It’s been a while I guess. Pretty much the universe (and Apple) has conspired against me and my access to free time and computers- that’s about all I have to offer in the way of explanations. All that matters is I’m back, and the reason I’ve been forced back to my post behind the keyboard is of course, in the name of my raison d’etre: Bad taste.
Behold!
I have discovered what it is to wield the awesome power that comes with wearing lycra and leopard print: Leopard print tights. I’d describe it as an awesome albeit all consuming power. I guess you could say that the tights are to me as Gollum is to the ring. Here’s and artist’s impression if you will:
I’ve certainly enjoyed skulking around the shadows of my house and hissing “my precious” at family members over the past few weeks. Mama didn’t raise no fool though and I’m perfectly aware that any day my joy ride will come crashing down when Cruella Deville demands I return the tights she had made from Marsupalami.
Best Saturday Disney cartoon evs.
Oh and b-t-dubs, Before you start asking where I got my crown diamante of trash I’ll put it out there now: the tights don’t technically belong to me. Technically. I generally work on a lose version of the finders keepers principle. Therefore, the fact that I “found” these beauties in their original owner’s wardrobe is irrelevant. Apparently my tights came from an op shop before that, but who knows. One thing’s for sure though, somewhere in New Jersey a cast member of Jerseylicious (/Jersey Shore) lights a candle nightly in memory of the tights she was tragically forced to sell for her new boobs.
(Just a side note: I found this picture on a blog called "posh <3 honey", the tag line of which read "Gossip's never looked so Classy.....". Thus implying that I am to assume that this picture was the blogs representation of the "classy gossip" other readers must come for. But who am I to judge)
On the weekend my girlfriend and I got tattoos. Apparently dating for three weeks isn’t long enough to warrant matching tattoos so I had to settle for this:
In what was clearly an attempt to one up me and assert her position, my girlfriend got this:
Pffft, whatever. I guess it kinda matches her collection though:
If the internet and Hollywood have taught me anything, it’s that America is a magical place where everyone’s dreams come true. Reality aside, I have a dream. A dream that one day I will have a taught toned body and be able to wear a sexy American football outfit in public. I’d long kept this dream to myself, only sharing it with a few trusted friends until one day from the wonders of late night cable TV, there came to me an inspirational vision. A vision that could only come from one place: the US of A.
Behold!
The Lingerie Football League.
Some may call it “exploitation of women”, to which I say, “Play ball bitches!”
Some may call it “endorsement of raunch culture”, to which I say, “TOUCH DOWN!!”
These women are not strippers who are desperately trying to pay their way through college. These women are professional athletes and these professional athletes are fucking hot. The entire league is revolutionizing the way I see sport. Of course I’ve become a fan on Facebook and given the time difference the page is updated first thing in the morning our time. There is nothing better than waking up to this:
Originally lingerie football started out as Super Bowl halftime entertainment (and to think, all we get is ten year olds running around in auskick jerseys) but due to its overwhelming popularity the annual event has now become a league unto itself now.
Did I mention the game is full contact and the girls can actually play?
“Don’t treat us like ladies, treat us like football players”
This year’s federal election was pretty average for me. I was devo that I got there too late for the barbeque but at least I was afforded the simple pleasure of holding hands with my girlfriend as we passed the liberal supporters (did I mention one of my all time favourite oxymorons is “gay liberal”?). Three out of the four didn’t even bother to flap their how to vote cards all up in my grill but there’s always one: “Voting liberals?" He accused, “NO!” I replied, sticking my hand in his face in a very Stop in The Name of Love inspired gesture.
What fun.
Then I made my vote, a simple line in a box, a simple line which actually counted towards something. Unlike the 618,435 (as at Sunday afternoon) dickheads who got together in all there stupidity to cast a record number of donkey votes. Liberal or labour, we can all agree on one thing: donkey voters are the ones to be blamed for our political predicament. Yes, I understand it’s likely our country could have been just as gridlocked had the donkeys voted but these are trying times and the finger of blame is at its most seductive right now.
I can put those responsible for bringing the curse of a hung parliament upon is into 3 main categories. I’d like to introduce an example of each, explain the reasons why they’re a fuckwit and the action you can take in dealing with them lest you should meet one in day to day life (two words: dick punch). “Hi I’m fuckwit #1, I placed a donkey vote because I was making a stand. Examples of my work include writing political messages or symbols on my ballot paper. I take great pleasure in later telling my friends about the witty and creative means I used to stick it to the man!”
Let me tell you something, dear fuckwit, so as to shed some light on what becomes of your heroic political stand. I worked at the state election last year so this is straight from the horse’s mouth. I want you to cast your mind back to the poll booth you visited on Saturday the 21st of August. Now think of the people who ticked your name off the electoral roll and gave you your ballot paper: a handful of retirees, a couple of bored looking uni students and the one overzealous team leader with bad cologne. Got that image? These are the people who count the votes at the end of the day.
Working the election is really good money but it’s a set lump sum so you don’t get paid more if you have to stay late. As you can imagine, after sitting there for almost 12 hours in the stuffy basement of a church or school, no one is in the mood to drag out the vote count. It’s all done as quickly and thoroughly as possible: The votes are sorted into piles (liberal, labour, greens, donkeys etc) and then counted several times before a whole lot of official type hoo-ha to finish off.
Your grand political statement spends about half a second under the eye of someone who doesn’t care and just wants to get the votes counted so they can go home. But not to worry, I’m sure that Martha, the little old retiree was deeply moved by the stand you took against our government before she put your ballot into the “bin” pile.
(This is a long blog, if you need to get up to take whizz, now is a good time)
“Hi, I’m fuckwit #2 and I just don’t care about my vote or politics in general, examples of my type include those who hand in a blank ballot or who deliberately fill out my ballot incorrectly so as to void its validity.”
Sure you don’t care, that’s fair enough, each to their own I suppose. But really, you’ve just driven to the polling booth on a Saturday, wrestled your way into a car park, lined up in the hot sun, waded through a sea of how to vote cards and now you’re going to strip any point from this whole excruciating outing? It’s. A. Line. In. A. Box. Any stoner monkey can draw a line in a box. If you really don’t care about the people that will decide everything from the internet sites you can visit to the price it will cost you to eat, shit and sleep for the next three years, at least flip a fucking coin. That way you can rest assured the petrol you wasted driving to the polling booth wasn’t totally in vain. If that’s too hard for you then ask someone who does care and copy them: monkey see, monkey do, you fuckwit.
“Hi, I’m fuckwit #3 and I hate politicians. I’m often confused with fuckwit #2 but the difference is I have some slither of an education and am frustrated by the crappy choice of party policy. So, like the big baby I am, I threw a tantrum on Election Day and cast a dud vote. I sure showed them.”
Here’s a thought you fucking child: NO ONE likes any politicians. But to quote Looking For Alibrandi, “In Australia we don’t vote to get the best party in, we vote to keep the worst party out.” (Or something along those lines). So grow the fuck up, use your brain, and choose the party you hate the least. Simply draw A LINE IN THE BOX of that party and you can go home knowing that as much as you hate whoever you voted for, it could be worse. And if you’re still not convinced, refer to fuckwit #2, because you’ve probably overestimated yourself and belong back there.
Phew. Glad that’s off my chest. To think we live in a world where there is so much bloodshed in the name of basic democratic rights yet we the minority that have a say in who governs us would throw that away. There are people starving in the world but you don’t make a 3 course dinner every night and throw it straight in the bin so why do the same with your vote?
I love indie clothes, I don’t mind indie kids and I like indie clubs but I can’t for the life of me bring myself to enjoy the music. I guess I like the packaging and it’s the product I can do without. If anything, that’s a real testament to the age we live in. Indie music to me is like the kind of let down one feels when they purchase Celebrity Perfumes. The bottle, the packaging, the image all cry out to the very depths of my soul as if they are that thing I always felt was missing but one spritz of the perfume itself and I’m covered in searing prostitute piss. However, to every rule there is an acceptation and occasionally an indie band comes along which doesn’t totally suck. Maybe I’m getting soft, or maybe the world is just spinning backwards (I suspect the later) but lately I’ve found not one, but THREE entire albums that vaguely fit the description.
The Drums - The Drums
Recently I acquired this album, after “Let’s Go Surfing” forced itself upon me despite all protests. I guess they’re like any other indie band really, but they’re actually cool in that nonchalant way that’s usually total bullshit. They also have this unashamedly blatant surf rock streak which I can never get past in any band - it’s just nice to listen to something that doesn’t ask too much of you. They kind of make me feel like its summer and I’m dousing myself in deodorant in the hopes my mum doesn’t notice the smell of cigarettes on me.
Dum Dum Girls - I Will Be
A lot of friends have recommended me music over the years: “Jane, You’d love this band!”,they say, at which point I zone out. Sure it’s sweet they thought of me, but they only end up crushed when my feedback on their selection involves a 20 minute power point presentation explaining why their music taste is so crappy. Recently a friend recommended me Dum Dum Girls and in a never before seen leap of faith I actually downloaded AND listened to said album. What can I say? 4 babes, fuzzy garage guitars, cheeky harmonies and lyrics like “middle school was such a drag”.
Conclusion: Stop being a such a twat and give my friends’ taste a chance.
There is a great tragedy about to befall us all. A great, terrible, unavoidable tragedy. We as a society, are about to lose what few of us ever came to truly appreciate. The realisation of the tragedy for most will only occur this New Year’s Eve, though essentially it has already occurred. If you’re confused as to what the fuck it is I mean, I want you to think tacky, I want you to think plastic and sparkles, I want you to think novelty New Years Eve glasses:
Come this New Years Eve, we will never again be able to wear those ridiculous glasses denoting the numerals of the year in to which we are heading.
Why? Because “2011” is simply not practical when it comes to novelty eyewear. I think that’s pretty self explanatory. Even 2010 was able to get its foot in the door in a half arsed final salute to the previous 10 years of fuglyness.
For the past decade, when the clock struck 12 the best of us rose to the challenge and carried on the torch of bad taste from one year through to the next. Creatures of all colours and creed were brought together by the hideous mess of "lame" plastered to their drunken faces.
In a way, I feel those Novelty Oversized glasses came to represent a unity among us all that seems so lacking in this day and age.
I say we take a moment to reflect, for never again, will a decade befall our lifetimes with such retardedly joyous eyewear.
It was the kind of party that makes you feel like someone just for being invited. Then you arrive to find it’s just the big fish from a stagnant backwater pond crammed into one house like sardines. B-grade celebrities in a town that no one's ever heard of. It wasn’t shit but it wasn’t that good either. I spent the better part of the night watching those big fish floundering around in their swamp of rotting social graces. I tried it on of course, but even the smell of that swamp was unbearable and my gag reflexes betrayed me every time. So I gave up and explored the house with a girl who said she had some good speed she wanted to share with someone, but she didn’t want to have to share to it with like, everyone.
We found a bedroom and slipped inside. She took a set of keys from her bag and begun scooping the soft crystals between her lips.
I think this is my ex boyfriend’s room, she said, handing me the key laden with my own small mound.
She opened a bedside draw, removed the modest stash of condoms and proceeded to fetch a safety pin from her bag.
It’s ok, no one will even remember if they catch us, she assured me.
I felt uneasy that as us I’d already been implicated.
Sounds from the party forced their way in through the crack under the door, making the silence between us all the more blatant. Not knowing what to say or do, I studied the luke warm mug of wine in my hands as if it may contain suggestions.
I love this song, she started not looking up from the condoms she had begun methodically stabbing with a single pin prick each.
I don’t know it, I admitted.
I like the way it makes me feel.
It’s kind of depressing, though?
Yeah, but I think sometimes we don’t really give a fuck about what it is we actually feel. We just want to know that it’s ok to feel that way.
This song does that for me. She offered, stabbing the last of the condoms.
Her massacre complete she looked up, startled by my presence.
Do you want some more speed then? She asked as she returned the condoms to the draw.
