Balloon animals of New Zealand: the overseas visitor edition

First things first. You'll remember, if you're an avid reader of Netflix and Children, my search for new Zealand's number one historical joke book, despite being unsure of its existence. And I can confirm, that yes, I am one step closer, for Mr Jason Gunn has replied to my correspondence! Indeed, Netflix and Children has the exclusive scoop that (a) Mr Gunn did compile a book of jokes in the early 90s, which was at the pre world-wide-web time, a lucrative earner, and (b) that he is indeed miffed at being incessantly passed over in his attempts to secure a (admittedly well deserved) knighthood for services to the gunge industry.

So, I implore you, please, if any reader should have a copy of this book, please let me know, for potential reviewing purposes.

And now, on to serious business.

Those with adequately functioning mid-term memories may remember a time last year when the more affluent suburbs of central Auckland were struck with a pestilence, one which restricted their travel with fresh fruit stuffs outside the confines of their immediate neighbourhood. How the beautiful people howled at the indignity of having to pre-prepare their organic kale and acai berry smoothies before heading to the crossfit gym. Gradually, restrictions were loosened, and a mango could be carried between Ponsonby and Herne Bay, so long as it bore a thick layer of cling film and Faro Fresh branding. Today, the plague has lifted, and the affluent Jafas are able to take their five plus a day to work, school or play once more. Here is my balloon depiction of the 2015 Grey Lynn fruit fly, laying siege to New Zealand's horticulture industry.

Still, it could have been much worse for the rich and well to do, had it been the Queensland Quinoa Fly, the Fijiian Moet and Chandon Grub or the South American Ferrari Weevil that had been discovered lurking in Remuera.

Double post! Book review: 'The Knock Knock Joke Book', and Balloon Animals of NZ: Low Hanging Fruit Edition

I love joke books! I used to anyway. I had so many growing up, and they were all better than the sorry excuse served up in The Knock Knock Joke Book, at least through my roses spectacled nostalgia. I've a vague recollection that Jase 'the Ace' Gunn even compiled an anthology of his own, presumably as part of intensive therapy to help him get over the trauma of Thingee losing an eye on national television. Unfortunately I'm unable to find evidence of this book of classic gags, so have resorted to a few last ditch measures.

Firstly, I have followed the sage advice of our prime minister, offered in reference to an equally scarce commodity: the Auckland house under $500,000. Unfortunately, going to trademe.co.nz and googling 'Jason Gunn Joke Book' did not return the 'quite a few' hits promised.

So secondly, I have tweeted the great man himself. I'll keep you updated. I feel my chances of a reply are somewhat higher than when I tweeted Frank Bainamarama about KFC.

Anyway. I bought the Knock Knock Joke Book in the hope I might be able to interest the 3 year old in humour, given his history of publicly rejecting my excellent gags and puns. And he loves the book! That's not necessarily a good thing. Normally I love forced jokes. The contents of this book aren't  forced though, so much as they are rammed down your throat with crudely drawn cartoons to explain exactly why the contrived situation you just read was funny: oh, I see, the person at the door was a carpet salesman, trying to draw maximum drama out of his arrival! How droll!

Granted: a few jokes are tireless classics. In fact, I think this one was even in Jase's anthology:

But too many rely on visuals to appeal to use in any real life situation. Like: why has this man got a seal on his head, and how am I going to convey that when I regale the joke during witty banter with chums down at the pub? Maybe prefaced by, 'hey dudes, wanna hear a gag that would be super chill if you had a seal on your head?'

Still other jokes just don't work at all. WTF is an island doing knocking at someone's door. Especially if it's landing on the roof with a parachute. FFS.

Fittingly, the last entry ends with a young lad running away (Omar goodness!), a strong metaphor for what anyone should do should they encounter this book.

0.5/10

And another thing!!! A week and a bit ago I presented John Key's finest career moment, sculpted in balloons. May I present today, modelled out of inflatable rubber, the climax of Minister of Business and Innovation and loads of other crap I can't be arsed googling Steven Joyce's time in politics. It is, of course, the Waitangi Dildo.

I was going to make some penis jokes at this point, but I think they've all been made already. So here's a picture of another phallus that Steven Joyce has the misfortune to be often associated with.

Children's book review: Dinosaur Rocks

I loved dinosaurs as a kid, so much so that the highlight of my childhood was probably the release of Jurassic Park, a film title my three year old now uses interchangeably with the cartoon series Dinosaur Train. One a terrifying genre defining thriller where a team of scientists, capitalists and children are systematically hunted down by velociraptors or eaten off the toilet by a T. rex, the other a load of talking reptiles on a train. Easily confused.

I feel, however, I may have been born before my time, given the sheer volume of dinosaur themed picture books presently in publication, each slightly more ridiculous in concept than the last. I've already reviewed one bizarre tome where a group of prehistoric reptiles are taken to the doctor. I haven't touched the frankly preposterous The Dinosaur who Pooped Christmas, nor the smililarly titled yet wholly differently stupid Dinosaur Poop. 

I had higher hopes for Dinosaur Rocks. Sure, it had that ludicrous juxtaposition of dinosaurs and humans again, but the illustrations of the dinosaurs at least looked more authentic.

Dinosaur Rocks is a book with the noble aim of getting Australian children interested in Australian dinosaurs, a task that may otherwise require a trip to Canberra (aka Aulstralia's Palmerston North, but with added politicians). Unfortunately, even these desperate measures may end in futility: on entering the National Australian Dinosaur Museum, a 2 year old Luke freaked on being roared at by a small animatronic carnivore, and fled in tears, refusing to return.

The book tells the story of a small lad, named Tim, packed off to spend some time with his BORING grandparents, presumably whilst his parents head off for a dirty weekend of romance of their own. His grandparents, used to raising children in a time when health and safety acts and child protection orders where non existent, send Tim off into the local forest, which, as it is IN AUSTRALIA remember, is probably home to snakes, spiders, crocodiles, sharks, drop bears, Ned Kelly, and bushfires. But they send a dog with him, so all good I suppose.

Against all odds, however, Tim avoids these dangers, instead falling down and hitting his head. 

And that's where things get strange. Tim presumably loses consciousness, and when he wakes, he starts hallucinating dinosaurs. Initially a small, golden dinosaur, which might conceivably be mistaken by his dog. I mean, once I ran 85km, and several tree stumps turned into my dog, so I know that feeling. But then he starts dreaming he is riding on a dinosaur, past some pretty massive prehistoric lizards that could not possibly be stimulated by any local visual input. And so it goes on...

Anyway, Tim eventually comes around, and returns to his grandparents.  Immediately he starts babbling about seeing dinosaurs. But rather than show concern for their grandson's delusional outburst and apparent hallucinations, Grandma's first two concerns are that Tim has lost his hat, and he smells like fish. He needs a bath. Later, his grandfather continues to neglect Tim's need for a doctor, instead going so far as to humour him, showing him pictures of dinosaurs and asking which he has seen.

Parents. grandparents. Childhood head injuries are serious. Seek medical attention if you suspect one.

2/10.

Balloon sculptures of New Zealand History: part 2

You know what's hard to make out of balloons? Most things actually. But I was pretty distressed when I looked at the comments from a previous post and saw a request from 'Anonymous' requesting a pregnancy hippo balloon animal. I have mastered a few models. My tapeworm is outstanding.

My roundworm isn't too bad either.

But I'm sorry, Mr/Mrs/Ms Anonymous, a pregnant hippo is alas outside of my capabilities. Still, I hope you enjoy the Wiggles concert, and can put the idea of Lachie and Emma sharing their purple wiggle and hot potatoes with one another out of your head.

Instead, I am honoured to present to you an abstract visualisation of a major innovation in New Zealand history. Most readers may know I am somewhat unimpressed by John Key, our country's prime minister. However, I will give him credit where it is due, in the invention of a whole new way of congratulating a sportsperson for a major success. Unfortunately hands are yet another difficult to sculpt model. I have managed four fingers each: a fifth is out of my scope.

But as you can see: the blue hand is reaching out to congratulate the orange hand on a major sporting endeavour: he has just led is team to a famous international victory. But low! What is this? A third, purple hand reaches in, clasping over the two already shaking appendages, not wanting to be left out of the sweaty three way.

God bless you John, for your innovative three way hand shake. Now immortalised in the form of a photo of three crudely shaped balloons.

If you like what you see, I can do children's parties.

Food review! Wattie's custard with banana

Its Tuesday, I'm bored. The kids are at the grandparents and my wife is at s musical practice. I have eaten meat! And now I've realised that at a push I've had 2 of my 5 plus a day, cos supermarket sushi doesn't really count as a vegetable (even if you get the amazing vegetable spring roll sushi, or the delectable chicken cranberry sushi, direct from top ethnic fusion outlet New World Supermarket Pahiatua).

On a tangent, I had briefly considered turning this blog into some sort of crap sushi or crap ethnic food blog, but my attempts at including family were thwarted by the three year old, who when on being exposed to Japanese food for the first time, declared loudly to the whole (actual authentic and quite nice this time) sushi bar, that he would 'not eat here EVER AGAIN', on account of it not warming him up on a cool day.

Anyway, in an attempt to reach my required vitamin C intake for the day I'm currently cramming as much fruit as I can into my pie hole at 10pm. Do hops count in your 5+? I'm saying yes, anyway. And it's persimmon season! Isn't that great! But I feel I need an accompaniment for my fruity delights, and there's no ice cream. Raiding the cupboard, my eye falls on a small sachet of Wattie's baby custard. Surely Emily won't mind if I nick it? It's not like she'll be eating it?

The ingredients look far removed from my previous baby food experiences. Not just simple mushed vegetable with some starchy carbohydrate: this has full cream milk (25%), sugar, butter, and cream, to be avoided for the body conscious six month plus year old looking to fit into that perfect onesie for summer, but a great winter comfort.

It looks like gelatinous gloop. And it's the colour of curdy baby vomit. Which, when you're a six month old, is something you might try and eat back up again. When you're thirty two, it's not as appetising, but maybe that's my problem. And anyway, I'm desperate for some accompaniment for my fruit, so it will do. The smell is bananaey enough, maybe not that authentic, real fresh banana, but the fake banana smell reminiscent of the time you made esthers in sixth form chemistry if you were a hard out nerd like I am.

The taste, unfortunately is a massive let down. First and foremost it's just a slimey texture, but then there's that horrible artificial banana dairy-food taste coming through and ruining anything. What is weird to me, is the smoothness. I can't believe I'm saying this after all these reviews, but it needs some bloody quinoa in there, something to give it grit, chia seeds, anything.

Does it work as a condiment or a dip? Not really. I dipped my banana in (ooh er missus), but the sauce just slides off, that's not a custard, custard needs to adhere, to be able to smother the accompanied food item and decimate any other taste that may be present. The persimmon faired even worse, I don't know why I even bothered trying to dip. 

Frankly, this custard is a disappointment, Mr Wattie. I've seen better served up as airline food.

3/10

Chris's Balloon Animals of NZ: an infrequent series

The Baby food blog is dead. Long live Netflix and children, which is really just a poorly thought out pun referring to the act of trying to enjoy some time with one's significant other, possibly involving streamed media, but being repeatedly disturbed by your offspring waking and spoiling the mood. Whatever the cause for the title, the sad fact of the matter is Emily is old enough that she eats what the rest of us eat now, and I'm simply not game enough to try and review my wife's cooking for attempted comedic effect. So there may be food reviews, but this will now be more books, films, tv, and toddlers music (read innapropriate jokes about the Wiggles, sorry Wiggles), whenever I have time.

Speaking of which, does anyone else get that Wake Up Jeff song? Cos speaking from experience as a man of medicine, most guys don't need much encouragement getting their Purple Wiggle to rise in the morning (Sorry Wiggles).

Anyway, balloon animals! Do you have a favourite moment in NZ history that you would like to see lovingly rendered in balloon sculpture? Let me know in the comments! This is an offer that is bound to explode in my face!

In the mean time, may I present Gareth Morgan's high horse? Just like the real thing, it's having a hard job of standing up by itself, and will eventually end up a flaccid disappointment!

Classic Children's Book Review: How Do Dinosaurs Get Well Soon? By Jane Yolen and Mark Teague

This blog has hit a snag that surely we all knew it would eventually, when Emily lost interest in eating baby food, and started eating what we do. Frankly, I don't think I can really do a banana true justice in a review, so I've had to turn my hand to other pastimes, like work, and spending quality time with my beloved family. We go to the circus, to which Luke asked if I would run away with him. We watch Fireman Sam (my favourite episode is the probably the one in which Station Officer Steel stays in his office all day polishing his helmet). And tonight, Emily and I live tweeted The Bachelor NZ (warning: shameless cross platform plug contains some strong language and adult themes).

But now I find myself with the kids asleep, Rachel out, and some time on my hands, and what else do I have to do but some reviewing? Well... Paperwork, fitness, wash the dishes... But anyway.

I find the premise of How Do Dinosaurs Get Well Soon, albeit well meaning without a doubt, still to be a troubling one. The story follows, in simple rhyme, the exploits of a group of parents whose offspring contracted probably upper respiratory tract infections, and their trips to seek medical attention for their young. But the fruits of the loins of these mothers and fathers aren't your regular snotty nosed kids, no, somehow, these mums have given birth to dinosaurs. And not just any run of the mill T-Rex or stegosaurus, but some quite exotic dinosaurs at that. Here, for example, is the universal childhood favourite the Tuijiangosaurus pretending to read Vogue magazine whilst waiting to be seen, while their GP has presumably suffered a catastrophic sudden loss of vision in being unable to find them in the room.

And herein lies the next problem, as on the next page, the young reader is told that a sickly dinosaur would listen to the doctor as doctors know best. 

Now, as a training general practioner, I feel qualified to comment on the accuracy of this statement. If  a petite young mother were to bring a sneezing, fully grown dilophosaurus into my office, my first reaction would very well not be 'stand back, I know best, here's a lollipop for you, you adorable non-opposed-thumb bearing dinosaur, now you go get well.' First would likely be a sharp explanation to the point of 'JFC there's a giant carnivorous reptile in my room.' Secondly, I would probably express surprise that such an obvious humanoid young lady could be related to such a hideous prehistoric beast. And thirdly, I would unfortunately have to point out my degree is in human medicine, so no, I would not have the first clue in how to treat your offspring's cold.

But unfortunately, there's more, as it's not just the human/dinosaur interaction trap that HDDGWS has fallen in to. Jurassic Park and its inferior sequels have unfortunately a series of serious questions to answer when it comes to their influence on dinosaur taxonomy trends. For this is not a picture of a velociraptor, it is a deinonychus. 

But I suppose, however much we may wish it so, scientific accuracy isn't the end goal of this book, and in the end the dinosaurs do tuck themselves up in bed, take their medicine, and in deed get well soon. So maybe I am just being harsh when I give it a 6/10 for the storyline, but 2/10 for the science.