Valdez Is Coming 2: Burrito Gang Bang

Kiwis have invented many things in the past few hundred years including the bungy jump, frozen meat, the tranquiliser gun, electric fences and the wooden contact lens* (invented in Auckland in 1849, meaning that the Kiwis were both ahead of and behind the times simultaneously**). One thing they didn't invent was sarcasm, though they seem to have discovered it now and are using it like it is going out of fashion.
It appears to be the main form of humour over here, possibly as they seem to say "eh" at the end of everything and you're unsure if they are being sarky or friendly. Recently we saw a prime example of it while stopped at an intersection. There we were, waiting for our chance to turn into the steady stream of traffic with a build up of two cars behind us. As we didn't want to be cut from the wreckage of our car we foolishly decided to wait until there was a decent gap instead of using the established Kiwi methods of either
a) hitting the gas while saying "Jeeeezusfuckingchristtttt!" and relying on the oncoming vehicles to brake in time or
b) (as I saw once in the city) closing your eyes and just letting The Force do the driving.
Anyway, after a good thirty five seconds we still hadn't moved, so the middle aged bloke in the car behind us got out, walked past our car and stepped into the traffic to stop the cars so that we could get out. All the time sarcastically waving us forward and smiling at us with a grin that had more teeth than an entire family in Gipton.
It worked, though, eh.

They offset this apparent sarcasm with politeness. Unlike back in the UK, roadworks seem to be completed to schedule, but even after they are, those responsible for the works put up a sign after completion to say thanks for putting up with the disruption. It makes a hell of a difference as in the UK they don't seem to care if affects you or not. I mean they may not care here, either, but if not they at least pretend that they do.

The locals here at Mission Bay are also a very friendly lot for the most part and you can't meet one of them without them offering you a drink, your choice of seating and something from the specials board. And all they ask in return for this kindness is payment in cash or EFTPOS.

On the subject of which, my favourite Mexican restaurant in Mission Bay was closed last week, though I haven't been in myself for a few weeks. The last time I was there, they were criminally understaffed and the manager himself had to wait my table. I got the feeling then that he was a bit of a bellend, and I was proven right the other night. Said manager has apparently done a runner because he owes one of his ex-staff $15k in damages after he harassed him in the workplace simply because he was gay. Female ex-staff have also said that he harassed them too, albeit sexually, and it turns out that he has had some legal trouble before as he is a former brothel owner! So, that's settled it for me as I'm not eating anywhere owned by a homophobe let alone a sexually harassing ex-pimp.
By some of the stuff he was saying to the male ex-staff member he sounds like he has a few sexual identity issues himself, so if he winds up inside I'm sure the boys on D Wing can introduce him to their own recipe of spicy chimichangas in the showers.
Aye Carumba!


*Not really.
**All lies.

Random Photo Weirdness #1

Top to bottom we have...

Words of wisdom on the back of a sugar packet at Auckland's highest restaurant.

An imaginatively named Irish bar where the drink is just resting in your glass.

The offspring of The Stig and Jane Austen.

The Kelly Tarleton's bus- SHARK2.

Further evidence that our local Pak N Save is run like a circus.

Reach (For The Shiny Planets)

Whilst enjoying the views of Auckland through the windows of a bus I noticed that one of the big businesses tucked away in the east of the city has a corporate logo that is just three marker pen accidents away from being that of the infamous Umbrella Corporation. I'm sure it is just a front for the T-Virus manufacturing lunatics, and here was me thinking the only brain eating threat was from the Scientologists. We had a council newsletter through the door this week advising that everyone needs to have a disaster pack ready to go in case of "national emergencies". I'm guessing they too know about the imminent zombie threat, so I'm taking this as a green light to get the AA12 shotgun I've been eyeing up.

I'll see the undead pricks in hell before they get a sniff of my brains...

We took a trip to the Stardome last week. This is essentially an observatory and planetarium in one, and featured some spectacular views of the heavens as well as some spectacular views of imbeciles. The first of these was a mildly autistic Eastern European gentleman who seemed obsessed by the moon, where he could get his hands on a powerful laser pointer and whether or not you can stare at the sun using the big telescope. The second was a school teacher who, to be fair, was asking questions that she thought her pupils would ask. That doesn't excuse her entirely, though, and the volunteer astronomer seemed ill prepared for the questions "How big is space?", "Can we leave the Milky Way"? and "Are all the stars just shiny planets?". I felt sorry for him when he started talking to her about the Oort Cloud and her eyes glazed over, but he probably had some bad karma left over for looking a little like Harold Shipman.

Other things I have seen this week...

1. The world's fattest arse on a woman in Sylvia Park. Obviously a medical condition of some sort, she wasn't that much of a bloater but it looked like someone had stuffed two life vests at the top of her thighs and pulled firmly on the red toggles. Which got me wondering...does she have to get her trousers specially made or is there a Lady Got Back Emporium tucked away somewhere in Hobbiton?
2. Some random graffitti where the word "NORKS" was written on the side of a building about 30 times.
3. A Chinese version of Christopher Walken. I swear he was the image of him, even down to the hair. If Weapon Of Choice had fired up, he'd have probably started dancing around Pak N Save.
4. Some homeys in a lowrider belting out thumping tunes at an unspeakably high volume. Unfortunately, as it stopped at the traffic lights, the one that was blaring from the speakers was "Bring It All Back" by S Club 7. I saw at least two pedestrians pissing themselves as the homeys tried not to notice. Fail.
5. The Pixies performing at Vector Arena, which has the worst acoustics since Josef Fritzl's cellar. Also, the Pixies frontman now appears to be Vic Mackey from The Shield.
6. The man with the lowest hanging jowls in Oceania wandering around a Glen Innes car park in pink slippers, shorts and a parka.
7. A sign for a company called Hire-A-Hubby. The aim of this company appears to be odd jobs that the modern woman can't be arsed with such as ironing, car maintenance, DIY and gardening. I'm assuming you have to pay extra if you want them to fart in your bed while holding your head under the covers or cheat on you with your sister. Still, I'm sure my Hire-An-Ex-Hubby idea featuring scathing character assassination to friends and family, drawn out legal proceedings, tearful drunken phone calls and creepy stalking might finally have an audience.

Thank Xenu It's Friday!

No, it isn't the new Scientology themed chain of restaurants; it's in reference to the fact that the cultish freaks were lambasted on the radio this morning. It was part of a segment discussing freakish religions and it was in the top three with the Destiny Church and the Vanuatu cult that worships internationally famed racist Phil the Greek. They are not just crazy; they are Japanese game show crazy, the lot of them. However, in my book it is the people who donate to Scientology who really do “fundamentalist”.

The week continues to be weird. Our new cat, Xena, is either a genius or a complete imbecile. She has a propensity to scream all of the time, kicks off on the other cats for absolutely no reason and has an appetite like a blast furnace. The resulting presents she leaves for us in the tray are as hazardous as to the health as rods of plutonium and any trip that takes you within spitting distance of the kitchen means she will make a beeline for you and then start screaming for food for the next 45 minutes. The other day she was unusually quiet, and despite some other strange noises in the background, we got on with our business thinking that she was at last calming down. Eventually Xena emerged from the hall with the washing basket over her. When the other cats came to investigate as she slid it along the floor, a claw came lashing out from the holes in the basket. Had she invented the world's first feline testudo or is she just an idiot? I'll keep an open mind.

The next day saw a trip to Cheesefest. No, it wasn't a David Hasselhoff worshipping event, but a festival of New Zealand cheeses with free samples of both mouldy milk products and local vino. Needless to say the wife had booked us in thirty seconds after it was announced.

It was very good even though we were both sick of the sight, smell and taste of cheese after 40 minutes. The old wives tale seems to be true as we both had weird dreams afterwards too. Hers involved Chris Moyles and mine involved electrifying the sexual organs of Ashley Cole in order to get him to tell me all he knew about string theory. I then punched out Stephen Hawking for cheating on Chezza.
If you're reading this, Stephen, I'm very, very sorry. If you're reading this, Ashley, you were wrong about zero-dimensional horizons and I'm coming for you with the rusty pliers.

The Baptist Church posse were out again when I jogged past the other morning in an effort to get the smell of blue cheese and fried gonads out of my nostrils. This time they had drafted in two other women, one Maori and one Pakeha. I think next time I'll just stop and join in and see where it leads. I may end up doing either Tai Chi of worshipping the Great Cthulu, but I think the risk is acceptable in either case.

Speaking of dodgy Churches, Christchurch, or as I now prefer to think of it- Bram Stoker's Christchurch, hasn't been in the news much this week. I don't know if they have reclassified what constitutes as murder in an effort to drop the stats or if they have been unibrow-beaten into submission, but it is too damn quiet. Maybe they are all staying in watching NZ's top rated TV programme of last week "Piha Rescue". Set on the world's second most dangerous stretch of sand other than a building site in Gaza, it is the real life drama of lifeguards rescuing swimmers, eating Tim Tams and talking about rescuing swimmers and eating Tim Tams. Imagine Baywatch without the looks or charm and you pretty much have it spot on. No word of a lie, people actually go to the beach in the hopes of getting on the series.

Sort of like Leeds and Crimewatch, really.

Finally there was much amusement the other night when the news report show 60 Minutes returned to Kiwi screens and had a special (and very good) slot on the hunt for internet paedophiles. After this segment, the first advert was for Michael Jackson's This Is It dvd. It is either a sly dig or as my good mate Chris says "target marketing".
Chamone!

Baby You Can't Drive My Car

It's been a weird week here in Mordor.
We went to a Lantern Festival at the weekend which was part of the Chinese New Year celebrations. Though I felt somewhat robbed that the actual show lanterns were lit by electricity rather than naked flames, it made sense considering that the weather has been quite dry of late and the park is an accident waiting to happen.

Also, the sight of burning animals might well have traumatised some of the children attending.
There was Chinese fare in the form of Cantonese, er, Japanese, Vietnamese and Thai. I dunno, maybe they run out of wontons or something and had to get the neighbours in to make up the numbers.
In sympathy, the music was a blended mishmash of Swedish and Chinese as I remember hearing the heavily accented Chinese choir singing Dancing Queen as we queued up for spring rolls. That reminds me, I must rent out their recording of the soundtrack to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Fernando first chance I get.
Anyway, here's a picture of some of the lanterns that brought excitement to many a Kiwi male (not to mention at least one Yorkshireman viewing this blog).

On the way to the event we were passed by silver Mercedes convertible with the licence plate IM POSH. A more accurate plate would have been MUNTER or I FUGLY, but there you go. I'll have to stop looking at these plates, so will exorcise the demons with a final plate update soon.

Lord Sauron has decreed that the minimum age for drivers in the country should be raised to 16. This puts the sequel to an event I witnessed recently in serious jeopardy.
Near the Vector Arena is a row of shops set back from the road and with plenty of car parking. At night, most of these shops are closed apart from the Subway, Hell Pizza and a convenience store. So, at weekends, the local boy racers use this area to park up and admire each others' wheels. On the night I witnessed this grand event they had a lot of cars there including modded Mazdas, Ford Falcons and a couple of Lowrider Utes. Which isn't in the slightest bit like showing your mates your penis. Oh no, not at all. I mean, they probably have girlfriends and everything.
Eventually the police cruised past, turned around and stopped by for a chat and the party quickly began to pack up and depart.
Unfortunately, a lot of these souped up bangers are quite old and so aren't really built for the continuous revving and occasional burnouts put upon them by the cast of Fast and the Furious 5: Auckland Ballbags.
One such vehicle backfired loudly then died as soon as it hit the main road and the toddler driving it had to get his posse out of the car to push start it. Sadly the vehicle was a hell of a size and it looked like none of them had lifted anything heavier than a spray can or a teething ring. Needless to say it failed to start and as I left to get on my own Loser Cruiser (or as it is better termed, the Panmure Shops Bus) he was on the phone to mummy and daddy to come and pick him up as his passing Top Gear buddies showered him with horn abuse. There's the friendship of the road for you.

All of last week there was a saxophone playing near our house which has coincided with a jazz festival going on down at the local beach. Now the festival has ended the sax has mysteriously gone too. Was it one of the locals getting back in practice? Was it a visiting saxophonist staying with a friend? Were they actually recording the music for a soft porn film? Were we being visited by the spirit of Kenny G (yes, I realise he isn't dead, but give it time)? These questions may never be answered.
However, what will be answered is what the Indiana Jones theme sounds like when played on a saxophone at 8am on a Saturday morning.
F@cking annoying.