January 26, 2005

merry australia day!

Yesss! It’s Australia Day, that special time of the year where I can celebrate without restraint the fact my mother and absconding father rooted somewhere on this continent, magically giving me the right to dance on generations of dead natives. And what better way to commemorate the coincidence of my conception within these well-guarded borders than with a PARADE OF IGNORANCE!
There are many things that, despite my faint efforts, I do not understand. This week I hope to be enlightened by my readers through indepth discussions of subjects I have failed to grasp.

Bob Dylan’s Success
Why? Why is this man so popular? As far as I can see, all he did was make music boring and annoying. I admit that ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ is a mildly entertaining song with a good film clip. Other than that, his greatest contribution to pleasurable music was a brief chorus in the Traveling Wilburies’ ‘Handle Me With Care.’ Everything else I’ve listened to bored me to tears. I mean, it’s deliberately slow.
Holy Christ, then there is his voice. Ever notice that he and Sonny Bono sound exactly the same? No-one hesitates to say Sonny was shithouse, but because Dylan came up in the coffee houses frequented by trust fund bohemians and not as Cher’s handbag, he’s a fucking innovator.
Please readers: correct me. I want to get it. Really, I do. If you can’t explain it, you just got served! Booyah!

Internet Sexuality.
Remember when fucking another dude up the arse was seen as extreme? Then came the Internet and it wasn’t enough to have poo sex, you had to stretch your anus to the size of a roasting tray and take pictures of your girlfriend being fisted like a muppet.
Then some folks decided that they want to have sex with children’s toys (they call it “yiffing”. Blaaarg!). Then these “plushies” determined that it wasn’t enough to root a Simba doll, oh no. They decided to branch out, now there are whole communities of guys (and some particularly terrifying women) who have forgone human company altogether and now dress in Paddlepop Lion suits.
Don’t get me started on the contribution of the Japanese to this whole mess. Most people are familiar with the whole “raped-with-mysterious-tenticle-dripping-with-juice” manga schtick. The japs have also been doing the chop-the-little-girl-into-pieces porn for years. Then, with the Internet and a mass interaction with round eyes, stuff like this picture was produced for people to wank over. There is no Da Vinci code here. That’s Velma Dinkley, the character from Scooby Doo, being erotically tickled. By the dead. On a crucifix. In a graveyard. On the Internet.

January 19, 2005

too fat, too furious

That last post might have seemed a bit harsh, or a waste of time. Maybe I should explain a little.
I was reading some gay press about how everything was great now there were queers on the telly. Straight after that I saw some shit about these "fat positive" people who reckon it's awesome to be a fatty, talking about the "fat community" and stuff.
This all seemed a little dumb to me. It's the worst of identity devoid of any of the content. You could have some white supremacist with a dead baby hanging from his anus, but because he likes bum sex that's a notch in the "hooray for gay" category.
Basically, all these things that should be emphemeral are being put centre stage, regardless of what people say. So it was my way of saying that, just as targeting people specifically for derision on such a stupid basis is ludicrous, so is identity politics.
Just thought I'd share that. It's been bugging me that no-one has said anything about it even though it's pretty offensive, even from me. So, for the record, I like fatties. I've made love to fatties. I would like to make love to fatties again.

In other news, I'm thinking about starting a podcast. Not sure how the whole RSS thing works. Gotta do some more homework on that. I do have all the equipment I need. I recently scored a free Playstation2, with EyeToy and SingStar microphones (I know, I'm just bragging). The mics use a USB port, and I found that these work on my Mac. I've got the software that I need (again, free. Thank you freeware makers of the world!). All I need now is the server space.

I don't like the word "podcast" by the way. If you take the word "broadcast", the meaning is obvious; it comes from the fishing technique of casting a wide net, and the parallels to the way radio and telly works are obvious. The metaphor can easily be extended to the way this form of communication functions. Calling it "linecasting" would make much more sense. Calling it "podcasting" is like calling letter writing a "bictransmission."

As you can probably tell by the date and time of this posting, I've got really bad insomnia again. For once, I've done my column early but I have an article due tomorrow. Frankly, I think my writing has been super shit lately, that is, if it was ever good. My shoulders are killing me, my chest hurts... I think I have cancer. Yes, there's a cancer growing in my chest. I've OD'd on Pringles. I'm reduced to watching Water Rats and infomercials while my housemate's laptop burns a hole in my crotch. Christ, I know I usually rail against these kind of personal postings, but I need some inspiration. Can people send me interesting links, presents or some music? I need something to get me excited.

In other news, it looks like I'm moving house in early March to... BRUNSWICK. Yep, I'll be back in the 'hood. Can't wait. I spent the weekend there last week and it was all very folksy. People visit each other and have chooks in their backyards. I remember when I first moved there back in 1999 it seemed so inner city. It'll be good to be able to move into a house where I can make some noise. We have a crazy neighbour who screams if he can hear anything. He once threatened to punch me because he heard cutlery rattling. The other morning he woke me up because he was calling someone a motherfucker over and over again. And if you're reading this Laslo, YOU'RE AN UGLY FUCKING CUNT.

Oh, and my other big news is that I've rediscovered Friendster. I already found one friend from back in the day. Oh, the magic of the internet! Everyone join and let's be friends!

January 12, 2005

2005: year of the fatty

Something so wonderful, so amazing, has happened I must share it with you: the media got fatter and, to a lesser extent, greasier. It happened so suddenly and discreetly, one might have thought that the ham-figured ruled the airwaves this whole time. Nay! The buttertrolls have reached critical mass and we, the mocking public, shall reap the benefits.

All these well-insulated people were previously obscured, having wiled away the years frolicking and breeding in their natural habitat: the Internet. There are many splendid sites dedicated to the rotund and here are a couple guaranteed to make your compubox weigh a few kilos more.
fat chicks in party hats
Miguel has an eye for people who resemble Christmas trees. Fatchicksinpartyhats.com is 39 pages of fatties and fags who have chosen to post their pictures in public. Shit-yourself-funny captions and speech bubbles include phrases such as “I am meat!” and “The hat is so small I think it will make me fly!”
There are people who actually masturbate over pictures of overweight dragons. And I quote:
“We do NOT intend to make our product as for ADULTS ONLY.
Though, there are some scenes that furry characters taking a bath or a shower in the story.
We do not have any idea about the laws or the religion you obey.
Please do not purchase if it is not legal that naked characters of furry under your laws or religion.”

Extreme Makeover
Not content with bashing skinny people in the face with surgical hammers (thereby being one of the best shows ever), XMO have added a brilliant twist to their show by incorporating crying fatties into the show’s format.
Recent episodes have pitted fatty against fatty, as they vied to lose weight in order to be able to fit onto the operating table. In a particularly heart-wrenching moment, three fatties broke their diet and inhaled some turkeys. This lead to the terrifying possibility that they would not have their lifestyle and subjective values altered by a surgery flimsily justified by “self esteem”. Fortunately, all three of the beanbag people lost enough lard to have their asymmetrical features changed.
Where to from here? How can XMO incorporate more of these intentional endomorphs into their already awesome show? Between busy fortnights spent filling in my dole form, I intend to write a stern letter to the producers and suggest that they begin a regular segment called “Extra Large Make Over.” In it, contestants have their fat pummeled into shapes that can further amuse the viewers. Imagine: a fatty panel-beaten to resemble an upside-down pyramid. Amazing!

The Biggest Loser
If you only read the premise of this show on paper, you might think that it was pulled kicking and screaming from the business end of a coat hanger through the birth canal of a television executive. Once again, it proves that amateur consumers have no idea what makes for good television because The Biggest Loser is the culmination of Western culture.
For those of you ignorant about programmes featuring our Hutt-like bretheren, this show has two teams. All have lead lives revolving around eating cake and margarine and have decided that their days of chubbiness are over. The red and blue teams use different regimens to lose weight and throughout the show, the fatties are weighed as they display their flubber. There are manboobs aplenty. One guy even has boobs on top of his boobs. It’s even greater than that sounds. At the end, the final player is awarded US$250,000.
This show has just finished its first season in the US. Let’s just say that weight-loss takes a backseat as the knives (and forks) come out. The fatties battle it out, and this may or may not involve the contestants throwing armfuls of belly at each other.

if it bleeds, it dies.

Just a quick note to say that I finally fixed the link to the Sonny Spotting blog. Worth checking out for the pure nerdy hilarity.
In other news, It's 5am and I'm still trying to do this week's column for The Brag.

January 05, 2005

cocktails & dreams

Summer has always been a special time for me: the smell of sunscreen, the taste of alcoholic drinks and, of course, sounds of domestic violence. As a wise drunkard once pointed out to me while he tried to coordinate both eyeballs, it’s all the artificial ingredients in alcoholic drinks that cause the sickness and anger. Of course! That’s why booze-related aggression magically appeared alongside the invention of preservatives.

With all that cleared up, I decided to invent some drinks that combined my love of popular culture and the need to redirect my feelings away from social injustices and toward self destruction. This entry delivers some genuinely drinkable cocktail recipes, slightly modified from a quick Google search to conform to this blog's byline. Party on!

Johnny 5 Mojito
1 shot of Cuban light rum
10 fresh mint leaves
dash of gomme syrup (sugar syrup)
1/2 a lime
soda water
1 sentient robot

Lightly crush the mint and mix with the sugar and rum in a tall glass. Squeeze the lime and drop the rind into the glass. Fill the rest of the glass with soda water and ice. Serve with a lightly entertaining and sentient robot, with the guy who played Balki Bartokamous on Perfect Strangers on the side.

Charles Bronxon
Charles Bronson
Then I said to him, "Drink this!"

Small shot of dry gin
Small shot of French dry vermouth
1 slice of orange
1/2 a slice of pineapple
Cold, brutal revenge

In a mixer, squash the orange and pineapple with a pestle or a spoon. Rain the shots of gin and the vermouth with vengeance over the crushed remains of the fruit and shattered ice. Shake that rat bastard to hell for going near your family until all is a blur of alcoholic drink and tears of grief (i.e. 40 times). Strain and serve in a cocktail glass.

Paris Hilton
1 shot of brandy
1/2 a shot of absinthe (if unavailable, try pernod or ouzo)
1 tablespoon of Grenadine
1/2 a ripe peach
Expensive champagne

Shake all the ingredients, except the champers, in one of Daddy’s pure silver cocktail mixers, then strain into a white wine glass that one of the servants has placed in the freezer beforehand. Strain into the glass and top with champagne. Serve while kicking Delta Goodrem and being generally fabulous.

Beyonce’s Arse
1 shot of peach schnapps
1 shot of Midori
Splash of Bicardi
Cranberry Juice

In a highball glass filled with cracked ice, pour the schnapps and Midori. Top with cranberry juice and drink until the rumours about Jay-Z’s sexuality disappear. Follow with a Destiny’s Child chaser that isn’t as good as Beyonce’s solo album.

Russell Crowe Punch
1 small bottle of vodka
4 longnecks of Crown Lager
4 cups of lime-flavoured Slurpee from 711

Fill a large punch bowl half way with ice. Pour all the ingredients in, ignoring Russell Crowe’s intensely shitty band. Drink until fists start swinging.