Giving up and letting go of things you like to do is a difficult process. If you’re a little too well rounded, you give up your fetish for chocolate cake. If you have an addiction to shopping, you cut up your credit cards or take on a Winona-esque scheme to take them without paying. If you’re a compulsive profanity nut like myself, you give up swearing for a month.

Starting out as a joke between friends, it seemed like a preposterous suggestion. It was only after I’d actually considered it that it seemed like an interesting idea. Not just to prove to my friends that I could do it, but to prove to myself that it could be done. I hadn’t quite realised just how difficult it was going to be.

In the last week of March, I knew what was coming and so did everyone else. Everyone made it their personal duty to remind me every time a banned word was used that ‘there was little time left to speak that way’. I foolishly thought that I could just erradicate those words from my vocabulary when I needed to. But it wasn’t that easy. It sounds cliche to say that old habits die hard, but I was so accustomed to speaking this way and it was so ingrained that I just couldn’t shake it.

Day one was the most difficult, like having a cold shower (shrinkage and all). I quickly learned that it wasn’t the words said openly in the public forum that were going to get me into trouble. It was those murmured to myself that would trip me up. I narrowly escaped with a total of seven words that day; a record I felt particularly good about. By day three, this had risen to twenty-two as the enormity of the whole exercise began to take shape. If I continued on this path, I’d be in the triple digits before the first week was done.

The end of the first week signaled a shift in attitude. It had taken me this long to wrap my head around the task at hand and drop much overused words from my daily vocabulary. Of course, nothing is ever completely gone, and there were still many times when words would slip out unintentionally. The final tally stands at 68; not particularly dazzling but a modest effort I would think.

As I reflect on this two days into a new month with no restrictions on my verbal expression, I’m feeling like I accomplished something. I’ve learned to use those unfavourable words more spearingly - I’m more creative as a result. This is now an annual event, one that I hope to drag other people into when I take it on again next year.

It was a long, ridiculous journey. It was fun, but thank God it’s over.

I love lollies and sweet food, believe me I do. If I was given the opportunity to live in a candy store, I would. If there was such a thing as the confectionary diet fad, I’d be its poster boy. Okay, so I might be hyping it up just a little. I’m partial to a good few sweets every now and then and I do like a good doughnut. But I’m not ’stars in your eyes’ crazy about them, like some people are:

Neil Abraham and two of his sons camped outside the new Krispy Kreme store in the hope of winning the ‘golden ticket’- a year’s supply of doughnuts…

Mr Abraham, a Morayfield website developer who describes himself as “Australia’s biggest Krispy Kreme fan”, said it wasn’t the first time he’d camped out with his family on the eve of a store opening.

“We all camped out for the opening of the Penrith store in June 2003 and the kids had such a great time,” he said… (Brisbane Times)

Ill-informed rants about the absurdity of this and its correlation childhood obesity aside: is this guy for real? I’m not saying he’s got enough screws loose to lock his kids in a basement for 24 years, but how is waiting outside a store all night (in the cold) for it to open a good time?

You get five points for being sympathetic to the homeless, and maybe another five for teaching your kids about commitment (although the subject is clearly questionable), but you strike out where family activities are concerned.

What’s wrong with board games, the movies or the zoo? Sure, you won’t get the points for originality. But you also won’t die an early death from a cholesterol related illness.

Sometimes, when all hope appears lost, a last minute act of grace can sweep in to save the day. Observe:

A Supreme Court judge has continued her ban on the broadcast of a Today Tonight interview titled “Crime Mums”. (The Age)

Thank God for that. It’s nice to see someone else has finally had enough of the bullshit these guys try to pass off as news and has found a way to use the legal system to block them. And rightly so.

Desperate for stories, (tune in Thursday as they slide further into mediocrity) Anna and Co. teamed up mob Mums’ Barbara Williams and Judith Moran for a good old stoush. In a prime-time slot, this surely would have fizzled at best; boy’s giving each other wedgies on the playground would’ve carried more clout.

Surely the better idea would have been a Gladiators cross-promo piece? Put them in a padded room and give them an oversized cotton bud each to try and kill each other with. It would have been just as rehearsed and tacky - but it could’ve been marginally more entertaining.

Over at Nine, Tracey wasn’t about to play second fiddle. In a decidedly Frontline-esque maneuver, Tracey interviewed the outspoken and always media savvy Roberta Williams. I didn’t catch the interview (unfortunately) but I did manage to watch some of SBS’ WeatherWatch overnight; which was probably more entertaining and at least informative.

Let’s hope both of these shows continue to push the boundaries until the legal system blocks them from doing all sorts of stories. Then they’ll have to start blatantly fabricating issues and admitting they made them up.

It’s a step in the right direction, I’d say.

I’m a little perplexed. After discovering that I had nothing better to think about this afternoon, my brain ventured into ’smut territory’ as I wondered this: why do people make sex tapes? 

First of all, I don’t think this is what the electronics industry had in mind when they created the portable video recorder. If I had to make a rough guess, I’d say they thought people would use them for holiday moments and special occasions; rather then 60 minutes of infra-red lit sex featuring a bimbo hotel heiress. Furthermore, I doubt that technologies like steady-shot, auto focus and infra-red were designed to make nipples and genitals look good in low bedroom light. 

If you’re going to film your own personal hour-of-power, be prepared for it to leak to the internet. At the very least, don’t be surprised if there’s a tape mix up and Great Grandma Ethel gets a nasty surprise rather then I Love Lucy repeats. On the upside, it could do wonders for the budding film career. You’ve basically got an all-access pass to Hollywood after everyone has seen you and your partner going at it.

Are we that starved for entertainment that the idea of filming ourselves in flagrante delicto is the best we can come up with? I’ve spoken before about the lack of good quality shows on the telly, but I can’t say the situation is at the point were I’d consider this. Whilst you could probably muster the same level of poor dialogue, story-line and cinematography that shows like Home and Away have made famous, I’d much rather read a book or play scrabble.

People need to stop making sex tapes. Once the initial mystique of the filming wears off, they’re little more then ticking time bombs. You’re hardly going to invite your friends and family over for screenings or submit it to Tropfest - and if you’re not going to show it, I don’t see the point.

Love it or hate it, money makes the world go round. It’s cliche I know, but if Eddie McGuire showed up at your house and offered you $1 Million in exchange for your soul, you’d definitely consider it. But then you’d haggle down to offer him your personality instead; a much more useful transaction. If money was no object, we could spend our days frivolously burning money away just for the fun of it. Much like these guys do:

British defence officials have defended a decision to allow Prince William to fly himself and Prince Harry to a buck’s night in an air force helicopter.

British media reports said Prince William flew a $21 million Chinook helicopter to London last week, picked up his brother, and then went on to the Isle of Wight for their cousin’s stag do.
(The Age) 

When questioned about this, the RAF tossed it off as a training exercise. Don’t get we wrong, I like carbon wasting, (almost) orphan royals as much as the next person. But when you’re going to think up an excuse to justify the blatant misuse of British military property, at least try and make it a good one. Those involving a royal in bad health usually do well, perhaps drop a hint of death in the mix for a bit more sympathy. 

When all else fails, put a spin on the truth. Even if there is some obvious bullshit woven in, it might just sound plausible enough for people to believe.

Princes William and Harry flew a $21 million helicopter to London last week after massive transport delays prevented the two from attending a cousins’ stag do on the Isle of Wight. The Ministry of Defense has refuted claims that this was a blatant misuse of RAF equipment.

“William was running late and Harry was stuck in London at the time. This was the only possible way we could collect both of them, plus the booze, pot and nazi uniforms needed for the party. We also didn’t want to miss the festivities of such an important event - we simply had to arrive before the entertainers did.”

There you go. Simple and easy - a dash of lie with a hint of truth. For best results, follow up the morning after with a two page spread featuring a member of the royal family fondling a strippers’ breasts. By then everyone will have forgotten what all the fuss is about.

For those who have never experienced it, peak-hour public transport in Melbourne is certainly an interesting experience. If you love big crowds, inconsiderate people and service delays, you’re in for a treat. Don’t get me wrong, once get past the overcrowded, body odor-fueled smell of a train carriage, there really are some redeeming qualities here.

It’s just that none of them relate to the services.

Try as you might, its difficult not to fall into someone else’s conversation on a crowded train. Unless you have an iPod or a music player with a pair of ridiculously oversized headphones, it’s easy to find yourself engrossed in a conversation about feline renal failure or listening to someone complain about a bad day in the office. On the odd occasion, you stumble upon something so utterly rediculous that you can’t help but smile, and hope that no-one notices. Case in point:

Girl One: I can’t go shopping tonight. I’ve got to go visit Lisa, she’s in hospital.
Girl Two: Oh no, what’s wrong with her?
Girl One: She has really bad sunburn.
Girl Two: Oh…
(Conversation continues as normal)

Of course the name here has been changed to prevent possible identification and the high likelihood that this person would win the “moron of the week” award.

There are barely enough beds in hospitals as it is. But poor old Lisa’s in there wasting resources, just because she was too busy lip-syncing to the Veronicas’ whilst doing her nails, and the fumes from the paint were just enough to disguise the smell of her flesh burning to a crisp.

Just a quick sidenote for you all: If you’re out in the sun, take sunscreen and appropriate gear to cover up. Furthermore, if you feel yourself slowly cooking, it’s probably safer to move into the shade or indoors.

Tanning might be the ‘in thing’, but I suspect medium-rare is probably overdoing it.

We all try our best to be moral upright citizens of modern society. We go through our daily lives with every attempt to act courteously to others and to follow the rules so that we can live as harmoniously as possible.

Still, there’s always that sneaking inevitability that you’re going to trip, fall and smack your face into the proverbial pavement. One of those defining moments where you realise you’re not as highly principled as you thought. I had one of these moments the other night.

In the huff and excitement that is late night shopping (no really, it’s as fantastic as it sounds) I was hurriedly looking through mountains of CD’s to try and find the one I was after. What was left of my measly brains’ power was devoted solely to recovering this album; I was not leaving without it.

Imagine my surprise (read: shock and discomfort) when I ran into an old friend that I had not seen for years.  Not having the option of denying my identity, I was sucked into a black hole and whisked away to my former youth while we reminisced about the old times.  Some of them weren’t that great to begin with, not to mention relived.

Returning to the present, surrounded by ruthless shoppers and rapidly depleting store open-hours, a query was raised about catching up sometime. Then it happened. Red flags went up and I promptly aborted the mission for my music, saying that I needed to find someone to help me look for this particular disc. Except, I never returned.

I’m not proud of this particular moment, but just how do you politely turn down an invitation in casual conversation? Being honest often comes off sounding brutal. Lying, far too obvious. Try as I might, I just can’t think of a nice way to say, “I’d rather not hang around me because you’re weird and nerdy”.

Go on, throw your stones. I might deserve it. I still think my approach was better then the old false number trick. Or even giving a number and then refusing to answer when they call. By childishly running away and avoiding the situation, I’ve sent a clear-cut message that a catch up is probably not on the cards.

Unless of course, it was ambiguously conveyed and he’s still standing there in the shop. Somebody call security.

I’m a little concerned. For the second week running, Gladiators was the top rating show on the Sunday night. That means 1.5 Million Aussies decided they had nothing better to do then watch over produced, poorly acted, predictable drama.

Admittedly, this could definitely be seen as a high point, given that a current affairs show took a break from puff pieces to show a story on incest, but I digress; surely there must something better to do for an hour on a Sunday night?

But just in case there’s not, and 45 minutes glued to a box and ignoring your family sounds like a good way to let your hair down and escape for a bit, let me propose some changes:

Surprise - Correct me if I’m wrong about this, but I don’t think the ancient Romans had a referee counting down and ensuring they were ready to begin. Scrap the ref and spring the Gladiators on the contestants without warning, perhaps even drunk. That would at least make it a little less predictable.

Real Injury - As much as you might want to kid yourself, nobody’s watching to see good sportsmanship and competition. What we really want to see is broken bones and fractured eye sockets. For me, it’s not acceptable unless a stretcher is required – none of this sprained ankle garbage.

Fat People - Forget the athletically fit ‘in it to win it’ contestants, this show is all about physical exertion. What better way to trump the other flab busting shows already on the box then to get those tubbies off their sofas fighting each other? Change the lycra costumes to trackies (for obvious reasons) and throw in a bucket of chicken to sweeten the deal (they’ll work it off anyway).

Alcohol - Revisiting my first point: I’m not one for the promotion of irresponsible consumption of alcoholic beverages but and provided no bottles or wine glasses are used as props, it could prove interesting to watch drunken people climb a pyramid or hang from a ball. So long as they don’t end up sitting in the corner telling each other how much they love each other.

It infuriates me that shows like Gladiators get the audiences, while the good ones suffer. This is especially true nowadays with such quality Australian content on the box. Unfortunately, it’s often shows that are as ridiculous as my suggestions that rate.

If I want to watch poorly acted, predictable fights, I’ll watch parliament question time.

I went out with some mates for dinner last night. Not so out of the ordinary, you would think? Think again:

Random Drunk Guy: Mate you’ve gotta move those (sticks) before I end up falling over them.

Me: No worries, sorry about that.

Random Drunk Guy: What have you done to yourself anyway?

Me: Oh this? This is permanent. I have cerebral palsy.

Random Drunk Guy: Oh. Well you’re looking well for someone with that sorta thing. It’s good to see you still out and about, staying active.

Me: … Cheers.

First of all kids, drinking too much (especially without your teeth in) is never a good thing. Secondly, thank you to the rent-a-crowd who pretended to be friends with me last night.

That hour I was able to spend out of my windowless room, locked away from you normal people, was the most fun I’ve ever had. Ever.

Swear Count: A miserable 30. 

Nothing smart to report for the day…

The resounding exception to that being this: my swear count sits at 22.

There’s very little you can say about that really. I had a particularly standard day, encountering work colleagues who knew exactly what buttons to push. Of course, knowing I am undertaking this challenge, many raised their heavy artillery in every effort to trip me up.

In my (rather poor) defence however, I would say that old me would’ve used that amount of words up in half a day, let alone three.

Surprisingly however, it’s not the words used in conversation, but rather those muttered to myself that continue to trip me up (even whilst wheeling).