Rant #4: Domestic Dangers

It has recently come to my attention that 90% of accidents occur in the home. This also raises the question of where 90% of accidents occur for the homeless, but we'll ignore this as it might spark huge revolutions in which we all end up dominated by robots allied with bananas and forced to eat hole punchers for the remainder of our lives.

What I'm trying to say rather unsuccessfully is that the home can be quite a dangerous place to be, which is a shame since we spend so much time in it. Today I compiled a list of dangers I face a fair amount of the time that hopefully will make others more aware of those seemingly harmless activities that really aren't. Just remember that my number one rule when dealing with these dangers is: "If you change a lightbulb you'll end up breaking a window". Expect the unexpected, which then technically becomes the expected so something else will happen completely unrelated to the original unexpectation. With that sorted out, I bring you the first domestic hazard:

Retrieveing the Garbage Bins

Are those question marks I see above your head? You don't think that there are any huge risks in taking your bins back inside after rubbish collection, eh? Well, you obviously haven't met Gordon. Gordon is the stereotypical senile neighbour who engages you in conversation for hours...and hours...and hours when he catches you at your most vulnerable - with a 120 litre wheelie bin in tow. Once he has succeeded in the hunt he will toy with his catch, showing you his new mulcher, explaining the basic electronics used in making the mulcher work, what exciting things you can put in the mulcher, mulch made with the mulcher, offering the mulcher to you for use at any time, stroking the mulcher affectionately, the haggling skills used in purchasing the mulcher...

And so the list goes on. There are only two ways you can safely bring back your bins and remain sane. If you believe silence from his backyard means safety, you are wrong. He is simply taking a break from being the household handyman who consistently makes new spice racks. Coffee in hand, he is at his most dangerous. With the normal distractions out of the way, his sander finally not sanding, he is able to fine tune his ears into the tell tale noises of you innocently going out to bring in your bins: the squeak of the bolt being drawn to your back gate, the clinking of your keys, carefully trodden footsteps...
No, the only two ways to escape certain doom at the hands of this monster are as follows:

Catch him at work

This is the most reliable means of salvation. It relies, however, on his current handyman job being at the back of his garage or else his powertool of choice being operated with his back to you. It is under these circumstances you can exploit his ultimate weakness: deafness. The exact cause of this slight inability to hear is unknown, but it is believed due to his own voice. When the moment arises as he starts his unnaturally loud piece of equipment, quickly run into the street, grab whatever you can and get the hell back inside! You may have to make several trips for the recycling bins if he pauses to blow away sawdust or something. If you can pull it off, congratulations!

Use another neighbour as a decoy

This, I believe, is Mr. Green's only purpose in moving in near me. Use this method when Gordon is either near the mouth of the garage or using a somewhat quieter machine. Simply wait until another hapless neighbour ventures out into the danger zone, gets engaged in one-sided conversation and STRIKE! This should be done with a smile of gratitude aimed at your Godsent replacement, a laugh when Gordon exclaims how you're getting more and more beautiful every day and a flash of teeth when the hapless neighbour says how he can't comment on that because he's a teacher. In you go, shut the gate and breathe a sigh of relief. Vomit profusely if you must, because the last thing you want to think about is how the fellow finds you attractive.

Crikey, that's enough about Gordon for one day. On to the next thing in line...

Dogs

Everyone knows the old story of people tripping over dogs and breaking their necks, dogfights and all that jazz. What fails to circulate the veins of the community is the subtle nature in which dogs manipulate human will to suit their own. Since dogs can't talk, they have developed a variety of physical attributes that evolution has perfected to enable them to have an even greater influence than that of verbal communication. Watch out for the following:

Those big brown doggy eyes

These are probably the more commonly recognised tools of control. There are not many people who can resist the charm projected from those big brown pools of - kay, that just sounded wrong. Let's stay away from big brown pools of...stuff. These eyes can be used for a multitude of purposes, for example, "Can I have a biscuit?", "I didn't mean to crap on the carpet" and "A walk? Gee, you'll really take me for a walk?". The magical element in dogs' eyes enables them to evoke huge waves of pity, producing a formidable weapon as yet unblockable by the average human, who will then give the dog whatever he or she desires. The only way to avoid the hypnotic stare is to quickly close your eyes as soon as they make even semi-contact with those of your canine companion. This puppydog look had been adopted by people like Gareth in an attempt to do similar things. Fortunately though, these people only succeed in making themselves look like either manga girls or idiots.

The way they can almost wag their bums off

The illusion that your dog is deliriously happy to see you when you get home is simply that - an illusion. This often overwhelming act of 'cuteness' works in much the same way as a big-breasted blonde woman does with shallow men. As in they can get you to do virtually anything. Have you ever noticed that the first thing a dog does after furiously wagging his or her tail is usually something naughty like jumping on the no-dog couch or urinating everywhere? These acts are health hazards in themselves. Who knows if the next guest who settles on the couch will be allergic to dog hair, or what horrors will ensue while cleaning up Fido's bodily waste? There is only one way to stop this: saying the V word. The mere mention of the vet is enough to silence tails within a twenty metre radius.

The whine

By the time a dog is desperate enough to utilise the whine he or she will have already exhausted the eye and wagging methods of human puppetry. The whine is a desperate last attempt to gain the upper hand, which unfortunately for us, has a 100% success rate. There isn't much in this world that we will find more annoying than a dog whining or barking continuously, aside from getting our luggage lost in an airport. There is only so much one can say about the whine, because as soon as it starts, you will bend unto the dog's will and do all in your power to make it stop. Even if it means getting out of bed at 5am during the holidays to let them inside, only to have them do it again because they've forgotten to have their morning outdoor piss.

Palm Trees

They're big, hard, have balls and shower white stuff everywhere. Why, they must be palm trees! I don't know anything else that would fit that description anyway. The sort I'm talking about doesn't actually grow coconuts - instead they have little orange berry things. These are the hazard this majestic tree yields, my friends. I'm only guessing here, but I reckon more people die each year from slipping on these orangey things than from being smacked on the head with a coconut.

Now, you can either let these things grow and pelt you and trip you and dance and sing and YOU YOU YOU...OUGHTA KNOW-WOE!! Alternatively, you can apply the method used by myself and my mother to rid your palm trees of their gonads before they start to cause grief.

Cutting Down the Berries of Death

Things you will need:

You can easily tell when your palm tree is about to attempt to reproduce, as a buldge appears up near the foliage, covered by a large leaf structure. This structure soon fall off and reveals something that resembles a white deer antler with tiny flaky bits hanging off it (these are actually flowers). You must strike at this stage, before it has time to pollinate and grow balls.

First, get your pretty damn big ladder and lean it up against the tree. For us, this means getting two people on the job and weaving it through some other harmless trees whilst avoiding power lines and cats. Then, climb up to the top of the ladder (or until you feel yourself feeling dizzy - the last thing you want to do is die while trying to prevent yourself from dying). Tie your rope around a rung and around the tree, securing the ladder in place and making you the only thing that can still fall down. Tie yourself to the ladder with rope or a harness if you feel the need. If you are a man, there is no need, as your testicles will no doubt prevent this from happening due to the uncanny confidence they exhert. Also, would you mind taking off your shirt?

Next, take your saw or small child and get as close to the antler thing as possible. From down on the ground, they look fairly small - maybe fifty centimetres across maximum. Alongside one of them, you will be shocked to discover they can actually be over a metre long and almost as wide. They're also pretty bloody scary when you're strolling around beneath the ladder and somebody drops one on your head. This is when you discover that they are also quite heavy. Back to saving the world, position the saw or small child at the base of the frond and hack away. This shouldn't take long, because they are made of very soft tissue. Yell out "Timber!", "Heads!" or "Holy shit! That's gonna kill someone!" when the plant's genitalia falls to the ground if need be. Bundle it up and wait for the next Council Cleanup. Simple as that.


Swiss Cheese

Let's clear one thing up. Swiss cheese (or Port Arthur cheese, as I sometimes call it) tastes like arse.

No, I'm not done yet. I had the privilege of journeying to Switzerland in 2000, during which we went on a casual country drive and stopped by a little cottage luncheon place in a small village. Holy crap. Every dish brought out of the kitchen was covered, no, smothered in melted Swiss cheese. No words can describe how revolting the stench is. It’s like that thing where we Australians can handle the huge nutrient content of Vegemite, while it makes Americans pass out everywhere. The Swiss guys were fine with it, while I was ready to put my hand up my left nostril and sever my olfactory nerve with my own dirty fingernails. There was a herd of parasite-infested cows and goats nearby in a paddock loaded with their shit which smelt better. In saying all this, when my cheese-dominated dish was brought out it actually tasted pretty good.

Anyway, Swiss cheese rates pretty high for danger value, not only because it’s mighty good for scaring away guests not atoned to the odour of cesspits, but because your pay gets docked when you babysit and the culprit is brought into the situation. Observe:

Stupid Annoying Kid: I’m hungry, despite the fact that I ate enough to feed eleven starving children for a month at dinner. Get me some food.

Me: (Gets out some Swiss cheese and crackers) Well, you’re about to go to bed you little twat, so I’ll just fix you up some cheese and crackers.

SAK: Dude, did you shoot holes in that cheese or something?

Me: No, it’s made like that.

SAK: Omfg!! You’re one of those murderer babysitters! You’re going to come up and shoot me when I go to bed with the gun you shot the cheese with!

Me: Um, yeah, and I’ll get away with it too because your parents know my dad, where we live and our phone number. They’ll just waltz on in later this evening, pay me and drive me home despite the fact that I’m covered in blood and their son is lying sprawled on the floor with his brains splashed artistically across the sofa.

SAK: (almost shitting himself) Gi…give me the gun and I won’t tell.

Me: (unintentionally brandishing the cheese knife like a weapon) THERE IS NO FREAKIN’ GUN, DIPSHIT!

So, yeah, SAK goes running off crying before refusing to go to bed and telling his folks that I tried to stab him. They gave me bugger all because I’d made their kid almost shit himself. Seriously, it’s called culture. Expose your children to cheese at an early age so they aren’t so stupid.

On the other hand, if you actually believe that story really happened, you should be shot.

Well, I hope you've all learned some valuable things today about lesser-known domestic dangers and how to avoid them. Next time you get caught trying to smuggle bins back to where the slugs are now drying out due to exposure or get oogled by a dog or slip on orange berries or run in with dangerous cheeses you'll know what to do. Ahhhh, how I love helping people...

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