Poverty and Riches.

I've been reading a lot about poverty and health, and poverty and disability. It seems that poorer you are the poorer your health, and the higher the likelihood of developing a disability. In many ways it's a no-brainer, but it does seem to be an aspect of health that is largely overlooked by the medical community and frequently a taboo topic in our society as a whole. The more I read, the more I wonder how much my childhood has contributed to my current health issues. The more I read, the more I think about those early years and am forced to process my memories with a more measured eye that only comes with age.

Canned Heinz spaghetti was a staple, alongside overly processed white bread, Vegemite sandwiches and glasses of Tang that never quite dissolved. Cream and jam on fresh white bread was a special treat that part of me still hankers for. Many a morning it was poached eggs in the old aluminium poaching pot that had belonged to a grandfather I have never met. A can of Leggos spaghetti sauce on some over-cooked pasta, was a treat reserved for birthdays. Times were that we didn't even have money for cordial or jam. We were poor, although I don't think it fully registered exactly what that meant in my child's brain. My child self was more aware that I couldn't have the things I wanted, rather than we might be struggling to have a roof over our head. I recoil as I recall some of the tantrums and words hurled at my mother when I couldn't go on school camp, or was forced to wear hand-me-downs on Free Dress Day. An unbearable indignity to my teenage self, and fodder served up on a silver platter for the mean girls at my local high school. The ignorance and self-centeredness of youth, shelters you from much of the harsh realities of the world.

I think of my childhood as having two parts. The first 10 years were blissful ignorance for the most part. Trampolines, princess beds and way too much pink. There were moments that jarred in those early years, but they were quickly over-written by bubblegum Paddle Pops and Big M hula hoops. Then there were the years after, when life took a sudden and sharp veer to the left. My parents went their separate ways. My father to the city, my mother, brother, sister and I made our way out of town to an isolated and dusty old farmhouse, surrounded be mile upon mile of farmland. Soon it was down to two, my mother and I, negotiating a new world order for which we were both ill equipped.

When I was 10, our home, our car, our dreams, were swallowed up by the TAB, VB and the smell of old Peter Stuyvesant's. Even now, I have to resist the temptation to hurl abuse at Tom Waterhouse's commercials as they are played on the TV. Gambling isn't glamorous. It isn't exciting. It's no food on the table and bailiffs at the door. It's the end of dreams and the sound of your parents fighting, and your mother sobbing in her bedroom. Gambling is a blight on the world, my child's world. The wrecker of many families, and many lives. Even now all these years later, as the pieces are patched and the scars more faded, my hatred of gambling is just as strong. Something broke when I was 10, and I am still finding pieces that need patching.

We moved out of town to nowhereville. To a town that wasn't really a town. No post office, no stores. None of the usual trappings that mark a human settlement. Just a stretch of land bordered by other tiny rural communities, barely more than a name on a map. $50 a week for the privilege of living in a worn old farm house, that really should have been torn down years before. Peeling paint and crumbling plaster, revealing old red brick and powdered mortar. I would sit on the floor in the musty hallway absently peeling pieces off the wall, adding my own efforts to the decay, whilst Casey Kasem played the American Top 40 on my plastic fantastic tape recorder. There was a crack in the wall of my mother's bedroom. So big sparrows could and would, fly in, as would various opportunistic bugs. So many moments of madness. Of running around with towels. Flapping our arms. Leaping across beds and onto dressing tables. Yelling,"Catch it! Catch it!", as our tiny feathered foe would flit back and forth around the room, mocking us with it's excited churps.

We never used the front door. The veranda that sat out in front had a definite list, rotting boards too unsafe to bear even my child's weight. It was also the abode of many a snake. Tiger, brown, red-bellied black, copperhead, we had them all. We lived smack bang in the middle of Snaketown. They were near the front gate, down near the horses' trough, and frequently by the dam that kept our house watered. Lose the coin toss and you grabbed a big stick or an old golf club, and braved the walk down to start the pump. Warm Summer night's were the worst and let me just say, brown snakes don't flee, they fight, they lunge and they make even grown men fear. On occasion, they were also to be found sunning themselves on the warmth, of the concrete back step. We learnt quickly to be wary. To look before we leaped, or put a slippered foot down on our way out to feed the dog.

Colonies of tiny turtles floated in the dam. Groupings of black nostrils poking up through the top of the water. The greatest of escapologists, I would catch them and put them in plastic pools and tubs. I would declare them our newest pets. I'd give them names and plan their adventures. And every morning they would all be gone. Back to their dam and freedom once more.

The chimney of the half-bricked up fireplace in my bedroom, was frequently home to tiny black bats. One hilarious night, one became entangled in my sister's long black locks. I lay on my bed clutching my stomach, hardly able to breathe for laughing. Her piercing screams suggesting that she didn't find it quite so amusing. Trying to get her to stay still as my mother attempted to extricate the poor little bat from her tangled hair was an equally amusing endeavour. Many a dirty look was thrown our way as we continued to laugh while we checked if the poor little thing was okay, before sending it back out into the night.

We went through mice plagues. Thousands upon thousands of the little brown bodies running, ruining and reproducing. Lift a bale of hay and they'd scatter in their hundreds. Go into a shed and they'd scatter to the four winds. The rattling of the corrugated iron like thunder, as they forced the way through in numbers too great to count. They invaded our house. Our cats so over-taxed by the apparently limitless numbers of their prey, just sat and watched as they ran freely across the loungeroom floor, or down the hallway. And then it would be over as soon as it began. One moment we were inundated with a tiny brown tsunami, and then there were simply gone.

There were locust plagues that stripped the world bare. My friends and I would ride our bikes down roads more insect than bitumen. A road in constant motion as the clouds of insects vibrated their wings in the sun. In numbers so vast, the chitinous sound of their movements filled the air. We'd do our best Moses impersonations, parting the sea of locusts with our rattly old bikes. Yelling and laughing, flailing our arms and ringing our bells. Left with a face full of shattered carapaces and tiny cuts from the sharp edges of their shells, more often than not. The acrid insect smell filling the air. Hours spent washing their glue-like residue off our bikes. Or if unlucky, being coerced into scrubbing them from the front of the family car. Insect-concrete bound to glass, enamel, and chrome alike.We would chase them around our yard with tennis rackets and cricket bats. Seeing how many we could kill. A futile attempt to reduce their numbers in the guise of childhood competition. And then, just like the mice, they were gone.

Drought after drought. The sound of the shot guns as our neighbour killed his starving and emaciated sheep. The sound of the tractors and bulldozers burying their bodies en masse. No dignity in death. Just the practical demands to dispose of their stock. To end their suffering and cover them before they began to putrefy. Dust storms. Drought's gritty cousin. The sky dark orange, the sun barely seen. The clouds would roll in slowly across the paddocks, blocking out the world beyond. Beautiful in their own way. We would run around, desperately trying to close every window, putting towels under doors and covering up fireplaces. Then we would brace for it to hit. The air would become gritty. Hard to breath. My mother would clutch her inhaler, her asthma sure to spike. It would get in your eyes, and cover your skin. It's taste on our lips and tongues. And it found every place we missed. It forced it's way through every unprotected crack and crevice. Found every hole, and every opening. It forced it's way through louvres and pushed and wailed through shaking sash windows. And the house would be covered. Layer upon layer of orange dust. On bedding and carpets. On lounges and in cupboards. Storm after storm until the drought passed. A life time spent living in heat and grit.

Poking around in old farm sheds and derelict pickers huts. Clambering over boxes and machinery. Piles of old hessian bags, stiff with years of grime and old diesel, and way too many Huntsmans. Discovering treasures. The soldier settlers post-World War I, left a bounty of bottles, sinks, and rusty old machinery strewn across the area. Each farm had a bounty of ceramics and metalwork, just waiting for our childhood imaginations to incorporate into our stories and adventures. Our farm had a collection of ceramic insulators from the old power lines, and pink 1930's sinks in the hay shed. Who collected them or why, was a mystery we never solved.

Summer meant days spent swimming in the concrete channels that ran between all the properties. Diving in, head first, completely unaware of the risks involved. We swam through the huge dark pipes that ran under the road, and squelched our toes in the mud and ooze that covered the bottom few inches. We'd chase the boatmen bugs, and catch redfin and rainbow trout. Two of us would grab a sheet of chicken wire each and start at opposite ends moving ever closer to herd our prey, or soon-to-be dinner, between us. Or when the channels were emptied during the Winter months, putting on our gum boots and wadding through the murky foot of water left behind under the road, to catch more fish. We'd run to my friend's house to fry up our catch on their old cast iron wood stove. So proud of our delicious handiwork. I can still smell the mix of wood smoke and fish cooking in butter.

So cold in Winter.  So hot is Summer. The land of extremes. We would huddle around the fireplace in Winter and dread having to leave its warmth to head to bed. So cold it hurt. In our bedroom, my sister and I would blow our breath out into the room to watch it swirl in front of us, or blow on the icy window and draw pictures in the fog left behind. Sitting at the bus stop. Marked by a single pole on the side of the road and surrounded by a sea of flat paddocks dotted with salt bush and purple statice. The frost crunching under my feet as I huddled down to keep off the worst of the wind. Chilblains and hot water bottles. Big Red tomato soup guzzled down with slices of warm buttered toast. That was Winter. Summer we would sit in front of the water cooler and suck down cold drinks in a vain attempt to keep cool. Hot and dry. 40C+ all through those long Summer months. My friends and I would ride our bikes all over the district. Stopping at various farms to grab a drink from an unattended water tank, before riding off once more trying to catch the heat waves rising from the road. Tunnelling through the shoulder high dry rye grass, creating a maze of pathways and cubbies. Yelling to ward off the snakes that so often inhabited the grassy sea. Sitting cross-legged in our hidden places, listening to our serpentine companions slither close by. Telling stories and sharing secrets.

Little goldfish, baby carp, would be sucked up by the dam pump to the house tank, and end up in the bathtub. Always checking for piscean companions before plunging into the bath. Or, at their worst, tying an old stocking over the tap to catch them. During drought, the water would be orange and thick. We showered in turbid water, water that stained the bath and our clothes in equal parts. We plucked dead sparrows from our rain water tank. The only drinking water we had. The metallic taste of the old galvanised water tank in every glass. My friends and I would sit on top of the tank in Summer. Grabbing fruit from it's neighbour, an old gnarled pear tree. Carving faces in the fruit with nails. Leaving them to dry and shrivel in the reflected Summer heat on top of the tank. Creating a macabre collection of witch faces to decorate the shed. Collecting bunches of mint, from the prolific planting that grew on top of the cracked septic tank. Crushing and rolling it between our fingers to release the smell and hanging it in our various sheds come cubbies, to repel the flies. And figs from the tree that sat alone on the side of the dry dirt driveway. I'd never eaten a fig until we moved to the farm. That first bite a treat never to be forgotten. Nor throwing that unripe one at your older sister during a fight. Not something I'd recommend.

Corn and watermelons growing in the wire-covered front of one of the old chook sheds. Our chickens roamed freely around the property and had an inexplicable hankering for the highest corners of the sheds. Hours spent hunting for chicken eggs throughout the hay shed. Never the same place twice. I swear they went out of their way to make it as difficult as possible. They were, it seems, the craftiest of chickens. There was our ever growing collection of cats, that would follow us as we took the dog for a walk. A fine sight, me, our dog, and line of feline soldiers marching down the road. Coming to terms with death when my ginger cat, Marvin, was bitten by a snake and my brother and father took him down the paddock never to return. And the beauty of life when another of our cats gave birth in our laundry. Tiny mewling kittens butting blindly at her stomach. To hold them minutes after birth, and place their fragile little bodies where their mother could lick them clean. Those moments were a gift I'll never forget. Sitting on the fence post feeding my sister's horses carrots. So many horses. From calm and plodding Chester to, the beautiful, but highly strung,ex-racehorse, Firetron. Mixing thick black molasses with chaff in the shed. The perfect concoction for an ex-racer. Carrying bales of lucerne out to the paddock for those with more humble beginnings.

Eating platefuls of dry Weetbix slathered in margarine and strawberry jam, whilst I watched the tiny black and white TV in my mother's drafty bedroom. Dr Who, Degrassi Junior High, You Can't Do That on TV, Dangermouse, Roger Ramjet, Bananaman, The Goodies, Monkey, the list goes on. Every night after school I would run to watch the ABC and beg to be allowed to eat tea whilst watching Dr Who. Tom Baker will forever be etched in my mind as the only Doctor, as will the entire theme song and opening monologue to Monkey. Or Saturday mornings getting up early to watch Rage. The thrill of our first video recorder, remote attached by a cord, second hand from the electronics store my brother worked at and eventually owned. My brother sneaking over a video of Thriller for us to watch. Something which my mother had decided was too scary for me to watch. The illicit nature of the viewing making it even more special.

I was a latchkey kid. Not that there was a term for it back then. It was simply the way it was. My mother worked long hours. The thankless and poorly paid jobs of fruit picker and cleaner. Doing all she could to keep a roof over our head. She would often leave before I got up and came home long after the bus dropped me off down the end of our road. It gave me a freedom I would never have had otherwise. I was free to run or ride, to visit friends or run down to the horses. I made my own schedule and my own snacks. I had the safety of a local close knit farming community that would help a child out if in trouble, or provide sustenance after a long day of exploring. I would stay out till dark in Summer and even in Winter I would push the time and my curfew. My continuing existence often only confirmed by a floating spot of torch light moving through the night, as I negotiated cow paddocks, channels, gates and barbwire fences, on my way home.

So many stories. So many memories. There are many parts of my childhood that I would rather forget. But there are moments, peppering the bad, that are worthy of remembrance. Moments with my friends from neighbouring farms. Soda Streams on a hot day. Salada biscuits. Oh the joy of squishing them together as hard as I could, until the Vegemite and margarine squished like worms through the holes. Bags of Burty Beetles and boxes of Chicken in a Biskit, scoffed in tents and sheds, and out under the stars. Sitting in my friend's house de-podding peas and eating tiny radishes from their garden. Picking garlic for her father, and laughing, throwing cow pats at each other, or sliding in the mud between the grape vines. Sharing secrets in my other friend's old dilapidated pickers hut tucked far away from their house. The three of us were thick as thieves. Eating grapes purloined from other neighbour's vines. Or even the day we got stuck up a crane in the back paddock, whilst her neighbour's pigdog barked and growled below having decided he'd like to tear us limb from limb. An adventure, touched with just a little fear, thanks to the slathering maws below. Making the run past her vicious geese and her head-butting goat. Her galahs that would mimic her mother screaming her name. So loud we could hear it across the intervening paddocks. Holding my breath and praying for no red back spiders using my fish-frying friend's outdoor pit loo. Avoiding the line of depressions, the tell tale evidence of its previous locations. Indoor plumbing is definitely not over-rated. So much laughter. The freedom of our bikes and the endless back roads of the surrounding farm district. Black rubber gumboots and mushroom picking in cold sheep paddocks in the middle of Winter. And patting the rescued battery chooks, reassuring them that their lives would be better now. Fresh melons and pomegranates. Pilfering apricots and peaches from neighbours' farms. Or sultanas and apricots straight off the drying racks. One of the perks of being a child living in a farming district. The kindness of one friend's family wheeling over a barrow load of vegetables because they knew my mother and I were doing it tough. Her mum feeding me up all those nights I stayed at her house, avoiding my own.

Those are the memories I want to keep. We moved back into town when I was sixteen. The farm house burned down a few years later. Given that the chimney had caught fire previously (I can still see my sister's then boyfriend on the roof pouring buckets of water down the chimney as fire roared and shot out of the bricks), not much of a surprise. It, and all the evidence of our time there, scorched from the earth. I drove back not long after. To have a look. To see what remained. Nothing but a bare paddock with a couple of old falling down sheds. Nothing to go back to. Nothing to see. The years erased. Both of my friends parents had sold their farms and moved into town. The familiar warmth of their wood stove, the call of their galahs, and the paths of my youth, also denied me. But memories remain. Riches found in the midst of nothingness. We may have been poor. It may have been hard. But there were moments. And I am richer for them.

Michelle

Wegohealth Health Activist Awards 2012 Best in Show: Blog Finalist!

Next week, the 28th of March (7am of the 29th here in OZ, Argh!), is the awards ceremony for the Wegohealth Health Activist Awards 2012. Amazingly, I am one of the finalists for the Best in Show Blog award. The lovely folk at Wegohealth sent out a pack of goodies to all the finalists and thanks to the lovely Susan, mine made it all the way Down Under in plenty of time. 

Of course I tried to take photos of my goodies and had some help.

Ooooo Presents!!!!

 Putting my foot down and telling Thor and Freyja to sit. 

 Crotch sniff from Thor, removes last vestiges of dignity.

 Token upside down Down Under shot.

 Dog butt shot.

 More dog butt and vane attempts to keep goodies out of his reach.

 Just too exciting.

 No hope of a dog free photo.

 Photo bombing (sigh).

 Excited ghost Freyja is so excited for me that she can't stand still long enough for a decent photo.

I give up. At least I tried.

Don't forget to check out all the fabulous finalists on the list in both the Blog category and all the other categories. Good luck to all my fellow finalists!

UPDATE: Okay I didn't win but that's okay. Huge congratulations to the lovely PCOS Diva who won the Best in Show: Blog award. You can find her here and here. 

Thanks you everyone for all the support and encouragement. This blog wouldn't be the same without the community that has sprung up around it, and for that I say, "Thank You". xx

Cheers
Michelle :)

I know, 3 posts in one week, I've clearly lost my mind. Less dogs and more words can be found in Tabula Rasa and Only as much as I dream can I be.

And because you can't go past a show tune to be happy I give you Judy Garland.

Precious Things

I'm honoured to have been interviewed by the lovely Ruth, from Precious Things this week.  Ruth's blog explores the meaning of the everyday object.  As she says:

"I am a sociologist who is fascinated by everyday objects: the beautiful, the ordinary, the unusual. From humble teacups to abandoned chairs, I'm trying to work out exactly why these things matter. Why do we love or loathe them? And what can only our most precious possessions tell us?"

Proof that I can occasionally act like an adult can be found here.

Cheers
Michelle :)

Fabulous Fridays: Bedazzling My World One Day At A Time.

Being chronically ill can kinda rain on your parade.  I'm talking the monsoonal, flooding, keep an eye out for The Ark, kind of rain.  So I've made a decision.  Probably not a good decision as it was made about 3am this morning when I was contemplating the myriad of ways I could BBQ my dogs, who kept crying at my bedroom door because one of them was on the other's bed and they wanted me to get them off.  So if this goes horribly wrong (think the decision to make Speed II or the Star Wars prequels) I am blaming my dog induced sleep deprived psychosis.

So what's the plan you ask?  Well I'm going to pop my umbrella, put on my gumboots, and demand a colourful fabulous, Sydney Mardi Gra, kinda parade, for one day every week.  I want sequins and feather boas.  I want drag queens with better cheek bones and tighter buns than I could ever dream of, and perilously high, stilettos.  I want sparklers and fireworks, disco balls, strobe lights and infectious electro-samba beats.  I am over viewing the world through a big pair of nard coloured glasses, well for 1 day out of every 7 anyway.

So I am starting a new section on my blog, Fabulous Fridays.  Fabulous Fridays will be a Bob-free zone.  No woe is me, no glass half empty, no sitting sobbing in the corner, drowning my sorrows in a block, or 6, of Green & Blacks.  I am going to give myself a big can of Harden Up Princess, and staple some rose coloured glasses to my pasty face.

Fabulous Fridays will be dedicated to the good things in life.  I am going to delve into the old dusty box of craft supplies under the stairs, and Bedazzle the crap out of my life for one day a week.  There may be moments of fluff, there may be moments of mindless insanity, and there may be moments of touchy feely, for which I apologise in advance.  I have no real idea what will end up on the list but damn it I'm going to be annoying perky girl one day a week, even if it kills me, and it just might.  I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to perky, (even my boobs have formed an anti-perky movement), so I'll have my trusty Epipen sitting right next to the keyboard in case my head decides to impersonate the Good Year blimp at the first sign of a positive attitude.

My new Friday motto is "Don't be dull. Be Bedazzling".



So put on your sequins, grab your rhinestones, and tune in next Friday. Prepare to be Bedazzled, and probably bewildered, befuddled, and be-what-thed?. 

Cheers
The Bedazzling Michelle :)

Going On A Troll Hunt: As Narrated By Sir David Attenbourough.

With Trolls becoming an increasingly prominent feature of the blogging landscape I thought it was time to shine a little light on these irritating creatures.  

(As I have found recently that my sense of humour doesn't always cross international boundaries I will now state for the record that this is a satirical post.  I am not discussing actual Trolls, as they don't actually exist. And I am not insulting the loveable green cartoon variety, like Shrek, who again isn't real and therefore wouldn't care if I dissed on Trolls of any variety.  Additionally, I don't know Sir David Attenborough personally, he's not really writing this post, but I do love a man with a whispered British accent, comb-over and a safari suit).

  *

NB.  This post requires that you have installed Sir David Attenborough Version 8.3, to view.  If you are not currently running this program, a free sample of Sir David Attenborough Version 8.3, can be downloaded by touching the elderly man tickling the lemur below.

TOUCH ME

As night falls the first stirrings can be heard, as the Trolls begin to awaken in their shadowed, odoriferous dens.  The Troll (genus. trollatus malodourous), once only found in the pages of children's fairy tales, can now be found moving from their fictional bridges and caves, to the digital realm.  The Troll is thought to have escaped it's native lands of Faraway, Mordor and Narnia, by hiding in an on-line order for a crate of bananas destined for the international market.  Once ignored due to it's mythical status, the Troll has now been designated feral by the UN, having reached plague proportions on all digital continents.

The Troll is known to have a number of species.  Perhaps the best known of the species, the Ricardo Craniosum, have a very distinctive, although tiny, flaccid phallic protruding from their forehead.  Other common species are the feather coated, Ornothosis Cerebrum, and the vampiric, Guano Loco*.  All species are known to be hideous to behold and have a distinctive smell of immaturity.

Trolls are known to be very flexible creatures.  Zoologists have reported that some species may spend up to 24 hours, with their head up their own arses.  Accordingly, they are also known to suffer from anosmia (no sense of smell), thus believing that their bodily excretions have no offensive odour.  Trolls are known to be afflicted with a number of genetic defects such as Gluteus Oralis, whereby their mouth and anus are joined, thus resulting in frequently disabling incidents of verbal diarrhoea.  Penis Minutis is also prevalent in the genus.

The mating habits of Trolls remain unknown as they are traditionally solitary creatures.  Less than 1% of Trolls are reported to have mates.  Some scientists have hypothesised that Trolls may be hermaphroditic as their reproductive opportunities are severely limited, yet they continue to reproduce.  This lack of new genetic material has been hypothesised as the cause of the Trolls lack of mental development.  Many Trolls are known to suffer from severe cases of repetitive strain injury, often losing the use of a hand by their mid-fifties.  Interestingly this condition appears to affect only one of the Trolls hands.  This condition is known as known as Unilateral Simian Chastisement Syndrome, by the scientific community.

The Troll is a vicious. mindless creature.  All are born without a frontal lobe and severely damaged amygdala.  As such the Troll is unable to be reasoned with.  It is known to be tangential, and use circumlocutions in discussions.  Trolls are unable to link ideas, understand tone, or whole sentences.  Trolls frequently revert to primitive language skills, rarely using words containing more than four letters or one-syllable.  Sadly the limited nature of the Trolls' cognitive abilities result in a severe spelling deficit as evidenced by the frequent use of words like 'cuz' and 'mutha'.

Most Trolls are known to self-name, with their choices reflecting their limited imaginations.  The most common Troll name is 'Anonymous', but variations such as 'Anon' and 'Anony Mouse', have also been recorded.

Trolls are notoriously hard to kill.  Interruption to the food cycle appears to be the most effective method of removal.  Traditionally they are known to feed upon the reactive outrage, fear, and hurt of their prey.  If the food supply dries up, they are however, known to move onto more fertile ground.

Trolls are a fascinating genus.  Their haphazard and primitive mentation can be a source of great humour.  The Troll, although frequently led astray by its single brain cell and grandiose delusions, is a caring soul.  It seeks to better the world by freely giving its opinion on all matters.  The Troll is perseverance personified, and a lack of knowledge is no impediment to it's desire to ensure others are educated and/or chastised, as they feel the case may require.  However, in their presence one can't help but feel pity for these simple creatures.  Their childlike idiocy and inability to understand basic social morays, are impediments to their ever integrating into mainstream society.

The WWF has recently set up a fund for the betterment of the Troll.  Dr Rupert Schmecktenfetzen, head of the Brothers Grimm, Get a Troll a Life Fund, said his hope is that one day all Trolls will get a life and return once more to their traditional homelands in the pages of Fairytale Land...

...and we can all live happily ever after.

Sir Dave :)

* This post is dedicated to the increasing numbers of my fellow bloggers who have had infestations of Trolls.  Whilst most have managed to encourage their Trolls to move on I did find this handy product, which they may find useful for re-infestations.

After requests here are some quick clarifications:

Ricardo Craniosum - aka Dick Head

Ornothosis Cerebrum - aka Bird Brain 

Guano Loco - aka Bat Shit Crazy
Unilateral Simian Chastisement Syndrome - Single Handed Spanking of the Monkey