PMT

Because maybe it's real and maybe it isn't.

I want to eat dinner again, and then

A little bit more after that. I’m fat.

I’m bothered by every damn thing. I sing

Off-key and I can’t hold a thought. I’m short

With children who don’t want abuse, just juice,

And husbands who just want a smile; and while

I’m searching through odd Tupperware, despair

Takes over and I start to cry. But why?

The Ten Commandments

Because perfect scores are for nerds.

I don’t have any other gods (unless you count caffeine);

I haven’t worshipped idols since Matt Dillon at sixteen;

I sometimes shout out “Jesus!” when my hand’s stuck in a door;

I don’t forget the Sabbath, ‘cause the shops all shut at four;

My Mum and Dad are awesome, and I honour them with cake;

I’ve killed some bugs and spiders, (and a pet mouse by mistake);

I don’t commit adultery (but dream of Jason Bourne);

I stole a pint glass once in London, stumbling home at dawn;

I’ve never borne false witness, neither in nor out of court;

The things I covet most are of the chocolate-covered sort;

At following commandments, I don’t think I’ve done too well;

So pass the gin and grease a goat – I’ll see you all in hell.

The Penguin.

Because some ideas won't go away until you feed them some fish.

I really do like penguins. Especially Emperor Penguins. I've felt the urge to visit them, the urge to cuddle them and the urge to shout "WHY DON'T YOU JUST MOVE TO QUEENSLAND?" whenever I see them. But I've never felt the urge to write about them. Until my darling sister, in one of her rare visits to Twitter, popped this out:

And that was enough to get me thinking. Edgar Allan Poe. The Raven. Antarctic. Penguins. BING!

So here, with sincere apologies for mangling a masterpiece for the sake of whimsy, is a Poem about Penguins in the style of Poe.

Every frigid southern winter, as the sea begins to splinter,

Into slowly-creeping daggers frozen hard with icy hoar;

With the sunlight fast abating, penguins’ fancy turns to mating,

They’ve spent all of summer waiting, waiting patiently offshore;

Eating bucketloads of fish and tiny squid and krill offshore,

‘Til they can’t eat anymore.

Paying heed to ancient yearning, every penguin starts returning,

To the patch where they were hatched, like all their ancestors before.

Sometimes waddling, sometimes sliding, every now and then colliding,

Silent instinct gently guiding, guiding thousands with its draw;

Called to trudge a vast ice-desert by its mute, compelling draw;

Like a well-dressed army corps.

When it’s time to start their courting, male birds wander ‘round, consorting,

Strutting past the nubile females as though on a nightclub floor.

With their masterful displaying, they are elegantly saying,

“Hear my trumpeting and braying!” Braying, “Darling, I implore!

“Lie again with me this year and let’s make babies, I implore!”

Quoth each she-bird, simply: “Phwoar”.

When the deed is done and dusted, to each male an egg’s entrusted;

Warmly sheltered in their pouches, kept aloft behind each claw.

While the mother, done with breeding, and her energy receding,

Waddles off for two months’ feeding, feeding, knowing what’s in store.

Gorging gladly for herself and keeping some of it in store,

For her baby’s hungry craw.

As the females are retreating, and the squally snow starts beating

On the backs of stalwart stayers wanting vainly to withdraw;

Shielded snugly and unknowing from the cruel, relentless blowing

Is the precious cargo, growing, growing fast amidst the roar

Of those blasting, biting blizzards. Safely cloistered from the roar

Nearly sixty days and four.

When the chicks break from their coddling and start working on their waddling,

And the fathers’ famished figures are impoverished and raw,

From a distance come parading mothers calling, serenading,

To their once-plump lovers, fading, fading, creaky-boned and sore,

Who in turn will drag their thinning bodies, weary, spent and sore

For the ocean to restore.

So the cycle keeps repeating: parents parting, parents meeting,

Taking turns to forage, feed and keep the babies they adore.

Several months after conceiving, when the families start perceiving,

That they’re old enough for leaving, leaving huddled on the shore,

Chicks remain in crèches, waiting ‘til their folks come back to shore.

Soon the icy shelf will thaw.

Best Australian Blogs 2013

Because I entered a blog competition with the Australian Writers’ Centre.

I have a lot of lovely things,

I never ask for much.

I’ve love and food and sanctuary

And kids’ clean hair to touch.

But there’s one thing I’m lacking

In this state of ample bliss;

So if you wouldn’t mind please,

Could you vote for me in this?

Follow this link and vote for 'There Should Be A Sign'.

Thanks, lovely people. Thanks for reading me. 

The Equation.

Because everything minus God equals everything.

The sun would still rise and the sun would still set.

The oceans would still be enormous and wet.

The waves would still spray

In that nice splashy way.

There’d still be tornadoes and breezes.

Deciduous leaves would still turn brown and drop.

The mountains would still be quite pointy on top;

The glaciers with snow

And the tides’ ebb and flow

Would still be just so without Jesus.

Large beasts would still prey on the sick and the lame.

The number of cats would stay roughly the same.

Terrestrial signs

Of large footprints in lines

Would still show where dinosaurs trod.

There’d still be new species evolving apace

Bananas would fit just as well in your face;

And nipples on guys

Would still be a surprise

Notwithstanding a wise, mighty god.

There’d still be poor people and conflicts and drought;

There’d still be despots who are evil throughout;

And people who heal,

And who give a great deal,

And devote all their efforts to care.

There’d still be small children who suffer and choke,

There’d still be grandfathers knocked down by a stroke.

It won’t change the chances

Of dying from cancers

If nobody answers a prayer.

Freeman-on-the-land

Because contributing to society is so hard.

Money troubles? Bills piling up? Parking fines? Got the government on your back to do stuff you don't really feel like doing?

Never fear! The Freeman On The Land movement is here! 

Become a Freeman On The Land and you can suddenly decide that the government, contracts, banks and the legal process all work differently for you, and you don't owe them anything. Your debts will be cancelled! Your financial responsibilities will be nil! You can tell police officers, magistrates and government departments to shove it! All based on the erroneous and ridiculous idea that governments are corporations; that laws only apply if you consent to them; and that people are contracted to the 'powers that be' unless they send them a letter saying they're not. 

Although it's been around for decades in one form or another, I came across the Freeman On The Land movement in the last couple of months, with thanks to experienced conspiracy theorists like Leon Pittard of Fairdinkum Radio (have a listen - if you can last longer than ten minutes without your jaw dropping open, you're stronger than me) and South Australian parliamentarian Ann Bressington. 

There's an extremely good run-down of the Freeman On The Land movement over at RationalWiki - I recommend it for some well-researched detail and a few hilarious examples of Freemen in the wild - but in a nutshell, followers of the movement believe:

• The government is a corporation, and all citizens are contracted to that corporation
• Each individual consists of a 'legal person', to whom laws, acts and monetary matters apply, and a 'flesh-and-blood human being', who is free and good and lovely and created by God.
• When a birth is registered, the child is effectively an employee of the government corporation, and has agreed to be governed and abide by laws.
• If you write a special kind of letter called a 'Notice of Understanding and Claim of Right' and send it to the Prime Minister or the Queen or Someone In Charge, you can remove your consent to be governed and abide by laws; and separate your legal person from your meat person. 
• Governments and lawmakers use language designed to make people inadvertently subjugate and obligate themselves to corrupt higher powers, but knowing your way around such language can save you from accidentally agreeing to be a government/corporate slave.

I find the whole concept so deliciously and outstandingly ludicrous that I simply had to try and make it rhyme.

I am a Freeman on the land, I wander wild and free;

The laws of corporate governments do not apply to me.

They try to trick all humankind;

So they can have their pockets lined;

The circumstantial evidence is there for all to see.

I am a Freeman on the land, combating the machine;

I signed a piece of paper and I sent it to the Queen.

It details what I understand;

And all the rights that I demand

Effectively, it wipes my slate of obligation clean.

I am a Freeman on the land, I don’t give my consent;

To statutes, acts or laws, or paying tax or fines or rent.

The bastards use their legalese

To try and trip me up with these,

But I use special words to dodge, evade and circumvent.

I am a Freeman on the land, my language is my craft;

Though corporations stalk me, port and starboard, fore and aft;

I say “Sovereign” and “Natural Law”

And “Court De Jour” and “Man of Straw”

And people know I’m free (that is, the ones who haven’t laughed).

I am a Freeman on the land, my name is not my name:

My legal person’s moniker and I are not the same.

What’s on my birth certificate

Is narrow and specific. It

Does not apply to me, despite what courts and judges claim.

I am a Freeman on the land, I want an easy ride;

I wear my social irresponsibility with pride

I won’t lie down and pay my dues

But I will nonchalantly use

The water, roads and hospitals that governments provide. 

Thank you Meryl Dorey

Because she finally did something right.

Yesterday, NSW Health Minister Jillian Skinner introduced suggested amendments to the Health Care Complaints Act to NSW Parliament (Go read Reasonable Hank and Dr Rachie for more thorough treatment). 

In a nutshell, these amendments make it easier for the NSW Health Care Complaints Commission (HCCC) to respond to complaints about dodgy health service providers. Previously, a complaint had to be backed up by evidence that a health service provider had directly affected the care of an individual. If this bill passes, a complaint can be acted upon if the health of an individual is likely to be affected. 

A subtle difference, perhaps, but the wording of the current Act provided a loophole large enough for Meryl Dorey of the Australian Vaccination Network to slide through when she took the HCCC to court last year. And it was precisely that case that prompted the change. 

That's right. Thanks to Ms Dorey and her AVN, the government has taken a lot of notice of how easy it is for "health" "service" providers such as herself to spread misinformation and endanger the health of families without penalty, and it sounds like that's all going to change. 

I'd like to express my gratitude. This one's for you, Meryl.

If you hadn't thrown your toys at the Health Care Complaints Commission;

If you’d not made special pleading your relentless, lifelong mission;

Then our leaders might not know of your intention to mislead;

So thank you, Meryl Dorey. Thank you very much indeed.

If you’d done the thing that public health officials said you ought:

And just changed your site a bit, instead of taking them to court;

Then the legislation wouldn’t need to change the way it’s lettered.

So thank you, Meryl Dorey. We are very much indebted.

If you’d never bitched and moaned ‘bout how the government’s a farce;

If you’d not said Tanya Plibersek was talking out her arse,

Then they might be more inclined to let you do the things you’ve done.

So thank you, Meryl Dorey. Thanks a lot. I owe you one.

If you’d never drawn attention to the way you run your show;

If associates of yours weren’t just as dangerous and low;

Then they wouldn’t soon be answering to summonses and such.

So thank you, Meryl Dorey. Thank you very, very much.

While we're on the topic, go see the good folk at Stop The AVN, without whom there'd be a lot more anti-vax bollocks in the media. Go on. They're not nearly as nasty as Meryl says.

Please don't bite the ambo.

Because someone else is dying.

You're hurt. You're bleeding. You're scared. You're not quite sure what's going on, but you know help is on the way. Just at the point when panic starts knocking on the back of your throbbing and dazzled head, the scene starts pulsating with a startling but reassuring light and some uniformed men and women step into view, calmly and swiftly assessing the situation, asking your name and getting down to the business of making everything better. 

Now there's nothing left for you to do but bite the paramedic on the arm.

This happens. Way too often. I've written about the realities of ambulancing before, but this week, after reading an article in the Coffs Coast Advocate about recent assaults on ambulance officers (six assaults in one area command so far this year), I got cross. And when my husband came home from night shift, yet again completely deflated from spending 12 hours showing up to what most people wouldn't consider an emergency, I thought it was time to write. 

These men and women just want to do the job they're paid for. Without abuse, without people deliberately rorting the system for their own benefit, and without being called out at 3am to treat a bit of a sore foot that started two days ago. You can't punch, swear at, lie to, cheat or waste the time of an ambo* without it taking its toll. So please don't.

Dear Sir, I know a tickly throat can have you feeling low,

And it’s never very pleasant when you stub your little toe,

And that week-old splinter looks a little yucky. Even so,

If it’s midnight, do you think it warrants calling Triple-0?

Dear Ma’am, it must be nice to have a hospital next door,

But when you go out and drink until you’re sprawled upon the floor,

And you call the paramedics to exclaim “My chest is sore!”

Just to get a lift back home for free, that isn’t what they’re for.

Dear friend, I understand that you don’t mean to be a pain,

And attempts to stop compulsions are so often made in vain,

And although you comprehend when calm professionals explain,

You called twice this week, and later on today you’ll call again.

Dear onlookers and mates, it’s good to have you on the case;

To assist your injured loved one at this time and in this place.

Since you called for help, perhaps you’d give the officer some space,

And refrain from shouting “F*CK OFF C*NT!” and head-butting her face?

*...or a police officer, firey, nurse, emergency doctor, social worker, counsellor or other brilliant person who spends their days and nights away from their families looking after you.

Update:
I should probably clarify something, because I don't want people to think that emergency services personnel aren't the right people to call when you're having a difficult time, even if that means you might react evasively or aggressively. Some behaviour is related to medical or mental issues (whether temporary, drug-related, chronic or whatever) and is part and parcel of treating a patient - ambos and cops know that and are trained for it. It would be naive to expect that emergency workers aren't going to face aggression, violence or unpredictable behaviour in their jobs. In short: if you need police, ambulance, rescue or a fire crew, call them. If you don't, let them get on with the job.