An evening of backward women

The Lovely Wife and I were joined by Stack and a few others on Friday night at Lesbian Idol Icon (Grundy Television are threatening to sue, party poopers).

According to the photos I took with the new, whizz-bang, Star Trek-esque portable, wireless mobile telephony device, it looks like it was quite an evening.

Thank goodness for the phone.

Otherwise I would only be left with the selected highlights that have somehow stuck in my memory.

If by 'highlights' I mean propping myself up against a wall in the Oporto car-park watching fooly sik burn-outs whilst wondering why I wasn't getting beaten up...

And you just know that is what I mean by 'highlights'...

This is what I've pieced together so far.

And no, it is not supposed to make any sense.















Looks good, huh!

I guess the Lovely Wife and I could start up a Canberra StinkTown^TM version of Lesbian Idol Icon , but I'm not sure we'd get many takers. It would probably just end up being her and I sitting around in our lounge room singing Shania Twain (Man, I feel like a woman...)

Tickets are selling fast.

Observational humour - Australian Idol styley

Kate's gotta wonder what is the point of winning Australian Idol and having a publicist when photos such as these make it into the paper:



Spot the difference:



Sorry. That was mean. I'm going straight to hell.

So anyway, did youse see the final Australian Princess last night?

Hooray! Abby tanked and did not win!

Although, I wish I'd formulated a drinking game before the show involving a big chug-a-lug every time one of the girls said 'journey' or ' oh my gaaawwwwwd'. I woulda been wasted before the first ad break. Stomach pumps on the ready!

Negative nelly

Oh the internet is so cool!

Oh the internet brings people together!

Oh the internet is like democracy in action MAN!

Geographical distance is a forgotten concept!

Where do you want to go today?

The world on your computer!

The computer is your world!

Life without boundaries!

Travel the world without leaving your desk (or putting any pants on)!

And so on.

Random paradox – this Newtown photo pool is so good, when I look at the photos of Camperdown Rest Park, King Street and random beer gardens I am there. The sense of place is so strong in these brilliant photos. But all it does is remind me of how far away it all is and how barren (Sharon) StinkTown ^TM is.

The cliches need retooling. The internet is nothing but a mean, rotten tease. It takes me there in pictures, but then refuses to be some kind of awesomely advanced matter transporter that can zap me to and from this place and that without the need for a shitty 3 hour freeway trip.

Here is StinkTown ^TM right now. Grey ‘n’ dull enough for ya?



And here, thanks to Stack, is something random from Newtown that you might see just wandering around on your way between good pubs and functioning public transport:



Hell, it even looks good when it rains in Newtown:



Compare and contrast. Contrast and compare. God knows there’s nothing else to do ‘round here.

Model takes drugs. People shocked. People stupid. Me not shocked.

I’ve heard Michelle Leslie called a few things lately…

…fake Muslim…

…convicted drug user…

…former model…

Frankly, I would be WTF OMG horrified if someone called me a ‘former model’. Defamatory to the max times a million, mang.

But what is ‘fake Muslim’ anyway?

Something sold down at Paddy’s markets by greasy middle-aged men wearing bum bags and patch-leather jackets? I guess you might be able to find it amongst the billions of fake real-honest-genuine-even-though-it-costs-only-$20-OMG-bargain-Von Dutch rip offs.

“You see how girlfriend’s ‘Louis Vuitton’ handbag has single stitching around the zipper and the pattern print doesn’t line up over the seams? That is so fake. Fakey fake fake fake. Faker than the fake tan on a fake Kyle Sandilands. Faker than an Ian Thorpe girlfriend. FAKE!”

“Yeah, and she also has an intermittent and seemingly non-genuine commitment to a politically topical religion solely for the purposes of establishing mitigating circumstances in an upcoming drugs trial in a foreign country. I hate that.”

“Word. That is so uncool.”

Wow. The imaginary teenage conversations that go on in my head are so articulate these days.

Whiny, weedy, pastey bloke responsible for World Cup glory

Never used to really like John Safran. Particularly not in the Race Around the World days. Maybe it was to do with that show, I don’t know (I mean, David Caesar is pretty much the most annoying jerk I can think of right now, and he makes bad movies, and then the show just turned into one of those shows where once it became obvious that it had some appeal, the ABC went all overkill and shit – like Good News Week *shudder*).

But anyway, we’re all going to have to consider liking John since it seems he is responsible for the mega-World-Cup-qualifying-win-of-glory-extravaganza that you may have noticed lately.

In his recent series, John Safran v God (notable for the extended montage of John being spanked by a Buddhist monk – saucy!), one particular episode centered on a curse placed on the Socceroos in Mozambique in the late 1970s. Since that time, the Socceroos had failed to qualify for the World Cup.

Rather than this being due to a series of superior opponents, poor defending, an inability to shoot on target and Frank Farina, the idea was that the curse was the problem.

I recall the process for reversing the curse involved some kind of humourous and nauseating combination of John Safran and animal blood.

But, whaddya know? One year, John Safran travels to Mozambique to lift the curse, the next year, the Socceroos qualify!

So you know what this means, don’t you. African sorcery is the real religion everybody!

Save yourselves while you still can!

High-steppin', leotard-lovin' lady...

So has anyone seen the new Madonna film clip?

:HUf ihqdqcUHDIQCHD;&yr*#hIAFlLPSs ..d”jofirj

Sorry, I just kinda went all weak and fell onto the keyboard. That’s not to mention the dribbling.



If you haven’t seen it, its pretty much Madonna getting about in a tiny little leotard, throwing her impossibly small bottom around in a hypnotically jiggly kind of way.


And she keeps looking at the camera in a very h0tt, sultry “I’m so hot and unobtainable, so fuck you, right now, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck” kind of way.

Brbrbabbbleh *dribble* *dribble*

Don’t look at me like that! It is seriously mesmerising.

The clip was on Video Shits on the weekend and kinda led to the following:

Lovely wife (from the next room): come on, let’s go out to breakfast.
Me: ……
Lovely wife: Hel-lo!?!
Me: ….. um, just a minute...
Lovely wife (coming into the room and seeing the TV): Oh. I see.
Me: ….
Lovely wife: Ok, you can stop dribbling now. And you can also stop moving your head up and down in time with Madonna’s high-kicking dance moves, thank you very much. And I’m a bit concerned that you haven’t blinked in about 2 minutes and 36 seconds.
Me: I’m powerless!
Lovely wife: Gee, she really has an impossibly small bottom, doesn’t she.

I think she just might mount a challenge to Beyonce (in Austin Powers: Gold Member, and also when she is in the giant cocktail glass in the Naughty Girl film clip) and hot, wet, cage-dancing Portia De Rossi in Arrested Development, on my list of lovely lady celebrities of the hour.

Really really important disclaimer: All of these women are NOTHING in comparison to my lovely lovely wife...

Professionally speaking

Some annoying workplace practices (that really ought to be addressed in the current debate on industrial relations reform):

1. People who get a new mobile phone and then decide to test all the different ring-tones at their desk. Really loudly. And then go through them all again. Just to be sure.

2. Overhearing someone tell the same boring story about buying a new mattress for their 8-year old son, or having some kind of invasive exploratory medical procedure, to 6 different people over the course of a morning.

3. Attempting to exit a lift only to find some pushy jerk pushing his way in from the outside first like a jerk (rude!) – I guess this could happen anywhere, but it happens to me a lot a work.

4. Completely forgetting about that really-important-task-that-people’s-lives-depend-on-judging-by-the-reaction-of-the-managers and missing the deadline and feeling like an idiot (I guess this could be my fault).

5. Going into the toilets and overhearing other people in other cubicles let loose in an really unnecessarily uninhibited fashion (vom. it).

6. Going to the toilets and casually chatting or saying ‘hi’ to someone you know, and then they keep talking as you enter the cubicle, and then, even after you both started taking care of your business, they keep talking still! (so creepy!) I don't want to talk and whizz, thanks. I can do that at home.

7. Paper cuts. Sneaky bastards.

8. Any adult with Winnie the Pooh merchandise on their desks. Cretin. You don’t deserve employment.

9. People who go jogging/cycling/hang-gliding/snow-boarding at lunch time and then deliberately make a detour via their desks on the way to showers just to show off that they are in exercise gear and brag about how fit and enthusiastic they are. It is particularly bad if they are wearing lycra. I sat at my desk and ate bad food, but you don’t hear me bragging about that, do ya?!

...and...

10. If it happens to rain, the way at least 50 zillion ker-jillion people say, at least 50 zillion ker-jillion times in the day "its good for the garden". Stop making me feel banal by saying such banal things!

And to think I was worried that working full-time in an office environment would degrade my intelligence, sap my will to live and reduce me to obsessing over really trivial things...

Happy to be wrong

Way to leave it until the last possible minute fellas!

PS Note how the goalie saved the day? Goalies rule.

So did I mention that I hate Tony Vidmar?

Question: What do the 1993, 1997, 2001 and 2005 Socceroo World Cup qualifying campaigns have in common?

Answer: Losing. And Tony Vidmar.

Its not a coincidence.



Are you crying because you suck, Tony Vidmar?


And here he is with his considerably more talented brother.



Imagine this: 80 minutes gone on Wednesday night at Telstra Stadium.

U-R-Gay corner kick.

Tony Vidmar on the far post.

Recoba fires in a gorgeous, flat, strong cross.

What happens next?

a) Tony Vidmar handballs it, Dario Silva converts from the spot.

b) Tony Vidmar goes to clear the ball off the line but it goes through his legs and into the back of the net (my personal favourite)

c) I run onto the field and shoot Tony Vidmar.

Vote now!

Also, I'd like to see some kind of soccer version of the recent cricket tests between Australia and the World XI.

Except the 'World' team would be made up of players from the Argentine, Iranian and Uruguayan squads of the past 10-12 years.

They could come out and totally kick the socceroos' arses. And the socceroos could kick own goals.

Poetry.

66%???

Idiots.

Now that Daniel Spillane is gone, I've had to find someone new to hate on Idol...

So I've chosen this idiot.*

One trick pony.

Its been pretty much the same shtick since you sang Footloose at the group auditions, hasn’t it? Just speed up the tempo of some random pop song.

Oh, that’s right, you totally ‘pushed your boundaries’ when you sang that Michael Jackson ballad (vomit). Those boundaries ended up being a lot narrower than you thought, huh.

And what’s with the miming? You have to mime each lyric you sing?

Maybe it helps you understand what you are singing about, but I promise you, we can all understand “before you throw my heart back on the floor” without you grabbing at your chest and pretending to throw something on the floor.... You tool.

Here he is, telling us what "drive into the heart of me" (thanks to TSSH) looks like:



Yes, he is pretending to operate a steering wheel.

Sheesh. So annoying.

*Its totally hilarious, that when you go to the Australian Idol website looking for the contestants, they are listed under a menu title 'Talent'. Makes me feel wrong just clicking on it...

Loving the prosperity doctrine.

Sorry to get all serious on yo asses, but I never can resist an anti-Hillsong rant opportunity (always inspired by Darp, of course).

Who knew the prosperity doctrine extended to ripping off community grants programs!

“Labor MP Ian West told parliament on Tuesday night Hillsong Emerge had "misused the Riverstone Aboriginal community to get taxpayers' money for its own purposes.

Mr West said Hillsong Emerge had submitted a joint application with the Riverstone Aboriginal Community Association for $490,000 in funds from the National Community Crime Prevention Program, run by the department of Attorney-General Philip Ruddock.

That application failed, but a second application for $415,000 succeeded, without the knowledge of the Riverstone community, based around Blacktown in Sydney's west.”

Nice.

Got to get me one of these t-shirts from Sweatshop Productions in time for my next trip home to the Hillsong homeland:

...like a Rhinestone Cowboy

November is a bad month in Canberra StinkTown^TM.

Firstly, bogong moths. Apparently, it is well known that StinkTown^TM, being on the migratory path for these flying pieces of sh*t, is a major attraction for bogong moths. The lights of Parliament House act as a beacon, drawing in hundreds of thousands of the little disease bags.

What is less well known, I suspect, is that within the 'major attraction' that is StinkTown^TM, there is an even stronger beacon. Specifcally, my head.

Or even more specifically, my head, at night, when I'm in bed.

Sneaky little f*ckers.

Of course, this leads to me jumping around the room in my undies pyjamas with a shoe in one hand and a can of Baygon in the other getting madder and madder at the squeals of laughter coming from the Good Wife as I attempt to spray and swat moths at the same time.

HI-larious!

Apparently I adopt some kind of comical martial arts-style attack pose. So what.

And November is the peak month for this.

At least I know I'm not alone!

Also pissing me off is stupid bloody November afternoon thunderstorms. Its like what Gareth says of jelly: I just don't trust the way they move.

And they come every single day with the black clouds and the scary thunder and unfunny hailstones, threatening to damage my car's body panels and inflict much pain and bruising if I happened to be out on the motorcycle.

Bastards.

So anyway, on another note, occaisionally of a morning I am treated to the glorious sounds of MandyFM.

MandyFM is named after the GoodWife who now and then wakes up with a stunning array of classic music tracks in her head and has the decency to share them with me (bless her heart).

So this morning's treats were:

1. She Bangs - Ricky Martin
2. Erotica - Madonna
3. Rhinestone Cowboy - doesn't matter who sang it first
4. Chained to the Wheel - Black Sorrows

With gems such as these, who needs real radio?

Post Melbourne Cup madness! (Well, not quite madness, just a little bit of office narkiness)

I was perusing the office sweep results on the kitchen noticeboard on Tuesday afternoon when some-jerk-colleague asked me if I had won anything in the race what stops a nation's brains.

When I said that I didn't even enter, she said "oh, I guess it must be against your religion, or something" in an annoying and sarcastic hoity-toity voice.

"Shut up, bitch!" is what I said... in my head.

I actually just noted that by not entering, I ensured 100% odds (ok, I know a percentage isn't actually 'odds', but, whatever) of keeping my money.

They took it the wrong way.

People can be so sensitive when they've lost a sh*tload of money and had too much champagne.

Losers.

Choices - but not for you! For someone else.

Workchoices.

Sounds a bit like McDonalds' “Deli Choices” to me. And probably just about as appetising.

So does that mean we’ll all line up and tell some poor shmo in an apron and plastic gloves what ‘choices’ we want with our working conditions?

Me: I’ll take some unfair dismissal and non-compulsory superannuation thanks! No meal breaks though, I’m on a diet. But I will have pickles. Ta.

On an only slightly related note, have you ever watched those gubmint Workchoices advertisements with the sound down?

You know, the ones where everything’s ‘protected by law’?

And you know that those things most definitely will be protected by law because they use that graphic effect that looks like a rubber stamp slamming down onto the screen saying 'protected by law' – because apparently that’s how they make laws these days (and don’t they know you can get way better stamps than that these days? Ones that aren’t all scratchy looking and crude?)

Well anyway, if you watch it with the sound down, and they play the version where they talk about maternity leave, it totally looks as if they are saying that being pregnant is ‘protected by law’ (as the stamp slams down on the torso and belly of an anonymous pregnant fraulein).

Yeah, thanks for clearing that up.

Well, it is kinda funny. I guess you had to be there.

5-1 odds I'm going to punch someone in the back of the head today...

Dear Melbourne Cup Day,

Why don’t you just go away? Every year your stinkiness creeps up with all the subtlety of something that really isn’t very subtle at all.

Suddenly, everyone knows all about horses. And track weight (or whatever).

Breakfast TV tells me this morning that people also love the ‘glamour’ of the day.

Oh yeah?

What’s so glamorous about cramming yourself onto an over-crowded train, sweating until you almost pass out then handing over all your money to a fat, balding middle aged man (I think they’re called ‘bookies’), and then drinking so much over-priced champagne that you throw-up half a dozen mini-quiches and sausage rolls into the nearest portaloo or wheelie-bin?

Yeah, woo. Go glamour. Hey glamour – you’re so fine. You're so fine you blow my mind. Hey glamour.

Thank feck I don’t live in Melbourne.

Although it has recently been brought to my attention that if you are in Melbourne, at least you get the day off and thereby avoid being exposed to office-related Melbourne Cup Day mania.

Hence, one could avoid the following:

Random jerk: Quick! Quick! You’re missing the race! It’s about to start! Right now!

Me [suddenly grabbing the phone to my ear]: Sorry! Important work call!

Etc.

Although I must say, there is potential for random, horse-related come-uppance to be handed out.

In my previous place of employ, I was seated across from the world’s-biggest-and-most-annoying-jerk, in similar proximity as Tim sat from Gareth in The Office. That year, I shamefully succumbed to bullying peer pressure and bought a ticket in the $0.02 sweep.

World’s-biggest-and-most-annoying-jerk: Pfff, that horse you've drawn will never win because [insert regurgitated form-guide run-down of said horse here]... You're going to lose. I'm going to win. Again.

And then, 5 minutes later:

Me: So, who won?
World’s-biggest-and-most-annoying-jerk: I dunno. Your horse, or something.

And that’s the only good thing ever to come out of Melbourne Cup Day.