Smackie Onassis Fails At Pets

I've had a bunch of pets in my time, all spread over the first twenty or so years of my life. My first was a little budgie named Pepino (according to google, this is the name of a plant native to South America. I am not sure why my parents would have chosen that name). After that, a parade of other budgies followed. I'm not sure how many there were in total, but we never had more than two at a time. Apart from the budgies there was my cat, Tigger, who was the most significant man in my life until he died of kidney failure and broke my heart. There was also a goldfish named Chips and a "black ghost knife fish", whose name escapes me, probably because he died after about fifteen minutes. The most beloved of all my pets was Tigger, by far, but he wasn't necessarily the most memorable.

When my sixteenth birthday was approaching, my friends asked me what I wanted for a present.

"An axelotl," I remember replying definitively. I'm not sure where I got the idea to ask for a Mexican walking fish for my birthday, or why I was so insistent. I think I just thought it was a funny thing to ask for. I don't think that I honestly expected anyone to get me one. But, whenever one of my friends came back and asked me what I wanted, serious answers only this time, I insisted that I wanted an axelotl.

A bunch of my friends turned up at my party that year together, carrying what they had pooled together to get me. An axelotl, complete with a tank and a whole bunch of other accessories. As in, like, things to feed it, not like, tiny boots and hats and stuff. Although that would have been pretty cool too. The important thing is that they actually humoured me to the extent of buying me a freaking axelotl. I was over the moon. The look on my parents' faces when they saw the tank reminded me that I hadn't thought to inform them about the possibility of receiving a living creature as a gift, but too bad for them, I guess. I do remember getting a request from them before my seventeenth birthday, and then for a few more birthdays after that, to the tune of "Please don't ask for anything alive this year".

In the meantime though, I had Pablo, my axelotl. He was the best. He spent the entire day swimming around with a stupid fishy grin on his face, unintentionally teasing the cat and eating meal worms (the fact that I had to keep those in our fridge was another thing my mother loved, let me tell you that much).

But, when the summertime came, Pablo really started feeling the heat. He got pretty sick and spent most of his days sort of floating around miserably. He wouldn't eat his meal worms. I was concerned for his wellbeing.

The bad news eventually came when I was being picked up from a regional drama camp. I remember the conversation vividly.

Dr Dad: Smackie, I've got some good news and some bad news.

Smackie: Give it to me straight, doc.*

Dr Dad: The bad news is that Pablo died.

Smackie: Ok. I thought that might be it.

Dr Dad: The good news is we kept his body in the fridge for you.

Smackie: Th... thanks.

At first I thought it might be some kind of joke. You know how doctors always seem to develop morbid senses of humour. But no, when we arrived home there was a little foil package next to the marmalade that contained the deceased body of my pet. To this day, I have no idea what they expected me to do with it, or why they thought I would actually want them to do this. Maybe it was all just revenge for the meal worms. However, because I was so flabbergasted about the whole thing, I did what any rational person would.

I left it there. I pretended that the whole unfortunate incident had never happened, and that the little foil parcel contained nothing but some kind of mystery leftover.

After a good month or so, Dr Dad approached me and asked me if I minded if they disposed of Pablo's body. I told him a bit too quickly that I was ok with that.

-Smackie Onassis

*This isn't actually what I said. But then again, my name's not actually Smackie Onassis, either.

Ride The Meattrain

Today when Meattrain got home from work, he told me that there were three things he did at work today.

1. Read a facebook message I had sent him re: fisting.

2. Read my blog

3. Start his own blog

He was a bit distraught that the name 'Ride The Meat Train' was taken (WHO IS USING THIS NAME? WHO?), but then settled on Let The Meat Cake.

I am glad he has adopted this nickname.

-Smackie Onassis

What's In My Bookmarks Bar?

 - Wikipedia page for Richard von Krafft-Ebing's "Psychopathia Sexualis"

 - Ebay store selling reasonably-priced mandolins

 - A pug licking the screen (so adorable)

 - Leviticus Jewelry, an online store that sells just the best pirate-ship ring

 - Costume Dogs

 - World Of Solitaire

 - RhymeZone, a really great rhyming dictionary

The Joys Of Hard Rubbish

It's Hard Rubbish time in our neighbourhood right now. This seems to be a phenomenon that is known by different names all over, but remains the same wherever you go. For those who know it as something different, I'm talking about the glorious few days where everyone puts the stuff they want to get rid off out onto the curb and then everyone else goes around scavenging. Kinda like a garage sale, only everything is free, and taking it is technically illegal. It's great.

I've been going for a lot of walks these last few days. I haven't really been intending to come home with a bunch of junk, but I do anyway. I have found too many things that have been just too hard to resist.

The best, by far, has been the old-school hospital wheelchair that I found. It was only a block away, surrounded by a bunch of normal chairs. At first Vegatrain didn't believe that it was a "wheelchair", but rather just a chair on wheels. I assure you, it's a wheelchair. The proof came when we lifted up the cushion and saw that it had a toilet-bowl shaped hole in the seat, for doing one's business. We are thinking about putting it in the courtyard, with a bucket under the hole and a sign that says "Guest Bathroom".

I also came home the other day with a pair of perfectly good rollerblades. I don't understand, are wheels out of fashion now? Either way, I don't care, because free rollerblades. I will be the girl who rolls from place to place, blading my troubles away.

Naturally, I have now been keeping my eyes peeled (wow, I only just realised how awful of an expression that is. I don't know in what sense eyes are supposed to be peeled, but I want no part of it) for excellent finds. The problem is, I occasionally get a bit too excited and find myself thinking 'Wow, someone's throwing out a VESPA!' before realising that they have, in fact, just parked their Vespa next to the curb, near the hard rubbish.

This led me to wonder if anyone has ever actually stolen someone's vehicle in this manner. Which led me to wondering if this would be an acceptable defense in court. Most people would say that stupidity is probably not a valid legal defense. They would be wrong. Well actually, no, they would be right, but that doesn't mean people haven't attempted to use it.

You may remember, a few years ago, there were two Australians working in a ski resort in Canada. These two geniuses attempted to hold up a bank, forgetting that they were still wearing their work uniforms, complete with name tags. One of these guys had actually been a patient of my father's for some time in the past. When the legal trouble began, his mother went and saw Dr Dad and asked if he could write her a medical certificate. She apparently thought that it was worth a shot to see if she could get an expert medical opinion proclaiming that her son was so certifiably stupid that it was actually a medical condition. She thought this might help his case. Dr Dad did not agree to help her out.

Good on her for trying, though. I like to see creativity in the legal system.

-Smackie Onassis

While I'm On The Subject

Here are some of my ideas for niche porns (I must warn you, some of these are pretty tasteless):

Hot Bisexual Teens Read English Poetry:

Does the thought of rhyming couplets get you going? Does the thought of long, winding phrases about trees make you start to sweat? Does the idea of a hot bisexual teen with perfect diction really sound like your cup of tea? Look no further than 'Hot Bisexual Teens Read English Poetry', coming soon to an internet near you.

Highly Questionable Terminal Illness Porn:

A barely legal blonde gets breast cancer ("the sexiest cancer"). Feeling sorry for the busty teen, an all-lesbian crew of nurses decide to find out her dying wish and then grant it to her. It turns out that she wants nothing more than to have sex with local amateur film sensation Derek Studly. He grants her dying wish and a whole lot more...

Hot Man On Train Action:

Did you collect trains when you were younger? Did the feel of the smooth, cold metal give you a twitch that you couldn't quite explain? Watch as four men revisit their childhood collections with an added gusto, before guiding each other's "trains" into their "stations". The hot, train-related action will be sure to get your engine steaming!

Ok, I am done. Before anyone starts with the whole 'You should be ashamed of yourself' deal, don't worry, I already am.

-Smackie Onassis

On The Entertainment Value of Fetish Porn

Most people who know me are probably aware that I totally dig fetishes. I don't get aroused by them, or use them for any kind of sexual purpose at all really, but holy hell, I can't get enough of them. I find them both hysterically funny and intensely fascinating.

I'm about to start a psychology degree by correspondence. While the whole subject of psychology is interesting to me, I'm hoping to eventually do post-graduate research. Specifically in the area of sexual fetishes. Because, man, what even the hell. When someone has a fetish for swallowing another person whole and then inflating to twice their size before pooing them out (This is a real fetish. There are whole forums on the internet dedicated to it.), I just... I mean, just why... how, even? I want to know.

Last night, Meattrain brought up a fetish that he finds particularly funny, the one that involves getting your jollies by cooking and eating someone. Or, alternatively being cooked and eaten yourself. In a simpler time, there might have been one or two cases of these kinds of people ever finding each other and actually carrying out these acts. Then in the first week of the internet, there was ten of them*. I had, of course, heard a lot about this fetish, and followed the legal battles that always ensued when the courts were all "Hey! You murdered that dude and ate him!" and got the strange and unexpected response of "Yeah, but he was totally gagging for it."

Meattrain asked me if I had actually seen any of their porn. I hadn't, because unlike my housemate, I have a soul. However, when he described just how funny it was, I started getting pretty curious. See, it's very hard to make acceptable porn for a fetish that involves cooking and eating another human being. You can't have sex with someone you've just skinned and boiled, I guess. The way these guys have dealt with this is to make soft-core porn that consists of attractive women, trussed up and covered with food. Meattrain described one image he particularly liked where a women was done up to look like a turkey, complete with a banana sticking into her "lady bits". Naturally, his main problem with this image was the fact that you can't put banana with turkey because it would plain old ruin the flavour. He suggested a parsnip instead, although Vegatrain thought a carrot would do the job nicely.

After this discussion, Vegatrain and I went into the courtyard for a tea-break, and I couldn't help mentioning how I excited I was to look up this website. Vegatrain responded by burping loudly, explaining that with my talking about porn he wanted to give the worst possible impression of us to any neighbours who might be listening. I agreed and played it up to the best of my ability.

Smackie: I am sure looking forward to a large serving of porns tonight.

Vegatrain: The women in porn are often looking forward to large servings themselves!

I didn't actually end up looking up those images, as my computer promptly decided it didn't want anything to do with it and refused to let me do anything but listen to twee pop and play pokemon like a good little girl.

But, if you're that curious, I looked it up just now and it is pretty disturbing.

Warning: That link is not safe for work, unless you work in a place called Kannibal Kitchen, which I'm pretty sure doesn't exist at all, so why would you lie like that?

-Smackie Onassis

*not verifiable (i.e. I made that up)

Lake George

Lake George is located in rural NSW. I drove past it once a year, almost every year of my childhood as my family headed to Perisher Blue for the annual family skiing trip. It is, hands down, my favourite lake. Most people, I am aware, will name a favourite colour, favourite song, favourite weather pattern etc, but will look at you funny if you start talking about your favourite inland body of water. I (most likely) wouldn't even have a preference myself, if it weren't for Lake George.

It's not that it's a pretty lake, or a productive one. I'm sure it is both those things, but that's not why I like it. I like it for the mystery attached to it. See, Lake George is somewhat renowned for it's mysterious and entirely un-lake-like tendency to move around. At some point, the locals who were using the lake to fish noticed that every now and then they would wake up and the whole lake would be several kilometres further away than it was the previous day. After another couple of days, they would wake up and it would be back where it was, pretending nothing had happened.

It was my favourite driving game when we would pass Lake George, to see how close to the road it would be. Some years, it would be right there, lapping against the shore. Others we could barely see it, glistening in the distance. While the most accepted theory is something to do with the drainage of the water, people are still not quite sure what causes the lake to move quite so much, or so often. I have taken the time to do my own research, and have come up with the most logical possible explanation.

There is this old fisherman who lives near Lake George. He is a poor man, and the only boat he could ever afford was a rickety old wooden thing, beloved by the local termites. Still, he loves fishing and takes his old boat out whenever he has the chance. However, many years ago he was out in the middle of the lake, doing his thing, and his boat sprung a leak. Naturally, he panicked. He was too weak to swim, and unless he could block up the leak, he would drown for sure. The only thing he had in his boat that he could possibly use was a box of Shamwows (he got an advance prototype from a friend ok). So, he plugged up the leak and started hurriedly directing his boat towards the shore. What happened was, the Shamwow was so incredibly absorbent (I mean, have you SEEN that infomercial? Those things are amazing) that by the time he got to shore, he had absorbed almost the entire lake. Hoping no-one would notice, he just wrung the thing out a few kilometres down the road and went on his merry way. Not realising the impact of his actions, he continues to go out on that old, rickety boat, plugging up his leaks with a Shamwow, and unintentionally shifting entire bodies of water. 

Mystery solved. Eat my deductions, Jonathan Creek!

-Smackie Onassis

Adventures Update: Apocalypse Party

I probably wouldn't have gone to Apocalypse Party if it hadn't sounded like such a uniquely awesome idea. Originally, it was planned to simulate a drill for any kind of impending apocalypse. These guys who had some property out in the country decided to invite a bunch of people to kick back in the wilderness for a weekend, eat tinned food and sleep in cars, pretending the world as we know it had come to an end. The plan was also to crank a stereo, drink and pretty much just party the whole time.

The location was shrouded in secrecy. The only directions given were some very exact map co-ordinates. Anyone who wanted to come was supposed to enter them into Google Maps and work it out from there. When Buglustre told us she was driving, Vegatrain and I jumped at the chance for a road trip. In our haste, we had both completely forgotten to make elaborately obscure mix cds for the trip, but Buglustre had us covered. The all-ska playlist that resulted reminded me of being on tour back when I was in the band, driving from gig to gig and listening to similar mixes. It was a nice thing to be reminded of.

The drive itself was mostly uneventful, apart from the indignant terror I experienced when I realised the woman in the car next to us was watching a TV in the dashboard of her car WHILE SHE WAS DRIVING. DON'T DO THAT. I hate it so much when people break the road rules, or act in a generally careless manner while driving. Safety first, everyone. Safety first. Buglustre managed to bring me back to the conversation by telling me about her recent experiences mixing vodka with spumante, although that had the unpleasant side-effect of making my liver recoil in terror. Soon enough though, we were bumping around on the dirt road that led to our post-apocalyptic destination.

At first it didn't look like much: a group of people standing around, talking and laughing. Like every other party, only, in the middle of nowhere. Kind of like the parties I went to when I was sixteen, held in a friend's back paddock so we wouldn't get caught underage drinking.

But when I saw the main set-up, I was pretty impressed. In the hollow of a hill was the ruined remains of an old cottage. This is where the party was set up. Old couches, probably collected from the side of the road, were scattered around a fairly impressive stereo system. I'm pretty sure there was an old boat amongst the rubbish. The hosts struggled to string up some lights before it started getting dark. A guy with a camera was eating from a large tin of beans. The view was spectacular. 

The outhouse was pretty authentic, too, although a lot of the girls didn't seem to look at that as a good thing. I first needed to use it at dusk, just when it was starting to become difficult to see (the boys were still struggling with the lights). It was basically an aluminium box. Some girls offered to hold the door shut for me, because apparently that had been a problem so far.

"Wow, just like solitary confinement," I said, to no-one in particular as I stepped inside. The girls laughed awkwardly and then ignored me. Inside, it was pitch black. The only light filtering in was through tiny pin-pricks on the walls, which created little dots that danced on the back of the door. I had to be careful where I stepped, as the heels of my boots kept finding their way into holes in the floor. I quite liked it, really.

Although I didn't know many people there, it seemed to be one of those places where just hearing a one-line conversational snippet was enough.

"It's too cold for an orgy, everything would shrink"

"Hey, did you hear? I parted the red sea."

There was this outgoing goth girl there, who seemed to take a real liking to me. I was introducing myself to the group by teaching them some dances that I (or friends of mine) have created over the years. The 'These Are My Feet' dance (consisting mainly of gesturing wildly to your feet in time to the music) was the true winner of the night, although I felt that the 'Psychology Cat' didn't get the recognition it deserved. I soon found myself relying on a dance I termed the 'Existential Crisis', which consisted of me bobbing awkwardly along to the music, feeling self-conscious and contemplating my own existence. I moved off the dance-floor and found myself talking to people.

Me: You know, this reminds me a lot of 'Tomorrow, When The War Began'.

Goth Girl: What?

Me: You know, the books?

Goth Girl: I don't read.

Me: Oh.

Goth Girl: Except for necrophiliac porn.

Me: Oh.

I enjoyed the time I spent there, but for me, the party was over when they started playing Mumford and Sons. I hate Mumford and Sons. I hate them. It is not that they are a bad band, they are okay. But because folk is one of my favourite genres, I have listened to enough bands to know that they are well, kind of bland and unoriginal. It wouldn't bother me so much, except that somehow everyone seems to think they are these amazing indie-folk superstars, pioneers in music, Triple J Hottest 100 Number One!

They aren't. Seriously. For anyone who thinks Mumford and Sons are in anyway an original or interesting band, listen to Local Natives. Listen to Noah and the Whale. Listen to Andrew Bird. Listen to The Middle East, who were playing alongside Blandford and Sons at Laneway this year and got not even a tiny percentage of the recognition that they got. That's what annoys me. It's the fact that there are these amazing bands slogging it out for peanuts, and then someone releases a commercial tune labelled as 'indie-folk' and everyone thinks its revolutionary. It's not.

Anyway, back at the party. At one point the stereo was turned off for a haphazard band to start playing. I was hopeful, but then quickly disappointed. I guess they didn't really think they needed to rehearse together beforehand, then when they got there realised that they didn't know what they were doing and packed up after about three songs. I guess in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, you're not exactly spoilt for musical choice.

When the band packed up, a lone saxophonist took their place, and just started jamming. He was really good, but by this stage I had well and truly recoiled into my cocoon of introversion, and hearing a saxophone just made me miss the instruments my parents still have yet to send over. This is the longest I have ever gone without playing music regularly, and I am craving it so badly. Just one hit from a nice piano, please. One sax riff, I'm desperate. I'd settle for a glockenspiel at this stage.

Feeling totally old and boring, I ended up napping in Buglustre's car for awhile until she was ready to go. I did have a good time, and I'm glad I went, but I guess I'm a bit too fond of pre-apocalyptic comforts to make a habit of such adventures.

-Smackie Onassis

An Article In Favour Of An Ant-Based Radioactive Superhero

I'm going to put it out there: ants are probably the most underrated awesome creatures on the entire planet. Now that Meattrain has a job being a chemistry dude at a uranium mine, we have spent some time discussing how likely it is that he is going to be bitten by some kind of radioactive creature and develop super-powers. We also discussed, if he were to set this up on purpose (“hypothetically”), which would be the coolest creature to give him his powers. Overwhelmingly, everyone seemed to agree that you couldn’t go past the classic, the spider, because those things are pretty hardcore I guess. And it’s true, for sheer murdering prowess, you can’t go past the spider.

“But what about ants?” I suggested, being instantly laughed back into silence. In a world where a spider can kill you in an hour without even getting up from its tiny spider couch, ants don’t seem like leaders in the creepy-crawly kingdom. But come on guys, give them a chance.

There was a friday night a while ago where my good friend Buglustre was at a party. She didn’t really know anyone there and, meanwhile, I was at home reading about ants (and loving it, I assure you). What sort of ended up happening was that I would text her something interesting I had learned about ants, and she would use it as a conversation starter. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very good move. Those people still probably remember her as ‘that weird ant girl’. 

But seriously, how are people not interested in ants? In my opinion, there is just so much potential for a radioactive ant-based superhero that would TOTALLY kick arse. Here is why:

First of all, ants can lift up to twenty times their body weight. That's an obvious superhero advantage. There's the amazing speed as well. If an ant were a dude he would be able to run as fast as a racehorse. Are you listening to this, Meattrain? Can your fancy spiderman run that fast?

But these aren’t the most amazing things about ants. Not even close. Have you EVEN HEARD about the Paraponera, a totally bitchin South American ant? Basically, this ant can hurt you so, so badly, and it is not even radioactive yet. Yet.* 

And, yes, I know about Ant-Man, but that guy was totally not living up to his full potential as an ant representative in the superhero world. As far as I'm aware, he couldn't do much except shrink down to tiny size, which is kind of the opposite of a superpower, really. 'Hey Crime, I am going to thwart you by making myself conveniently sized for you to totally squish me with your shoe'.

Get back to me on that one, Comic Books.

-Smackie Onassis

*For more amazingly hardcore ant facts, consult your local Cracked article, such as this one: http://www.cracked.com/article_15816_the-5-most-horrifying-bugs-in-world.html

Nana Flapper

My parents were always very interested in geneology. I remember them being fascinated by various attempts at family trees, and stories about family members who had in someway achieved notoriety (such as how my grandfather's sister was apparently a contemporary of D.H. Lawrence. She allegedly probably had relations with him at some point.)

As soon as I was old enough to understand genetics, I started asking questions. I couldn't figure out how, if my heritage was entirely made up of anglo-saxons, I had been born with dark, curly hair and a generally very mediterranean complexion. All I need to do is think about turning on a fluorescent light and I turn brown. That's not very English.

Naturally, the answer I always expected was something along the lines of, "We bought you from some travelling gypsies when you were a baby", but funnily enough that was never the answer I received. They usually told me that I was just, well, a complete genetic throwback. When I asked where those genes even came from to begin with, they would usually tell me the story of Nana Flapper.

Nana Flapper was my favourite relative, hands down, ever. She was excellent. She was my grandmother's mother, and had the balls to be a single mother in the 1920s. Not only that, but she never revealed to a single soul who the father was. It was her most closely guarded secret, one she kept to her deathbed, and probably the answer to my mystery genes.

I always liked Nana Flapper stories. One oft-repeated piece of family mythology tells the story of how she won her first house on a poker game. My mother always insisted that this was probably an exaggeration, but I can't think of anything that story could have evolved from that is not already pretty excellent. I totally believed it, too. I saw the way she could pick a horse, right up into her nineties. It was rare that she wouldn't come out ahead, which always seemed like an amazing act of rebellion towards my Christian parents.

Nana Flapper was a smart talker, too. It is a very grounding experience when, as a teenager, you are sassed by your 90-something great grandmother. I loved it. She was also probably a big influence in encouraging me to write, as well. If any of us ever complained about having nothing to do, she would come back with "What do mean there's nothing to do? You've got a brain haven't you? Write a book!'. And I would.

Nana Flapper died some years ago, at the grand old age of 97. It was always reassuring to me, that someone like her could live to such an old age and get away with it. I have spent some time imagining who my mystery great-grandfather was, and why his identity was such a secret. Perhaps he was some kind of dashing Spanish superhero. That would explain why we can never know who he was.

-Smackie Onassis