Monday, May 23, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Pointless and Lame: Now Showing in 3D!
So every bus stop in town seems to be adorned with posters for Never Say Never , the upcoming movie starring Justin Bieber which is losely based on his rise to fame.
For realsies?
According to Wikipedia, this is infact true:
“The film follows the pop star Justin Bieber with footage of performances from his 2010 My World Tour, all counting down to his performance in Madison Square Garden..It also includes scenes of Bieber's childhood, taken from home videos.”
It neglects to mention that there's actually more.. it’s in 3D! Is it a sin in this day and age to venture the idea that maybe, just maybe, not every movie needs to be in 3D??
Let's not get caught up in minute details here though. 3D swooping fringes aside, the real issue at hand is the need for this movie's existence. In my days of pre teenhood, I was satisfied with a straight to dvd (video) release. How is there suddenly a need for a full length motion picture film? A full length motion picture film IN 3D?? From an economists point of view it kinda makes sense I guess: Justin Bieber is after all, a non-renuable natural resource. There is only so much Bieber available for consumption before all Mtv Kids Choice Awards, appearances on Ellen and hilarious (a subjective interpretation) stunts on late night TV have been exhausted. Given the nature of internet and radio media alike the amount of Bieber society consumes is simply just not sustainable. Lukily the world will have completely drained all known sources of Bieber in the next couple of years and we can start to look towards rebuilding pop culture for the future.
Wow. I think society needs this movie as much as it needs a tell all book written by Snooki.
For realsies?
According to Wikipedia, this is infact true:
“The film follows the pop star Justin Bieber with footage of performances from his 2010 My World Tour, all counting down to his performance in Madison Square Garden..It also includes scenes of Bieber's childhood, taken from home videos.”
It neglects to mention that there's actually more.. it’s in 3D! Is it a sin in this day and age to venture the idea that maybe, just maybe, not every movie needs to be in 3D??
Let's not get caught up in minute details here though. 3D swooping fringes aside, the real issue at hand is the need for this movie's existence. In my days of pre teenhood, I was satisfied with a straight to dvd (video) release. How is there suddenly a need for a full length motion picture film? A full length motion picture film IN 3D?? From an economists point of view it kinda makes sense I guess: Justin Bieber is after all, a non-renuable natural resource. There is only so much Bieber available for consumption before all Mtv Kids Choice Awards, appearances on Ellen and hilarious (a subjective interpretation) stunts on late night TV have been exhausted. Given the nature of internet and radio media alike the amount of Bieber society consumes is simply just not sustainable. Lukily the world will have completely drained all known sources of Bieber in the next couple of years and we can start to look towards rebuilding pop culture for the future.
Wow. I think society needs this movie as much as it needs a tell all book written by Snooki.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Park Street: Not Bi-Winning
Last week, due to a sudden bout of unemployment, I found myself lucky enough to catch the first episode of Foxtel's latest homegrown TV series, Park Street. A reality tv show that follows the day to day lives of the editors who work for 5 of Australia's biggest womens' magazines. Owned by ACP the featured magazines included Cosmo, Cleo, Dolly, Madison and Shop Till You Drop. It's kind of like the ultimte Dr's waiting room stash.
Implicitly, these women are meant to be some sort of "Australian Anna Wintours". In reality, it's a d-grade slap in the face to The September Issue. Naturally, I was not impressed. Vogue is arguably the worlds most iconic fashion magazine. The magazines featured on Park Street, however? Not so much. The show has already made a name for itself as the most unsuccesful debut for an Australian pay tv series ever. Not a single viewer tuned in last Wednesday in Melbourne or Adelaide.
One could possibly put it down to the magazine line up. From a company that had other big names such as Harpers Bazaar and Grazia to offer up, Park Street really is slim pickings. Sure, admittedly, when I was 12 nothing gave me more joy then opening a crisp new issue of Dolly and flicking to the 'How Embarrassing' section. ("Dear Dolly, I got my period infront of my whole class. Everyone laughed and now my crush won't speak to me" - Tough break, darl). And of course, who could forget the two issues of cosmo I bought before realising that the world's most comprehensive study on how to give a blow job would bare little relevance to my life? Otherwise though, Cleo? Shop?? For realsies? Not quite the high flying glamazon workplace the producers must have hoped for.
All this passing of judgement kind of got me depressed though. There I was sitting at home unemployed for the second time this year heckling a tv show about woman who actually are employed. Luckily, I have Charlie Sheen's inetrview to cheer me up. I wish I was bi-winning.
Implicitly, these women are meant to be some sort of "Australian Anna Wintours". In reality, it's a d-grade slap in the face to The September Issue. Naturally, I was not impressed. Vogue is arguably the worlds most iconic fashion magazine. The magazines featured on Park Street, however? Not so much. The show has already made a name for itself as the most unsuccesful debut for an Australian pay tv series ever. Not a single viewer tuned in last Wednesday in Melbourne or Adelaide.
One could possibly put it down to the magazine line up. From a company that had other big names such as Harpers Bazaar and Grazia to offer up, Park Street really is slim pickings. Sure, admittedly, when I was 12 nothing gave me more joy then opening a crisp new issue of Dolly and flicking to the 'How Embarrassing' section. ("Dear Dolly, I got my period infront of my whole class. Everyone laughed and now my crush won't speak to me" - Tough break, darl). And of course, who could forget the two issues of cosmo I bought before realising that the world's most comprehensive study on how to give a blow job would bare little relevance to my life? Otherwise though, Cleo? Shop?? For realsies? Not quite the high flying glamazon workplace the producers must have hoped for.
All this passing of judgement kind of got me depressed though. There I was sitting at home unemployed for the second time this year heckling a tv show about woman who actually are employed. Luckily, I have Charlie Sheen's inetrview to cheer me up. I wish I was bi-winning.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 4)
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)
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)
Sunday, September 5, 2010
MI PRIMER TATUAJE
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:
I know right? She has The. Best. Tattoos. Ever.
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:
I know right? She has The. Best. Tattoos. Ever.
Monday, August 30, 2010
God Bless America
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”
Yes ma’am!
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”
Yes ma’am!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Hung Parliament Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Vote
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?
Dickheads.
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?
Dickheads.
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