the dude pointed out to me, we are pretty fucking lucky round these parts because EVERYTHING IN OUR HOUSE IS NOT CHICKEN, WE HAVE A HOUSE MADE OF NOT CHICKEN. rest of you dudes probably have to put up with actual chicken, maybe you even think you're pretty fucking fancy with your 'actual chicken breakfast bar/sofabed/outdoor decking' etc, well guess what brothers, apart from our many not chicken appliances, the dude and me we have an 'actual cow chaise lounge' in our house, yep WHEN VEGANS ARE KING WE WILL BE FIRST AGAINST THE WALL.

....where was i? oh yeah, i was drinking cups of tea, or as i like to call it, "NOT WINE", and doing some serious for shit studying the knowledge like it's nobody's business, like come september I am going to be the official "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MOST OVERQUALIFIED CUNT ON THE BLOCK", HAH! i will also know quite a lot about big brother season 6, some say too much, but it's all paying off because i have qualified for ANOTHER JOB INTERVIEW;

"WAITS UNTIL EXCITED WHOOPING ETC QUIETENS DOWN"

for a job i sooooooooooooooooooooooooo do not dream of getting. nonetheless have started spending my impending megasalary; i'm definitely the kind of girl to count my notchickens before they're hatched; like WHAT IF THEY DIE IN CHILDBIRTH AND WE DON'T KNOW HOW MANY LITTLE NOTCHICKEN GRAVES TO DIG.

"hee hee"

did i mention my head hurts?

and the word on the street is that (unlike not chicken) "not wine" is not as good as "actual wine", BOO to that shit man.

sorry, again, i know. WHO'S A BAD BLOGGER? (see below)

xoxox nora <--below

Beefy snacks I've known and loved.

I am currently biting off my own head (for real, like the papers are publishing pictures with headlines in bold font, yeah, maybe even capitalization, ‘monsieur nora mange sa propre tête, oui! AUCUN BADINER! Ou est la baguette! J’adore fromage!’ Even physicists/magicians can’t explain it, so don’t ask me, dudes. Je ne parle francais, MERDE!).

Why? WHY? WHY? MISTER NORA/DELILAH?

I’ll tell ya. I have just realized I was so busy reading about Californian Copper Syndicates et al that I forgot to attend the World Meat Congress 2006. It was just up the fuckin road in Brisbayyyno too, I COULD HAVE WALKED THERE (if I had legs, shoes, spinal cord, etc). There is no way I will be voted on to the International Meat Secretariat with this sort of lousy "failure of early warning systems" and or "poor management skills" attitude. Fuck those Meat dudes and their "SURPRISE CONFERENCE!" obsession. Fuck em.

Anyhow just though I’d share my grief: NOW IT’S YOURS TOO.

xoxo nora

Wow them with your bubbly personality.

This week I attended the “job interview” of 2006. To set the scene, picture mister nora, in a suit [of human hair, and some other threads], in an office, shaking hands, maybe twitching a little.

Anyhow, the interview starts, they ask me some totally crazy shit such as “what are your strengths?” and “why do you want to work for us?” etc, man, where do they come up with this stuff? Normally in this situation I would be pretty nervous, like, my whole worth as a person [est. $17.52] was being assessed by some wacky dudes from HR [WHAT IS WITH HR DUDES; WHY MUST THEY SMILE LIKE SHARKS/ASK QUESTIONS/CONTACT MY REFERENCES? Like, just CHILL OUT, dudes, woah.]. This time, though, I was CONFIDENT LIKE A FOX.

You see, I had a super powerful secret weapon on my side. And it’s time to get excited, friends, because out of the pure golden kindness of my charred and filthy heart, today, I am going to share my secret with YOU!

When you are in a job interview situation, CURE YOUR ANXIETY in one simple move:
IMAGINE YOU ARE ROCKY.
- Do this by PUNCHING THE AIR, and maybe also your INTERVIEWER.
- Make sure you are SWEATING PROFUSELY, and have EATEN SOME RAW EGGS.
- SNARL, and ensure your NOSE LOOKS BROKEN.
- FINALLY, the finishing touch, without which you cannot be Rocky:

AS YOU ENTER THE INTERVIEW ROOM, YOUR SOUNDTRACK MUST BE “EYE OF THE TIGER”; I REPEAT, “EYE OF THE TIGER”.

Preferably “Eye of the Tiger” will be performed by a “Quality Pop/Rock Cover Band with Influences Including Bryan Adams, P Diddy, Dave Mathews Band, Tortoise, Queen, Frank Sinatra and various Hardcore Metal Acts”. If this is too hard to arrange (DO YOU REALLY WANT THIS JOB?), another option is to simply play the song on repeat in your head as you stride in to BLOW THEM AWAY WITH YOUR POWERFUL ROCKY MOVES.


They are sure to hire you.



No doubt about it.




Just remember, dudes: it’s all in the eye of the tiger.



xoxo nora