Now I think I know what Jonathon Ross was on about when he talked about his baby daughter producing "the Exxon Valdez of poo". Yesterday we got to experience this for ourselves. My son Isaac had been saving his up. Saving it for a day and a half, in fact. There was tons of it up there.

And there was a rumbling. Then the sound of a truly massive poo ripped through the air.

We waited for it to stop, then got a look at the inside of the nappy, and oh, was it impressive. And then, more came. You know those TV pictures of volcanoes… showing the lava flowing down the mountain side… that’s what this looked like. Such power. Such awesome volume. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced this for yourself. This is Power Poop.

(If poo is known as poop, should pee be known as peep?)

My McDonalds story

I went to the Billy Connolly concert last night, and he’s reminded me a funny story that is absolutely true. I’ll do a quick grep through the files to make sure I haven’t told you this before. Because I don’t like to be repetitive if I can help it. Do I? No, I don’t. Don’t what? Don’t like to be repetitive. No, I don’t. Okay, here goes.

When I worked around the corner from McDonalds in Swanston Street, I used to sometimes go for an early morning McMuffin. Not the most nutritious of foods in the universe, it’s true. But delicious nonetheless. At least, as long as you didn’t study the bacon too closely.

There was one woman who served there who was like a robot. Middle aged, which is unusual for such a promising career-oriented work environment. She was out to prove to the world (and her manager) that she could serve burgers and fries and nuggets and shakes and more fries and sundaes faster than the human eye could see. She was efficient. She was fast. And she was devastatingly accurate. She knew the product range. (Who doesn’t?) And she knew the specials. Every one of them. Every week’s special promotion.

Now, I don’t drink coffee. Call me a scumsucking bag of pus if you like, but it’s just not my thing. Fruit juice, hot chocolate, cold chocolate, milk, water, all good stuff. But not coffee. No, if I want a caffeine hit, it’s Coke every time. When the guys at work go down the street for coffee, I go, but I have hot chocolate. No coffee for me, thanks.

This week’s special at McDonalds was free coffee with any McMuffin.

The woman would not take no for an answer.

"One bacon and egg McMuffin please."

"Certainly sir. Would you like a free coffee with that?"

"No thanks."

"It’s free…"

"No thanks, I don’t drink coffee."

"Oh, you don’t drink coffee?"


"Ah, okay."

So she goes off to break the world record for sprinting across the gulf that lies between the counter and the big metal food tray things. And to get my McMuffin. And she obviously doesn’t believe what she’s heard. This guy doesn’t want the free coffee. Some kind of weirdo? Some kind of pervert? Should she call the manager? Should she call the police? The whole situation is processed by her 100MIPS brain. And somehow, she blocks it out. She blocks out that I don’t want the coffee. Everybody wants FREE coffee. Nobody would refuse a FREE coffee. Grab the McMuffin, grab the coffee, back to the counter.

"Ahh… I don’t want the coffee."

"But it’s free."

"I don’t want the coffee. I don’t drink coffee. I never drink coffee. I hate coffee. I don’t want the smegging coffee, lady. Take the coffee away, I don’t want it. Don’t make me take the coffee. Throw it away. Don’t give me the coffee. Fuck off with the coffee, okay?"(*)

(*) Actually, all I said was the first two sentences, then escaped before she could argue with me. For the rest of my life, I will avoid her like the plague.

Submarines and tampons

So let me get this straight. Is this what happened? Have I got this right?

  1. Russian military fails to pay power bill
  2. Power plant sends three red notices, then cuts off power
  3. The power in question is used to cool nuclear submarines
  4. Submarine commander realises if power isn’t turned back on, subs will go into a condition generally known as "meltdown"
  5. Submarine commander thinks about it for a little while, and decides quite sensibly that he would prefer it if the nuclear subs didn’t go into meltdown. Sends armed soldiers to power plant to get power turned back on.

And to think these guys used to be a superpower.

Have you noticed how that tampon ad has changed? The music in the jingle is the same, but there’s no words now. It has to be said that the words it had weren’t the best. Their choice was not an inspired decision. You know the ad I’m talking about. The one that had the voices in the background, singing "lie, lie lie lie, lie lie lie, lie lie lie, lie-lie lie lie…"

It’s obviously just clicked with them. They’ve obviously been discussing it. They’ve been saying, "Folks, we have to ask ourselves, ‘Why isn’t this product selling as well as it could be?’"

Earth to Ian Leslie

Hello… hello, Earth to Ian Leslie. Come in Ian Leslie, former Sixty Minutes Reporter. Leslie, your cover’s blown. After ads for Woolworths, electricity privatisation and ANZ Bank, everyone has realised you’re not really a journalist anymore… come in Leslie…

[My spelling checker wanted to change "ANZ" to "NAZI"]

More nuclear tests

As I write this, the French are detonating nuclear bombs in the Pacific. And so, this week’s moron of the week is Jacques Chirac, who has defied world opinion and common sense, and gone ahead with the first of the new series of French nuclear tests. Why? Well, no-one’s really sure.

Actually, today we saw some demonstrators outside the French consulate here in Melbourne. Yep, the full bit. The white plastic suits, the banners, the street theatre, the conga lines, the flannelette shirts, everything. Some shouting, waving banners, and generally blocking up the street outside. After about half an hour the crowd started to disperse, so I figured either the French announced a change of heart… or the people got tired. The latter, I think.

This Helen Dimidenko/Darville case has got me wondering. Think football. Robert Dipierdeminico(*) – is that HIS real name?? Is the "Big Dipper" actually Bob Darville from Yorkshire?

(*)Or however you spell it.