Archive for October, 2009

Three morose individuals mourn the loss of their hamster

To our loyal 5 fans: we’re sorry. We’ve been busy. But now we are back. With November starting, we shall start with our Mini NaNoWriMo updates. Thank you for still loving us. We love you too.

Except you in the corner.

Some of you might have noticed a decrease in the output levels around here recently. Some of you also know we are quite busy at work at the moment. The things may be related.

But to make sure you’re all still getting your fix of squee, here’s something we found recently: Henry Making His Bed.

Crackhead Dentist: we hate you. We all hate you.

Better for me if I could close my eyes
And dream of imps perched tight on your shoulder,
Cackling loud as you excavate my mouth
And pull and rip and grate and burn my gums.

Instead, my eyes are open wide with pain
As you simper and calm with platitudes,
Bright and breezy in your sterile domain
That plays muzak that kills the man in me.

Tell me: what do you expect me to say,
You fuck, when I’m drooling all on your floor?
How can you sleep, you fuck, so sound at night
Hearing my screams and with your bloody hands?

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The IWDTFM team during office hours

It will come as a shock to absolutely no one to find out that, every once in a while, when the moon is full and the leylines are aligned, I complain about my job.

This is not an uncommon occurrence. We spend a third of every day at work. Eight hours out of twenty-four. Apparently, the UK workforce is one of the hardest working populations in the world, putting in an average of £5,129-worth of overtime every year. I don’t really put in much extra time, although to my credit I’ve been known to stay late if something needs finishing. Most days, however, I’m out the office sometime between five-thirty and six o’clock with a spring in my step and my evening ahead of me.

So what do I complain about? The usual, really. Being tired, being busy, being bored, being hungry, wanting to go and play outside, wanting to stay and play inside. Wanting to be anywhere but cooped up in an office working for a living.

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It even scrubbed all the serifs off the text!

To get the most out of your portable USB drive, leave it in your jeans and throw it in for the wash. Afterwards you’ll not only be able to use heiroglyphics in filenames, but its capacity will have increased to 26.2GB.

This works as well as ever and the bidding starts at £50. I will pay postage.

Bidding closes 5:30 pm on Friday 9 October 2009.

Please enter your bid in the comments field below.

Even this baby can type faster than us.

NaNoWriMo season is fast approaching… and around the Iwilldothatformoney offices, it’s invoking a sense of swiftly impending doom.

What the hell is this NaNoWriMo thing and do you get money for it?

In case you haven’t heard of NaNoWriMo – and you probably haven’t unless you know a handful of crazy writers who spend too much time online (nice to have meeting you!) – it’s a writing challenge with the aim to write an entire novel in the single month of November. 50,000 words in 30 days. 1,667 words a day. Last year, 119,301 people from around the world participated.

Yes, it’s fecking hard. And no, you don’t win anything. Except, perhaps, the modest pride for having written a shitload of crap words that you hate and will never look at again.

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Karl Lagerfeld: the definition of ego

We on the IWDTFM team are often asked, “Why don’t you all become models?”. It’s a valid question, given how good looking we all are. But I have a secret: I don’t understand the fashion industry. What it is, what it does, and why the hell anyone would want to be a part of it.

I’m writing this because I read Kate’s article about the New Zealand fashion week, and – like Kate – I was impressed that a country that has yet to pave its streets even has a fashion week. Wales doesn’t, although this could be due to the fact that large numbers of the Welsh population have yet to be introduced to clothes.

Not that the fashion industry is particularly concerned with clothes. They don’t produce things that you can wear. They produce monstrosities of design, much like a five-year-old with access to a large supply of Play-Doh might.

What really confuses me about the fashion industry is that so many people seem to want to break into it. Models, fashion designers, stylists, hairdressers… never mind that the industry seems to be a mix of sweat shops and the Third Reich, it’s honestly an industry that people marry footballers to get into. On your average thirteen-year-old girl’s list of “Things I Want To Be When I Grow Up”, the desirability of jobs in the fashion industry is probably only second to whatever the hell it is Tara Parker-Tomkinson did to get famous.

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Pamela tries her best to make butt crack fashionable. Fail.

It was New Zealand Fashion Week last week. Wait, I hear you ask. NZ has a fashion week? We sure do. And it’s not all gumboots, swandris and black singlets. There’s like, actual non-farmery type gear on display.

But you’re right in thinking that the event is not a big deal. The fact it was scheduled for the same time as London Fashion Week proves that NZ Fashion Week isn’t even a blip on the global sartorial radar — there were no journalists, socialites, or buyers out there going, ohmygosh what am I to do? over the scheduling conflict in their calendars.

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