Fisho's Frolics

[fisho mcspaz]

It was yum!

[A Mum]

Well done Fisho

[mickey]

That looks edible...

The.... on second thoughts i think ill keep that comment to myself as it is a family site

but yes, it does look tasty

[Q.]

That looks edible...

The.... on second thoughts i think ill keep that comment to myself as it is a family site

but yes, it does look tasty

I know exactly what you're thinking

[Choccies]

Well done Fisho. Quickly becoming a cult hero on this site and we EXPECT t-shirts out in time for christmas

[fisho mcspaz]

!!!!!!!!!

Just got invited to read, as one of the headline acts, for Flinders Uni Speakeasy on Wednesday night, September 22! I'm so excited!!! I haven't been to one of these before but I saw the poster for the last one and some seriously awesome writers were involved, so I feel very privileged. I think they usually hold it at the Wheatsheaf Hotel but I guess I'll find out when I get all the info later on. Anyway, I didn't post this on here to brag or anything, it's just that I'm really happy and proud and it's good to remind myself of stuff like this on days when I'm not feeling so good.

[Media Park]

Onya Fisho! Nice work!

[Thiele]

Well done Fisho

[fisho mcspaz]

Hahahahaha I got kicked off RSVP.com.au. They must have not thought my picture was of a real person.

im_a_hottie.png (136.07 KiB) Viewed 1543 times

[Media Park]

That is so hot!

[fisho mcspaz]

This morning has not been kind to me. First of all, I was treated to the awesome spectacle of my eldest son's father getting his head shaved by his wife on webcam today. Apparently they think this is entertainment for Angus. I do not know why she bothered to shave it at all as there was very little that needed to be done. Then they were telling Angus that they could shave his head too. 'Sorry, we don't shave children's heads here!' I snapped. As Angus is not suffering from a receding hairline because he is five, I see no reason to make him look like Uncle Fester prematurely.

I got bailed up by my cat earlier. I was about to get out of bed when I noticed a twitching tail down the end. When I peered over the edge, there she was, mad eyes gleaming as she prepared to attack. I started laughing - out of terror, as it happens - but she thought I was laughing at her and began shredding the quilt as I tried to find a way around her. Fortunately she soon lost interest in me and attacked Mr McSpaz instead.

Oh, brilliant. Till Death has just come on - the show that's got Raymond's brother and the guy who rooted Stifler's mum. It is supremely unfunny. I think I could make a better TV show using a dead octopus and a stick. I would put the octopus on the stick and talk to it like a ventriloquist dummy. I would name him Winston. It would be a good show because everyone knows ventriloquist dummies are creepy but yet people still want to see them. And I think my idea removes much of the creepiness while still retaining the basic premise of having banal conversations with inanimate objects.

Mr McSpaz has just suggested that it could be a psychic dead octopus. This certainly has its merits - I could be the next John Edwards (a.k.a. the biggest douche in the universe). Watch this space!

[fisho mcspaz]

Novel-writing update:

I've been working on all the little details of the plot. While I'm on this subject, may I just say that I really loathe it when writers change the names of their characters partway through the book, or their age, or their eye colour? I've got a photographic memory for this sort of thing and it really irks me because it reminds me that the people in the story aren't real. Stephen King is a notorious villain in this regard. J. K. Rowling is better but there are nevertheless two clear discrepancies in the Harry Potter series (Neville Longbottom's mother's name; the Death Eater Rookwood's first name). Anyway, I suppose this isn't a very valuable observation except to demonstrate that I'm a nerd, so on we go. Like I said, it's just the little things I've been trying to sort out - I know how the story will run in general, but it's the small details that create a plausible background. So now I know how my main character, Jason's parents met (at a Fairport Convention concert in 1974), the name of the kid who was killed when his car hit a tree the previous year (Galintas Vargala - his parents are Lithuanian), and how the football team the Perley Bridge Vikings became known as the 'Trolls' (their emblem shows the Viking standing underneath a bridge). And about twenty or thirty other things like that.

Procrastinating-when-should-really-be-writing update:

Have discovered an awesome new game! 'Serf's Up - Smack the Peasant Game - Bash Peasants for Fun and Profit!' With incentives like that, how could I possibly refuse? Here's the link:

www.awfulgames.com/games/serfs_up

I killed a good half-an-hour or so playing this today. By the way, my high score was 3459 - beat that!

[fisho mcspaz]

Yes! F***ing yes!!!!!

I've been writing this novel for over a year now but it's all been in bits and pieces. NOTHING is in chronological order. Until now! I have finally completed the prologue to my satisfaction! My main character, Jason, wakes up in his own back yard the day after his thirtieth birthday - with a dick drawn on the side of his face - and resolves to change his life after realising that after thirty years, all he's got to show for it is a dead-end job at the local hardware joint. Anyway, have a read and give us some feedback eh? I'm supposed to be writing from a bloke's viewpoint but being a sheila, I don't know if I've got the voice down right.

By the way, this stuff is copyright. I fully intend to publish this one day if I can, so just thought I'd get that one out of the way.

PROLOGUE

Thirty.

You hear all the time about the perils of adolescence. The pimples, the peer pressure, the staggering realisation that sex isn’t quite the same thing as putting a condom on a carrot in Health Ed. A mate of mine nearly crapped himself on his first day at high school because his mother told him that kids would try and force him to smoke cigarettes. ‘What’s so bad about smoking anyway?’ he asked me. I told him it starves your blood cells of oxygen, and that if you inhaled too much in one go your dick would drop off.

Then there’s the whole mid-life crisis phenomenon. Not having reached that zenith yet, I can’t confirm anything for certain, but I’ve heard plenty. Apparently it’ll hit me in my forties. After ten or twenty years of the same routine – going off to work in the morning, coming home again at night, scoffing down sausage and veg for dins and then nodding off with a beer in front of the telly – I’ll suddenly feel the need to take up five or six completely random hobbies, dress in pastel T-shirts, drink expensive designer imported beer and watch Two and a Half Men or its equivalent religiously even though by then I’ll probably feel more comfortable with Australian Story or The 7:30 Report. If that doesn’t fall under the heading of ‘mid-life crisis’, I don’t know what does. But there’s obviously been a lot of research done on the subject, so at least I know what to expect.

Nothing prepares you for when you hit thirty. Or when it hits you.

In my case, it hit me a day late, because I spent most of my thirtieth birthday pissed and consequently in a state of relative euphoria. The harsh realisation, that I was thirty years old and had absolutely bugger-all to show for it, came the morning after the big birthday party, when I awoke in the backyard with a dick drawn on the side of my face and a headache bigger than a blue whale’s arse.

I panicked. All these thoughts were racing through my head at once, and I tried to put them in some sort of order, but I just couldn’t get past the one that screamed, Holy s***! You’re an old man now! I got up and ran for the tap by the back door, hoping a cold shower on the back of the head might calm me down. On the way I tripped over the end of the keg I’d bought for the party – someone had rolled it under the barbie after we’d emptied it, but they’d left half of it sticking out into harm’s way – and collapsed to the ground clutching my stubbed toe and howling like an absolute madman. F***ing hell. At that moment it seemed like I couldn’t do anything right.

I suppose what it all boiled down to was the fact that I’d always gone through life with these fantastic plans for the future rolling around in my head, and that by the time I was thirty – big round number, ya know? and all the time in the world to get there – my dreams would be fulfilled. For instance, I’d be telling myself about the boat I’d buy one day when I had money. It became quite an obsession with me; even now, I could still tell you all about my beautiful catamaran, her measurements, the engine make, right down to the colour of the paint. The trouble was that I had never really considered just how I was going to get the money to buy it. I just assumed that it would come along, much like the dream career and the family would come along. Never mind that at the time I turned thirty, I was working a part-time sales job at Rocky’s Home Hardware, where I was the oldest person by miles and the high-school kids who made up the rest of the taskforce were always giving me s***, because they were working for extra pocket money and I was working because I had to; as for the family, the only time I’d ever brought up the idea of kids to Marty – whom I suppose you’d call my girlfriend for lack of a better word, we didn’t exactly set the world on fire with romance – she laughed so hard that she sprayed beer out of her nose, and I had to wipe it up with my Rocky’s Home Hardware apron because we were out of paper towels. About all the f***ing thing was good for anyway.

Thirty. S***. What could you do?

There was really only one option at this point, unless I wanted to further demean myself by crawling under the barbecue to suck out the last dregs of the keg. I got up and dusted myself off, then went inside to the bathroom so I could clean the artwork off my face. Staring into the mirror, two pairs of bloodshot blue eyes locked together in mutual abhorrence, I decided that this year was going to be it. The year I cleaned my act up. The year I made something of my life.

That texta just wouldn’t f***ing come off. I ended up having to go to work an hour later, dick and all. At least the high-school kids got a laugh out of it.

[Footy Chick]

Well done Fisho -Great stuff so far

In fact, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd been following me around about 10 years ago

[Choccies]

[Q.]

Cool

[A Mum]

Really good Fisho

[Media Park]

can't wait for the next extract...

[devilsadvocate]

My first cricket coach always told us: "Better waking up with a dick drawn on your face than a franger hanging out the back"

[85 WAS A GOOD YEAR]

Is it right that I'm sitting here at my computer, cracking up laughing with no-one else around to share your wit and humourous commentary with. No!

So I will console myself with the thought that many other safooty members are doing exactly the same thing, enjoying your sense of humour with admiration - just at different times and different places.

Thank you for sharing Fisho, this small extract of your novel has made my day