Despite agreeing on a great many things, my wife and I have a distinct conflict over the definition of the term "mid-day". She feels that the word is defined as the exact halfway point of a full day, meaning noon. I believe that term is more based on art than science, and is meant to roughly reflect the middle of the daytime period. So, about 2PM or so. Who's right?
It is my blog, after all.
Fortunately for us, this thrilling example of "topics boring married people talk about" will soon be put on hold for a couple of weeks. You see, we're going underground. No, wait, that's not right. We're going down under. Yup, within just a few days, I expect to be chock full o' barbie'd shrimp, vegemite sandwiches, and opium (in no specific order). Should be a very zombie-headed good time.
|Drat, the Simpsons have already done all of that|
Now, if you weren't already aware, time works differently in the southern hemisphere. There are no days, weeks, or months. Clocks and calendars are non-existent. The sun is always in the sky, and darkness only falls when the enormous Ocean Kraken emerges from its cave to dance across the horizon to the music of Midnight Oil. It blots out the light until Enya arrives to sing it back to sleep. The only thing that marks the passage of time is the number of clouds that float by. However, down there, clouds are actually made of ghosts, and sometimes they get a bit ornery at being stared out.
It's a difficult place, clearly. Crocodile Dundee tried to fix this mess by instituting some ideas he gathered from Hollywood. Sadly, his insistence on referring to each hour as "Knife o'clock" was met with confusion by some, and derision by most.
So, obviously, there is no mid-day for my wife and I to argue about.
Though, if there was, I'd be right again, because, well, you know.
|Actual footage of my imminent future|
Thus, not only will we not be able to distinguish night from day, but we'll also have no idea when to eat which meal. This could be an issue.
Fortunately, there is a potential cure. And, like most answers to life's greatest problems, this one was spewd forth from spikey-headed genius.
No, not Guy Fieri. Not this time.
|The solution, as always, is aquanet|
This week's song, by late 90's whatever-group Sugar Ray, is entitled "Every Morning." This tune is an ode to the regularity at which routine occurs at a point after the sun rises but before mid-day (whenever that is). But what if there is no "morning" with what to do something every time? What then?
Well, we need to take all the dawn-related majesty flowed down to us by a crew of SoCal randos and run it through some sort of scientific converter. A translator, if you will. That way, this hits' words and noises (lyrics, to put it extremely generously) can be molded into the ways and means of the Australian lifestyle. Perhaps, when we're done, the world of oz will finally understand what it means to wake up at a specified time rather than just whenever the next venomous bite is felt (occurs roughly every 2.44 minutes).
Since Google Translate doesn't seem to value the koala's tongue as an actual language choice, we have to go with a site called LingoJam. Sure, it may be a silly name, but so is Yahoo Serious. And that's a real thing. Isn't it? Hello?
Anyway, let's get on with it. First verses and chorus should be sufficient.
"Every Morning" in Australian
Every mawrnin' there's a 'alo 'angin
from the bloody cawrnah of my girlfriend's fah post bed
i know it's not mine but i'll see if i can use it fawr
the bloody weekend awr a one-night stand
how ta wawrk it out
once agayyn as predicted left my cactus heahrt open
'n ya ripped it out
something's got me reelin'
stopped me from believin'
turn me ahround agayyn
said that we can do it
wy'know i want ta do it agayyn Fahkin' fair dinkum cobber.
(every mawrnin' wen i wake up)
(shut the bloody doawr baby, don't say a wawrd)
(she always rights wrongs, she always rights)
(shut the bloody doawr baby, shut the bloody doawr baby) Fahkin' too right, cobber.
I think that settles things. Will report back when I return. If Men at Work asks, I'll tell them that America still loves them.
Don't touch my stuff.
|Fair dinkum indeed|