In view of news such as this, and this, what an apt time it is to revisit the excellent Canadian documentary from 2003, "The Corporation" ...
From 2003, "The Corporation" Part 1 of 23
From 2003, "The Corporation" Part 1 of 23
Friday, 27 February 2009
Thursday, 26 February 2009
WHEN BULLSH*T PRACTICALLY GALLOPS
My emphasis added to this report from the SMH courtesy of the "American Journal of Preventive Medicine" (????!!!!!!) …
“Do you have sex Otis?”
“I rooted the teacher on the football field last week, Doc. So did Buster. And Randy too. Then we went and ate some Twinkies and watched “Iron Man” again.”
Former Fairfax writer and “Daily Truth” blogger Jack Marx had this to say on a similar topic in 2007, addressing Joan Sauers claims about teenage sexuality in her book “Sex Lives of Australian Teenagers” …
“I rooted the teacher on the football field last week, Doc. So did Buster. And Randy too. Then we went and ate some Twinkies and watched “Iron Man” again.”
Former Fairfax writer and “Daily Truth” blogger Jack Marx had this to say on a similar topic in 2007, addressing Joan Sauers claims about teenage sexuality in her book “Sex Lives of Australian Teenagers” …
Yep. Reckon so.
DEVINELY STUPID, PART 2
Sent to the Sydeny Morning Herald this morning, prompted by this crap from Australia’s answer to Rush Limbaugh (minus the man-boobs and hard-on pills) …
"If you don't like the rules, start your own church" writes Miranda Devine (February 26, 2009). But they did, Miranda. They're called Mormons, Scientologists, Pentecostals, Exclusive Brethren, Moonies, Christian Scientists, Methodists and Jehovah's Witnesses among many, many others. There's also the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and The Invisible Glovebox Turkey. Confusing, isn't it?
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
KITTY LITTER
Once upon a time and not so very long ago, the Saturday edition of The Sydney Morning Herald used to take a few hours to read from cover to cover, all sections, including the supplement magazine (excepting the sports section, about which I couldn’t give a flying fuck, and the car and real estate stuff).
However, of late I've noticed it's taking about an hour, maybe a little longer if there are a few reviews of books people might actually like to read rather than reviews of 800 page lumps of over-priced academic twaddle devoted to analysing Adolf Hitler's laundry lists.
Take the edition of Saturday, February 21, 2009 ...
The "news" section, that is, the main section, comprised 14 broadsheet pages. Taking into account that Page 14 is a half-page (and a half-page of ads) about so-called "society events" and the comings and goings of various celebrity grubs and butterflies which is not "news" of any sort, and Page 13 is a half-page (and a half page of ads) comprising reviews of current concerts and theatrical shows (also not "news"), that's 12 pages of national and international reportage. Then of course, take out the rest of the space devoted to advertisements, another 2 pages.
That's 10 pages, 5 bits of paper. Everything that has happened or is happening, nationally and internationally, summed up on 5 bits of paper.
It's almost enough to make a person start reading the Courier Mail.
...
Almost.
However, of late I've noticed it's taking about an hour, maybe a little longer if there are a few reviews of books people might actually like to read rather than reviews of 800 page lumps of over-priced academic twaddle devoted to analysing Adolf Hitler's laundry lists.
Take the edition of Saturday, February 21, 2009 ...
The "news" section, that is, the main section, comprised 14 broadsheet pages. Taking into account that Page 14 is a half-page (and a half-page of ads) about so-called "society events" and the comings and goings of various celebrity grubs and butterflies which is not "news" of any sort, and Page 13 is a half-page (and a half page of ads) comprising reviews of current concerts and theatrical shows (also not "news"), that's 12 pages of national and international reportage. Then of course, take out the rest of the space devoted to advertisements, another 2 pages.
That's 10 pages, 5 bits of paper. Everything that has happened or is happening, nationally and internationally, summed up on 5 bits of paper.
It's almost enough to make a person start reading the Courier Mail.
...
Almost.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Monday, 23 February 2009
HALLE-F**KING-LU-OFF
Having watched the Sunday edition of the ABC's "Insiders", I left the television on whilst I busied myself with a few random household chores (as one does on a Sunday). All stations gave blanket coverage to the memorial service for those who died in the recent Victorian fires, a duly serious and sombre affair attended by the usual dignitaries, officials and politicians, all of whom wore duly serious and sombre clothes and serious and sombre expressions.
Duly serious and sombre words were spoken, the national anthem was played, and so on and so forth. So far, fair enough ...
And then they went and spoiled it all by playing something stupid like "Hallelujah".
I swear, if I never hear this fucking song again for the rest of what remains of my life, I shall give thanks to the entire pantheon of Roman and Greek gods and sacrifice a few live chickens on the balcony in gratitude.
Shoving the word "hallelujah" into the lyric of a pop song does not a sacred hymn of praise make and why this bloody tune, which has had the living shit thrashed out of it by anyone and everyone with a half-decent set of pipes over the last God-knows how many years should be considered appropriate for such an affair or anything similar to it beggars belief.
Let's have a look at a verse ...
"Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah"
Relevance - FAIL.
Although, I guess we can be a mite grateful they didn't go and dust off "Candle in the Wind" instead.
Or did they?
I got the shits, turned it off and went up pub.
Duly serious and sombre words were spoken, the national anthem was played, and so on and so forth. So far, fair enough ...
And then they went and spoiled it all by playing something stupid like "Hallelujah".
I swear, if I never hear this fucking song again for the rest of what remains of my life, I shall give thanks to the entire pantheon of Roman and Greek gods and sacrifice a few live chickens on the balcony in gratitude.
Shoving the word "hallelujah" into the lyric of a pop song does not a sacred hymn of praise make and why this bloody tune, which has had the living shit thrashed out of it by anyone and everyone with a half-decent set of pipes over the last God-knows how many years should be considered appropriate for such an affair or anything similar to it beggars belief.
Let's have a look at a verse ...
"Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah"
Relevance - FAIL.
Although, I guess we can be a mite grateful they didn't go and dust off "Candle in the Wind" instead.
Or did they?
I got the shits, turned it off and went up pub.
Friday, 20 February 2009
ELLEN (NOT THAT ONE, THE OTHER ONE)
In Darren Aronofsky's excellent feature film from 2000, "Requiem For A Dream", Ellen Burstyn offered up a performance so exquisitely nuanced, so beautifully played out and so ultimately tragic that, by its conclusion, any viewer would have to be either dead or comatose not to be shaken to the very core of their being by it.
She was rightfully nominated for an Academy Award as Best Actress for her efforts. Julia Roberts won for "Erin Brockovich".
Moving on ...
Last night (February 19, 2009), on the often hackneyed and incredible (in the true sense of that word) "Law & Order: SVU", a franchise of the original "Law & Order" series that should have had its plug pulled when Jerry Orbach died, Burstyn turned up as guest star playing the mother of Christopher Meloni's character Elliot Stabler.
Armed with a mostly pedestrian script, and only a few key scenes, Burstyn threw herself into the role with such extraordinary flair, energy, precision and emotional commitment that her co-stars, solid performers all, were left floundering in her wake gasping for just a little spare oxygen, any oxygen at all that could allow them to wrest even the tiniest sliver of our attentions back to their own characters and their respective dilemmas. They couldn't and didn't.
The poor buggers.
In stagework, performers often refer to "hotspots", a hotspot being that space on the stage where an actor has so effectively chewed up the scenery and stolen the show from under everyone else that the space feels so charged with residual energy from the performance that other actors go out of their way to avoid it lest it diminish their own efforts in that space by comparison.
Whether the same applies to film and television performances I do not know, but, so commanding, so riveting, so high-energy was Burstyn’s performance that, at one point, I fully expected my sad old ex-rental 66cm cathode ray tube teat to blow itself into the farthest reaches of the stratosphere to play footsies with Wall-E.
There should be no criticism made of any actor, nor should it be considered a diminution of their stature and talents when they decide to pop up occasionally on an episode of some colour-by-numbers television show. For Burstyn, it may have amounted to a week’s worth of work with a day in post for a not inconsiderable sum of money. And then of course, there are always residuals and royalties from DVD sales to consider, something denied Australian actors in Australian productions.
But, for God’s sake, will someone, somewhere, please please please give this marvelous actress a role worthy of her exceptional talents?
Can we give Meryl Streep and Judi Dench a rest for a while and start casting our nets a little farther afield, beyond these usual suspects? We’ve just seen Debra Winger slam her way back into the public eye with gusto after an extended absence from the screen in “Rachel Getting Married” …
Please sir, can I have some more?
Can we have more of Julie Christie and can we have more of Sissy Spacek and can we have more, lots, lots more of Ellen Burstyn? And can we give them all something very, very good to do?
Can we put them all in a movie together? With Robert Duvall perhaps?
Now, that would be a beautiful thing to behold.
She was rightfully nominated for an Academy Award as Best Actress for her efforts. Julia Roberts won for "Erin Brockovich".
Moving on ...
Last night (February 19, 2009), on the often hackneyed and incredible (in the true sense of that word) "Law & Order: SVU", a franchise of the original "Law & Order" series that should have had its plug pulled when Jerry Orbach died, Burstyn turned up as guest star playing the mother of Christopher Meloni's character Elliot Stabler.
Armed with a mostly pedestrian script, and only a few key scenes, Burstyn threw herself into the role with such extraordinary flair, energy, precision and emotional commitment that her co-stars, solid performers all, were left floundering in her wake gasping for just a little spare oxygen, any oxygen at all that could allow them to wrest even the tiniest sliver of our attentions back to their own characters and their respective dilemmas. They couldn't and didn't.
The poor buggers.
In stagework, performers often refer to "hotspots", a hotspot being that space on the stage where an actor has so effectively chewed up the scenery and stolen the show from under everyone else that the space feels so charged with residual energy from the performance that other actors go out of their way to avoid it lest it diminish their own efforts in that space by comparison.
Whether the same applies to film and television performances I do not know, but, so commanding, so riveting, so high-energy was Burstyn’s performance that, at one point, I fully expected my sad old ex-rental 66cm cathode ray tube teat to blow itself into the farthest reaches of the stratosphere to play footsies with Wall-E.
There should be no criticism made of any actor, nor should it be considered a diminution of their stature and talents when they decide to pop up occasionally on an episode of some colour-by-numbers television show. For Burstyn, it may have amounted to a week’s worth of work with a day in post for a not inconsiderable sum of money. And then of course, there are always residuals and royalties from DVD sales to consider, something denied Australian actors in Australian productions.
But, for God’s sake, will someone, somewhere, please please please give this marvelous actress a role worthy of her exceptional talents?
Can we give Meryl Streep and Judi Dench a rest for a while and start casting our nets a little farther afield, beyond these usual suspects? We’ve just seen Debra Winger slam her way back into the public eye with gusto after an extended absence from the screen in “Rachel Getting Married” …
Please sir, can I have some more?
Can we have more of Julie Christie and can we have more of Sissy Spacek and can we have more, lots, lots more of Ellen Burstyn? And can we give them all something very, very good to do?
Can we put them all in a movie together? With Robert Duvall perhaps?
Now, that would be a beautiful thing to behold.
"It's unfortunate but our society is such that, for women in Hollywood, you get to a certain age and just fall off a cliff. But in my case, I refuse to die. I will hang on, by a little finger if necessary." Ellen Burstyn
"I thought it was fabulous. My next ambition is to get nominated for seven seconds, and, ultimately, I want to be nominated for a picture in which I don't even appear." Ellen Burstyn, 2004, regarding her Emmy nomination for her performance in “Mrs. Harris”, in which she appeared for 14 seconds.Quotes sourced from IMDB
NETWORK NINE ... STILL THE SCUM
Courtesy of Channel 9 News via iinet...
"Incest dungeon slave"?
Here is a woman who endured two and half decades of horror, abuse and deprivation of her freedom at the hands of a coward and now, as she attempts to build a life for herself away from the glare of the public spotlight and the gleefully ghoulish voyeurs of the mainstream press and their "readers", the best descriptor some hack at Network Nine news can come up with is something that sounds straight out of a fetish p*rn magazine.
Whoever wrote it should be stabbed in the fucking head.
Here is a woman who endured two and half decades of horror, abuse and deprivation of her freedom at the hands of a coward and now, as she attempts to build a life for herself away from the glare of the public spotlight and the gleefully ghoulish voyeurs of the mainstream press and their "readers", the best descriptor some hack at Network Nine news can come up with is something that sounds straight out of a fetish p*rn magazine.
Whoever wrote it should be stabbed in the fucking head.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
POLITICAL STAFFER TELLS JOURNO TO F**K OFF!
World asplodes!
Things were way more civil back in olden times, weren't they? ...
Yep. Way more civil. Reckon so.
A POST ABOUT NOTHING AT ALL
My father was admitted to hospital on Sunday, February 8th after suffering a minor stroke, no doubt exacerbated somewhat by the extreme heat of the day (43, 44 degrees in Sydney). He's been there ever since.
They run tests. Constantly. "How are you?", I ask. "They're running tests", he replies, barely able to speak through his horribly strangled breathing. "What tests?", I ask. "I don't know", he says, "they get me to swallow things and run tests and take x-rays."
I thought about flying back to Sydney for a couple days, but was discouraged from doing so, my mother thinking it would make him paranoid in an "end is nigh" type of way.
Fair enough.
And, no doubt many of his current health problems would be as a result of smoking cigarettes for most of his adult life (he gave up about 7 years ago) and I'm sure many snitty little twerps, the usual suspects, would take great pleasure in thinning their lips and narrowing their eyes to slits and bending over his prone body to mutter, "Serves ya right."
In which case, I would happily and most enthusiastically shove a chainsaw up the arses of said snitty little twerps and take them for a quick spin.
For he started smoking in an age (early 1940’s) where smoking was acceptable in all walks of life, in all professions and places and, as a commercial artist/signwriter, spent his entire working life in barely ventilated factories surrounded by wood dust and shavings, asbestos (very probably) and fumes from paint of all varieties, methylated spirits, turpentine and so on. Back in the days when "O.H & S" sounded like an honour dished out to the upper classes from a King. Or a Benson & Hedges knockoff.
I spoke to him this morning. He sounds awful. Not deadly, or quite knocking at that door, but not too good.
A friend of mine, someone I've known for 20 years now, had a friend of his die of lung cancer a few weeks back. He was 28 years old.
He'd never smoked a cigarette in his life, and worked outdoors, in the leisure industry, farting about on boats and such.
And he was 28 years old.
My father was born in 1928. He's 80.
What may we glean from this?
...
...
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
They run tests. Constantly. "How are you?", I ask. "They're running tests", he replies, barely able to speak through his horribly strangled breathing. "What tests?", I ask. "I don't know", he says, "they get me to swallow things and run tests and take x-rays."
I thought about flying back to Sydney for a couple days, but was discouraged from doing so, my mother thinking it would make him paranoid in an "end is nigh" type of way.
Fair enough.
And, no doubt many of his current health problems would be as a result of smoking cigarettes for most of his adult life (he gave up about 7 years ago) and I'm sure many snitty little twerps, the usual suspects, would take great pleasure in thinning their lips and narrowing their eyes to slits and bending over his prone body to mutter, "Serves ya right."
In which case, I would happily and most enthusiastically shove a chainsaw up the arses of said snitty little twerps and take them for a quick spin.
For he started smoking in an age (early 1940’s) where smoking was acceptable in all walks of life, in all professions and places and, as a commercial artist/signwriter, spent his entire working life in barely ventilated factories surrounded by wood dust and shavings, asbestos (very probably) and fumes from paint of all varieties, methylated spirits, turpentine and so on. Back in the days when "O.H & S" sounded like an honour dished out to the upper classes from a King. Or a Benson & Hedges knockoff.
I spoke to him this morning. He sounds awful. Not deadly, or quite knocking at that door, but not too good.
A friend of mine, someone I've known for 20 years now, had a friend of his die of lung cancer a few weeks back. He was 28 years old.
He'd never smoked a cigarette in his life, and worked outdoors, in the leisure industry, farting about on boats and such.
And he was 28 years old.
My father was born in 1928. He's 80.
What may we glean from this?
...
...
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
ALL THE NEWS THAT PRINTS A FIT
Here is the main page of today's world news (February 19, 2009) from The New York Times (click image to enlarge) ...
Palestine, Israel, China, Zimbabwe, etc.Here are the world news headlines from the home page of today's (February 19, 2009) News.com website (click image to enlarge) ...
Chimpanzee goes nuts. And a tantric sex video clip.Current standards of Australian journalism and reportage : FUCKED.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
THE ROCKS IN CHERIE’S HEAD
As we all know by now, Michelle Obama is poised, articulate, self-confident and highly intelligent. She's also very fucking hot.
And I do have the impression that, if you were to get into her bad books or piss her off by assuming that she is none of these things that she would simply tear you twelve new arseholes and play ping-pong with your eyeballs.
So I very much doubt the First Lady needs any advice of any kind from some stupid addle-brained bint who thinks this type of brainless bollocks makes sense.
A "Homeopathic dowser healer" who, for £85 “will sell you a pile of stones and instructions on how to lay them out in the garden”?
Imbecile.
And I do have the impression that, if you were to get into her bad books or piss her off by assuming that she is none of these things that she would simply tear you twelve new arseholes and play ping-pong with your eyeballs.
So I very much doubt the First Lady needs any advice of any kind from some stupid addle-brained bint who thinks this type of brainless bollocks makes sense.
A "Homeopathic dowser healer" who, for £85 “will sell you a pile of stones and instructions on how to lay them out in the garden”?
Imbecile.
Friday, 13 February 2009
VIRTUAL PANADOL FRIDAY
Last night, my first real meal in six days after retching sickness. A six buck takeaway of soy-steamed chicken in noodle soup. And a can of Guinness.
My, it was good.
And now, to another matter entirely ...
I didn't catch the original UK version of "Life On Mars", but I've managed to catch the first 2 episodes of the US edition and so far I like what I'm seeing. What can you say about Harvey Keitel that hasn't already been said? The man's a fucking legend. And Gretchen Moll is practically unrecognisable from the last role I saw her in as Betty Page. Anyway, the theme song has been rabbiting around my head all day, so I thought I may as well plonk it down here ...
From 1973, David Bowie "Life On Mars"
My, it was good.
And now, to another matter entirely ...
I didn't catch the original UK version of "Life On Mars", but I've managed to catch the first 2 episodes of the US edition and so far I like what I'm seeing. What can you say about Harvey Keitel that hasn't already been said? The man's a fucking legend. And Gretchen Moll is practically unrecognisable from the last role I saw her in as Betty Page. Anyway, the theme song has been rabbiting around my head all day, so I thought I may as well plonk it down here ...
From 1973, David Bowie "Life On Mars"
ICE CREAM FOR GEORGE!
In the United States, "Ben & Jerry’s" began a competition to create a new flavour ice-cream in honour of the newly elected President before finally settling on “Yes Pecan!”.
And while there is no truth in the rumour that they also asked people to suggest names for a George W. Bush ice-cream flavour, that didn’t stop Keith Olbermann from reading out a few (selectively edited for propriety) ideas …
Here’s the full uncensored list …
And while there is no truth in the rumour that they also asked people to suggest names for a George W. Bush ice-cream flavour, that didn’t stop Keith Olbermann from reading out a few (selectively edited for propriety) ideas …
Here’s the full uncensored list …
Grape Depression
Abu Grape
Cluster Fudge
Nut'n Accomplished
Iraqi Road
Chock 'n Awe
WireTapioca
Impeach Cobbler
Guantanmallow
imPeachmint
Good Riddance You Lousy Motherfucker... Swirl
Heck of a Job, Brownie!
Neocon Politan
RockyRoad to Fascism
The Reese's-cession
Cookie D'oh!
The Housing Crunch
Nougalar Proliferation
Death by Chocolate... and Torture
Freedom Vanilla Ice Cream
Chocolate Chip On My Shoulder
You're Shitting In My Mouth And Calling It A Sundae
Credit Crunch
Mission Pecanplished
Country Pumpkin
Chunky Monkey in Chief
George Bush Doesn't Care About Dark Chocolate
WMDelicious
Chocolate Chimp
Bloody Sundae
Caramel Preemptive Stripe
I Broke the Law and Am Responsible for the Deaths of Thousands...with Nuts
Abu Grape
Cluster Fudge
Nut'n Accomplished
Iraqi Road
Chock 'n Awe
WireTapioca
Impeach Cobbler
Guantanmallow
imPeachmint
Good Riddance You Lousy Motherfucker... Swirl
Heck of a Job, Brownie!
Neocon Politan
RockyRoad to Fascism
The Reese's-cession
Cookie D'oh!
The Housing Crunch
Nougalar Proliferation
Death by Chocolate... and Torture
Freedom Vanilla Ice Cream
Chocolate Chip On My Shoulder
You're Shitting In My Mouth And Calling It A Sundae
Credit Crunch
Mission Pecanplished
Country Pumpkin
Chunky Monkey in Chief
George Bush Doesn't Care About Dark Chocolate
WMDelicious
Chocolate Chimp
Bloody Sundae
Caramel Preemptive Stripe
I Broke the Law and Am Responsible for the Deaths of Thousands...with Nuts
IN OTHER NEWS ...
I'm trying to think of an appropriate response to this story from today's News.Com ...
But all I can come up with is ...
GET. FUCKED.
GET. FUCKED.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
SHINY HAPPY PARASITES MUST BURN
From last Friday to Wednesday of this week, I was laid up sick with an unidentified stomach bug that had me rushing from the couch to the sink (closest receptacle available) to dry retch every 20 or 30 minutes. Over the course of 5 days, I've eaten 2 pieces of toast and an apple. The upside (upchuck?) is that I've lost a notch a half in belt size, so I've fought the good fight against the rampant obesity epidemic, going from a whopping 32" waist to about 30".
Fuck you, Jenny Craig.
And during this time, my brain being too rattled to concentrate on anything requiring coherent or sustained thought, I sat in front of the television whimpering like a whipped dog from the pain of a stomach in knots, and watched as the horrors of death, destruction and inconsolable grief flickered their way across the great glass teat of pop'lar ennertainment.
By Tuesday morning, enough was enough.
Thank God for SBS and the ABC, for they were the only two television channels that made any effort to report actual news about the events of that weekend rather than wallowing like fat happy pigs in the hollow pits of pain and loss that once were people with lives, with futures and with pasts, and who, now, wandered like shell-shocked soldiers through a battlefield the likes of which they could never have imagined in their most outrageous nightmares.
The shiny, happy parasites of commercial infotainment, self-anointed Masters-Of-The-Universe-As-Gods-Of-Pain outdid themselves in the rush to see which “host” of this once-in-a-lifetime entertainment opportunity could best make der unhappy, scrunchy face and convey to you, to us, just how horrible everything had been, how much worse it was going to get, and just how thoroughly and utterly fucked everybody involved were.
For we would not be able to grasp the deep import of these events without a familiar face to guide us through the proper meaning of loss, something only they could convey and can we please have some music for the underscore just in case anyone missed it? Thanks very much, Pachelbel’s Canon will do just fine, but after the break can we toss in some R.E.M. or Jeff Buckley? Cheers, thanks, ta, we have an annual licence so there’s no probs with der rights, eh?
And so, with their faces duly pasted and painted so as to take the shine off their shiny, shiny foreheads, they cast their eyes about for the wasted and the wounded, knowing full well they’ll be met with little resistance from the shocked and the stunned as they shove microphones and cameras in the faces of people who’ve lost husbands, wives, sons, daughters, parents, their homes, their pets, the entire record of their lives on earth to date and ask the really, really pertinent questions that really, really begged for an answer …
“You’ve lost your wife and your children and your home and your pets and the entire record of your life on earth to date … How do you feeeeeeeeeel nowwwwwww?”
The answer I wanted never came, or it was certainly never broadcast …
“How would you feel if I shoved this fucking microphone and this fucking camera between the flappy folds of your saggy, spotted buttocks until your fucking pinhead pops off your scrawny fucking shoulders, you ghoulish fucking lump of insensitive cuntspit?”
Better luck next time, perhaps.
And in their wake come the whores, hacks and harlots of the “popular” Australian press, ever eager to drive the standards (?!) of Australian journalism (??!) and reportage (???!) into the mediocrity it so enthusiastically and increasingly embraces ... (Hey! Psst! Wanna see a photo of Salma Hayek breastfeeding a kid? WE GOT IT! Tits, man! And boy, ain’t she got a set! Hubba hubba!).
Yet that shouldn’t be too surprising, given the “popular” press is mostly owned by some pussy-whipped old fart whose hair goes through more colour changes in a week than Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat could do in a 6 month Broadway run.
Yep, round up the usual narcissistic deadshits and set ‘em to work to preach from the same old bully pulpit as always - Hell, you need talent, intelligence and imagination to think up something new and actually write about it in depth and no one wants to read that shit these days, do they? Is Australia, mate, the “lucky country”, don’t you be gittin’ above your raisin’ an’ puttin’ on airs an’ graces boy, an’ gettin’ deep on us all.
There’s a predictable lad.
Ah, fuck ‘em all. Throw some money in a bucket or a tin can or organise something at work or donate some blood or whatever, but next time these cunts of commercial “news” suggest splashing the face of someone writhing in the throes of uncontrollable grief for “your consideration” in some special extended agony remix edition, turn the fucking thing off or turn the page.
Enough is enough.
Fuck you, Jenny Craig.
And during this time, my brain being too rattled to concentrate on anything requiring coherent or sustained thought, I sat in front of the television whimpering like a whipped dog from the pain of a stomach in knots, and watched as the horrors of death, destruction and inconsolable grief flickered their way across the great glass teat of pop'lar ennertainment.
By Tuesday morning, enough was enough.
Thank God for SBS and the ABC, for they were the only two television channels that made any effort to report actual news about the events of that weekend rather than wallowing like fat happy pigs in the hollow pits of pain and loss that once were people with lives, with futures and with pasts, and who, now, wandered like shell-shocked soldiers through a battlefield the likes of which they could never have imagined in their most outrageous nightmares.
The shiny, happy parasites of commercial infotainment, self-anointed Masters-Of-The-Universe-As-Gods-Of-Pain outdid themselves in the rush to see which “host” of this once-in-a-lifetime entertainment opportunity could best make der unhappy, scrunchy face and convey to you, to us, just how horrible everything had been, how much worse it was going to get, and just how thoroughly and utterly fucked everybody involved were.
For we would not be able to grasp the deep import of these events without a familiar face to guide us through the proper meaning of loss, something only they could convey and can we please have some music for the underscore just in case anyone missed it? Thanks very much, Pachelbel’s Canon will do just fine, but after the break can we toss in some R.E.M. or Jeff Buckley? Cheers, thanks, ta, we have an annual licence so there’s no probs with der rights, eh?
And so, with their faces duly pasted and painted so as to take the shine off their shiny, shiny foreheads, they cast their eyes about for the wasted and the wounded, knowing full well they’ll be met with little resistance from the shocked and the stunned as they shove microphones and cameras in the faces of people who’ve lost husbands, wives, sons, daughters, parents, their homes, their pets, the entire record of their lives on earth to date and ask the really, really pertinent questions that really, really begged for an answer …
“You’ve lost your wife and your children and your home and your pets and the entire record of your life on earth to date … How do you feeeeeeeeeel nowwwwwww?”
The answer I wanted never came, or it was certainly never broadcast …
“How would you feel if I shoved this fucking microphone and this fucking camera between the flappy folds of your saggy, spotted buttocks until your fucking pinhead pops off your scrawny fucking shoulders, you ghoulish fucking lump of insensitive cuntspit?”
Better luck next time, perhaps.
And in their wake come the whores, hacks and harlots of the “popular” Australian press, ever eager to drive the standards (?!) of Australian journalism (??!) and reportage (???!) into the mediocrity it so enthusiastically and increasingly embraces ... (Hey! Psst! Wanna see a photo of Salma Hayek breastfeeding a kid? WE GOT IT! Tits, man! And boy, ain’t she got a set! Hubba hubba!).
Yet that shouldn’t be too surprising, given the “popular” press is mostly owned by some pussy-whipped old fart whose hair goes through more colour changes in a week than Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat could do in a 6 month Broadway run.
Yep, round up the usual narcissistic deadshits and set ‘em to work to preach from the same old bully pulpit as always - Hell, you need talent, intelligence and imagination to think up something new and actually write about it in depth and no one wants to read that shit these days, do they? Is Australia, mate, the “lucky country”, don’t you be gittin’ above your raisin’ an’ puttin’ on airs an’ graces boy, an’ gettin’ deep on us all.
There’s a predictable lad.
Ah, fuck ‘em all. Throw some money in a bucket or a tin can or organise something at work or donate some blood or whatever, but next time these cunts of commercial “news” suggest splashing the face of someone writhing in the throes of uncontrollable grief for “your consideration” in some special extended agony remix edition, turn the fucking thing off or turn the page.
Enough is enough.
DEVINELY STUPID
Sent to the Sydney Morning Herald this morning, prompted by this crap from the female Paddy McGuiness …
“For investigative journalism of skill, intelligence, common sense, balance and reasoned argument, Miranda Devine makes a nice typist.”
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
A LETER TOO THE ARTHER
An actual letter (handwritten) addressed to a (former) political figure and author. This is an accurate transcription of the layout, spelling and rather odd little P.S. at the end …
I boughttheyour book, “- ------ -- ------” for 50 cents, a couple of months ago from the ---------- Library, -------- they bought it on Dec 2005 $33. and were getting Rid of It, in Setp./Oct, 2008, the Book was in pristine Condition, obviously not many people borrowed it, if any.
I myself read other books that I bought at the same time,
By looking at the Cover, it gave me the impression it would be a Boring Political Spiel.
However when I started reading it, I was Very Pleasantly Surprised, I am at Page 141 Half way In my opinion this is a TERRIFIC Book (“You cannot judge a book by its cover” applies here)
I want to THANK YOU for your contribution to Bettering the Lives of the Working Class of Australia, Especially when you being from a Middle Class family could very well Ignored the Issue as most people in your position do. (THEM I calling them) You are an Inspiration to me, you have Done, what I was thinking Should Be Done (But I was to Busy Working), but did not have the Knowleg to Bring it to Reality.
May I sugest that you reissue the Book, but with a Cover showing 2 Beatyful NAKED Women, (I am serius), People will them open the book (expecting something else) and some may get interested and get the Book and Read It, they Should.
Men will have the Book on their Desk, just to look at the Pictures but they will read some of it. (otherwise is a case of “out of Sight Out of Mind”)
Regars, Best Wishes to You and Your Family
J--- C------
----------, VICTORIA
2 Good Looking NAKED MEN for Women and Homosexuals
It will go very well with YOUNG PEOPLE today, (Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll)
DO A SMALL RUN and see how it goes, (they will sell like hot cakes) if you are SCARED.
Scared?
Yes.
Yes.
Very.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
FROZEN MEAL IN BOX
I’ve never eaten “Frozen Meal in Box”.
Ever.
By “Frozen Meal in Box”, I mean those things that are tricked up to look like a full-fledged proper meal with a proper name and all the trappings and accompaniments. Like “baked potato” and “fresh peas” and “creamy sauce” and such.
I’m not talking about stuff like frozen fish fillets or frozen pies, both of which I’ve eaten on occasions and, especially in the latter case, have always wondered why on earth I bothered to put the stove on in the first place.
For frozen pies are fucking horrible. You’ll never eat a frozen pie and say afterward, “Damn, that was good”. It’s as if someone’s deliberately gone out of their way to present you with a pastry that has the consistency of a Gingernut biscuit which has been soaked in an unidentifiable meat flavour for a few seconds and then baked on the lip of an active volcano for a week or three.
And the packets advertise contents like “tender chunks” or “herbs and spices” being present in the foodstuff. If your definition of a “chunk” is something the size and shape of a toenail cutting and to you “herbs and spices” means a midget pinch of white pepper, you might find this type of mulch to your liking.
To me, however, “herbs and spices” means you add the spice to the fucking food, not wave the stuff about over the top of the pot for an eighth of a nanosecond.
Anyway …
“Frozen Meal in Box”.
Yesterday, I saw some “Frozen Meal in Box” advertised in a Coles or Woolworths brochure, and they were on special for four bucks a pop. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty cheap. Maybe I should buy some “Frozen Meal in Box” and give it a try.”
And then I thought, “Hang on. Is this an indicator of something? If I begin to eat “Frozen Meal in Box”, does this mean that I will have started an irreversible decline into old age where, by the time I’m 70, dinner will mean a slice of toast with half a tomato and a glass of milk, because I just couldn’t be bothered anymore?”
That’s what happens when people get old, isn’t it? And I’m now officially middle-aged, aren’t I?
And now, after 30 years of mostly making my own meals, I find myself at a point in life where I’m beginning to think “Frozen Meal in Box” may be a plausible option for food?
It presents me with a vision of my life 12, 13 years from now when (I hope) I’m retired …
Where every morning at about 9.56am I shall shuffle from my one-room bedsit above a bloodhouse pub somewhere in Deliverance country down to the scarred, piss-and-vomit smelling public bar (for that is all I shall be able to afford) there to sit for 8 or 9 hours grunting meaningless familiarities to the bartender, nursing 3 or 4 schooners of basic beer over that period of time as my brain slowly turns to blancmange from the constant hum and throb of Fox Sports on the 478cm holographic plasma television that hangs above the Kettle Chip rack.
And, at the end of the day, before the bar I have now come to call “home” will be invaded by loud, gaudily dressed, rude young things and their horrible music, I shall shuffle back to my tiny little nook in shapeless trousers and shapeless shoes, a shapeless t-shirt flapping about my shapeless frame of shabby bones to plop into a shapeless chair, the highlight of my day being the keen anticipation felt for the next 25 minutes as I patiently wait for my special weekly treat of “Frozen Meal in Box” to unfreeze …
“Ooh, look dear, you can get 4 varieties for 10 dollars at Aldi this week …and they have some very good generic denture solvent for only $1.75 too.”
It’s life Ross, but not as you’ve known it.
Yet.
Ever.
By “Frozen Meal in Box”, I mean those things that are tricked up to look like a full-fledged proper meal with a proper name and all the trappings and accompaniments. Like “baked potato” and “fresh peas” and “creamy sauce” and such.
I’m not talking about stuff like frozen fish fillets or frozen pies, both of which I’ve eaten on occasions and, especially in the latter case, have always wondered why on earth I bothered to put the stove on in the first place.
For frozen pies are fucking horrible. You’ll never eat a frozen pie and say afterward, “Damn, that was good”. It’s as if someone’s deliberately gone out of their way to present you with a pastry that has the consistency of a Gingernut biscuit which has been soaked in an unidentifiable meat flavour for a few seconds and then baked on the lip of an active volcano for a week or three.
And the packets advertise contents like “tender chunks” or “herbs and spices” being present in the foodstuff. If your definition of a “chunk” is something the size and shape of a toenail cutting and to you “herbs and spices” means a midget pinch of white pepper, you might find this type of mulch to your liking.
To me, however, “herbs and spices” means you add the spice to the fucking food, not wave the stuff about over the top of the pot for an eighth of a nanosecond.
Anyway …
“Frozen Meal in Box”.
Yesterday, I saw some “Frozen Meal in Box” advertised in a Coles or Woolworths brochure, and they were on special for four bucks a pop. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty cheap. Maybe I should buy some “Frozen Meal in Box” and give it a try.”
And then I thought, “Hang on. Is this an indicator of something? If I begin to eat “Frozen Meal in Box”, does this mean that I will have started an irreversible decline into old age where, by the time I’m 70, dinner will mean a slice of toast with half a tomato and a glass of milk, because I just couldn’t be bothered anymore?”
That’s what happens when people get old, isn’t it? And I’m now officially middle-aged, aren’t I?
And now, after 30 years of mostly making my own meals, I find myself at a point in life where I’m beginning to think “Frozen Meal in Box” may be a plausible option for food?
It presents me with a vision of my life 12, 13 years from now when (I hope) I’m retired …
Where every morning at about 9.56am I shall shuffle from my one-room bedsit above a bloodhouse pub somewhere in Deliverance country down to the scarred, piss-and-vomit smelling public bar (for that is all I shall be able to afford) there to sit for 8 or 9 hours grunting meaningless familiarities to the bartender, nursing 3 or 4 schooners of basic beer over that period of time as my brain slowly turns to blancmange from the constant hum and throb of Fox Sports on the 478cm holographic plasma television that hangs above the Kettle Chip rack.
And, at the end of the day, before the bar I have now come to call “home” will be invaded by loud, gaudily dressed, rude young things and their horrible music, I shall shuffle back to my tiny little nook in shapeless trousers and shapeless shoes, a shapeless t-shirt flapping about my shapeless frame of shabby bones to plop into a shapeless chair, the highlight of my day being the keen anticipation felt for the next 25 minutes as I patiently wait for my special weekly treat of “Frozen Meal in Box” to unfreeze …
“Ooh, look dear, you can get 4 varieties for 10 dollars at Aldi this week …and they have some very good generic denture solvent for only $1.75 too.”
It’s life Ross, but not as you’ve known it.
Yet.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
I WISH I'D WRITTEN THAT ...
Buffalo Beast list their 50 Most Loathsome Americans of 2008 and the charges against them ...
I doubt these three could be bettered for descriptions ...
I doubt these three could be bettered for descriptions ...
At No.43, You ...No.11 reminds me of someone ...
Charges: You think it’s your patriotic duty to spend money you don’t have on crap you don’t need. You think Hillary lost because of sexism, when it’s actually because she’s just a bad liar. You think Iraq is better off now than before we invaded, and don’t understand why they’re so ungrateful. You think Tim Russert was a great journalist. You’re hopping mad about an auto industry bailout that cost a squirt of piss compared to a Wall Street heist of galactic dimensions, due to a housing crash you somehow have blamed on minorities. It took you six years to figure out what a tool Bush is, but you think Obama will make it all better. You deem it hunky dory that we conduct national policy debates via 8-second clips from “The View.” You think God zapped humans into existence a few thousand years ago, although your appendix and wisdom teeth disagree. You like watching vicious assholes insult each other on TV. You support gun rights, because firing one gives you a chubby. You cuddle falsehoods and resent enlightenment. You think the fact that 43% of whites could stomach voting for an incredibly charismatic and eloquent light-skinned black guy who was raised by white people means racism is over. You think progressive taxation is socialism. 1 in 100 of you are in jail, and you think it should be more. You are shallow, inconsiderate, afraid, brand-conscious, sedentary, and totally self-obsessed. You are American.
Exhibit A: You’re more upset by Miley Cyrus’s glamour shots than the fact that you are a grown adult who is upset about Miley Cyrus.
At No.20, Joe the Plumber ...
Charges: The Che Guevara of bald, pissed off white men. In a lot of ways, Samuel Wurzelbacher really does represent the average American—basing economic opinions on unrealistic expectations of personal future success, blaming his failure to meet those expectations on minorities and old people, complaining about deadbeats getting his taxes when he isn’t actually paying his taxes, and advertising his own rudimentary historical and mathematical ignorance by warning of creeping socialism in a country whose highest income tax rate has dropped by half in thirty years. “Joe” indeed symbolizes the true American dream—to become undeservedly rich and famous through a dizzyingly improbable stroke of luck. As American folk heroes go, Wurzelbacher ranks somewhere between Hulk Hogan and Bernie Goetz.
Exhibit A: "Social Security is a joke...social security I've never believed in, don't like it. I hate that it's forced on me."
At No.11, Rush Limbaugh ...
Charges: The father of modern stupidity, Limbaugh spins reflexively, never struggling with issues, because he knows his conclusion must favor Republicans, and his only task is finding a way to get there. In other words, he may or may not actually believe what he’s saying, but it’s beside the point. His job is not to say what he thinks, but to instruct his listeners on what they should think. If the facts don’t agree, he can always change them, as his “ditto heads” are already armed against the contrary evidence with the all-purpose “liberal bias” attack. “Rush is right,” as the slogan goes, and all those nerdy reporters in the “drive by media” are lying, because they secretly love terrorists. It’s this creepily worshipful, breathtakingly infantile abdication of intellect to a blatantly dishonest hypocrite that makes Limbaugh’s audience so goddamn sad. These pathetic, insecure, failures of men look to Rush as the champion of their impotent rage, helping them to externalize responsibility for their own deficiencies, pinning the blame on those darn liberals and their racial and gender equality.
Exhibit A: You have to marvel at the sheer ignominy of someone who coins the term “Obama recession” two days after the election.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
HUH?
It goes on the credit card.
Thanks.
UPDATE: Well, that was a short-lived hope. Thanks a bunch, Malcolm.
Cunt.
Monday, 2 February 2009
OH, TO BE A SUB-EDITOR ...
From the front page of today's New York Times, this lead-in to its Sunday Styles feature ...
"Lost tribes of lesbians from the early era of communes and feminism try to stay vital to a new generation."
I can't wait to see the movie.
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