TRAVIS B. SHOOTS FOR CHUCKLES

Robert De Niro made his feature film debut in 1968 for Brian De Palma's "Greetings". He made a further 8 films prior to 1973's "Mean Streets" from Martin Scorsese. Then he did "The Godfather: Part 2" the year after that, and his next film was "Taxi Driver" in 1976 as Travis Bickle. Before the 70's and 80's were over with, he gave us Jimmy Doyle in "New York, New York", then "The Deer Hunter", "King of Comedy", "Once Upon A Time in America", "Brazil", "The Untouchables", "Midnight Run" and, of course, Jake La Motta in "Raging Bull". In the 90's, we got "Goodfellas", "Cape Fear", "Mad Dog & Glory", "Casino", "Heat", "Wag The Dog", and "Jackie Brown". Among others.

Then, in 2000, he produced and appeared in ... "The Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle".

Nobody's perfect.

After 40 years in the movie business, De Niro finds himself regularly criticised for the roles he now takes on. As Philip Horne notes in the UK’s Telegraph, according to many De Niro has squandered his talents these last several years in sub-standard vehicles that do him no credit whatsoever. "Analyse That" anyone? "Godsend"? Who’d like to sit through “The Good Shepherd” a second time?

Well, no, but ... Excuuuuuuuuuuuse me …

At 65 years of age and with 78 feature films to his credit, I think De Niro, given all that he has achieved as an actor as I’ve noted above, can do whatever the fuck he feels like until he drops dead.

And who the hell are we to insist he fulfill our ridiculous and unrealistic expectations that he pile on the pounds and powder up to bring us “Raging Bull Pt. 2”? Perhaps he should have a word to Scorsese about reprising his role as Travis Bickle in … let’s see now … “Bus Driver”? Would that help?

For God’s sake, live in the world.

Imagine spending 40 years of your life in the film industry. Liars, thieves, shills and spivs, con-men, bullshit artists and the flat-out deluded and insane – these are the men and women who, if they thought it would help get them an “assistant producer” credit on a flick, any flick, would happily shoot their mothers through the head, pack a bag and grab the first plane, train or automobile to Hollywoodland for a 5 minute meeting and a glass of warm water with someone’s stationary clerk.

The only thing worse than 40 years in the film industry would be spending 40 years in the fucking music industry.

For example, in his recently published diaries, director Bruce Beresford goes through a period of (I think) two years trying to get a couple of projects that he has an interest in off the ground only to be dumped on again and again and again as dodgy finance people (read, “producers”) reveal themselves to be full of it, actors won’t work with him, and various other self-absorbed, talentless shitheads with Patrick Bateman business cards endlessly fuck and fart him about. Eventually, desperate to work simply for the sake of having some work to do to keep him busy, he winds up lumped with a project he thought was crap from the start, but at least has some names attached and a green light, so … we get “The Contract” (Unfortunately (or not), I can’t remember anything about “The Contract” other than John Cusack and Morgan Freeman were in it, and I only watched it about 3 weeks ago).

That’s life in showbiz.

And if you’ve spent 40 years as an actor in it, well over half of that time will have been spent sitting on your arse wondering why you were called at 5am in the morning and it’s now 2pm in the afternoon and all you had to do was a one line reaction shot …

“Fact is, Mr. De Niro, we might have to bring you in tomorrow for the scene as the bombulator we needed for your shot has slipped a snigget and it’s a four-hour drive to the next county to pick up a new one as the snigget manufacturer’s delivery guy went on a cocaine bender last night and shot some fellas in a MacDonald’s after an altercation with a trans-gender lap dancer and the production designer won’t dress the scene until the vintage Pez dispenser he wanted for the bedside table gets here from eBay … Also, someone put superglue in the boom operator’s Fleshlight and he can’t stand up straight right now.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry.”

At which point, one could be excused for thinking, “Maybe I could open a restaurant. Or a bar. Start a film festival, perhaps? Hell, why don’t I produce my own movies and as long as I don’t have to do much or not even be in them, I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit …”

From ?, Robert De Niro “How to Piss Off Robert De Niro in 30 Seconds”

Actors do not act in order to prove they can to an audience. They act in order to prove to themselves that they may achieve what they have set out to achieve to their own satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the director in accordance with the rules of the script. Anyone who does otherwise is not an actor, they are a “celebrity”. De Niro is not a celebrity and he has absolutely nothing he needs to prove anymore as an actor. Having turned himself inside out physically and emotionally for a couple of decades in order to meet the demands of the roles he was fortunate enough to score and subsequently succeed in, he’s well and truly entitled to a nice long fucking rest.

And for anyone who thinks that De Niro has “lost it” – if your video store has one of those 7 rentals for 7 bucks deals, grab any 7 of those movies mentioned in the first paragraph and watch one a night for a week. Then imagine what “Taxi Driver” may have been like if Jeff Bridges or Dustin Hoffman or (God forbid) Neil Diamond had been given the role of Travis Bickle. Bridges and Hoffman are fine actors, but somehow … As for Neil Diamond … truly, the mind not just boggles at the thought, but returns a “file not found” error report.

In the hopefully not so far off future De Niro may come upon a script or a project that fires him up sufficiently to knock us senseless with awe once again. We can only dream.

However, given his choice of roles these last several years, I think it could be reasonable to assume that he really couldn’t give a flying fuck about accumulating Academy Awards and the like just now and has been doing precisely what he feels like when he feels like doing it.

And if that means taking it (relatively) easy in work at an age when most people are expected to retire and eat dog food and whine about the pension, so be it.

From 2007, Robert De Niro in “Extras”

MY FATAL ERROR

I knew it wouldn’t last. Against my better judgement I popped over to Bolt’s blog to have a gander at his rattlings.

Now …

What the fuck does this mean? …

America’s Left clearly doesn’t worship Gough Whitlam the way our own feels he deserves. Here’s The Huffington Post’s Adam McKay in a panic attack:

"This is it folks. If McCain takes power we fade and become Australia in the seventies: a backwoods country with occasional flashes of relevance."

Weird: our Left fears we’re becoming too American; theirs frets the US will become too Australian. It strikes me these folks have a few differences to work through. They should get together and harmonise their lines.

WHAT ON EARTH DOES IT MEAN???!!

That’s the whole post. That’s it.

I haven’t been paying attention to anything Jimmy Olsen has been blathering on about for almost a month now. Honestly, it’s like a multi-vitamin shot to the brain. Now, having spied this one post on this one occasion, I fear all my good work has been for naught …

Brain function = Fatal Error. Fail.

Ctrl+Alt+Del = Restart ...

Brain function = File Not Found. Fatal Error. Fail.

Shutdown.

Send Error Report?

…

?

No, just bring me a beer …

Next time I get the urge to “read” something of Bolt’s, I’ll employ some CBT techniques and pop off to Bloody Disgusting instead.

MEMO TO ALL STAFF

We had previously received a number of comments from staff concerning the general condition and cleanliness of the office toilet facilities and did at that time attempt to convey to staff the need to maintain these facilities in a relatively hygienic fashion for the benefit of us all. However, we really just couldn’t be bothered any more as many of you appear to be thicker than a swimming pool deck and so repellently filthy that the proverbial shithouse rat is beginning to look like June Dally-Watkins in comparison.

So, in future, when using the toilets, by all means please:

1. Go ahead and urinate in the sink.

2. Smear your faeces over the walls. While you’re at it, write a verse or two.

3. Please use your indelible makeup to scribble on the mirror and benchtops.

4. Throw your bloated, befouled tampons wherever. Why not toss them to the ceiling and see if they stick?

5. Don’t use toilet paper! Just drag your saggy arse across the floor and make sure you press your shit into the grouting as you go. The cleaners are grateful for the overtime.

6. If you do use toilet paper, don’t put it in the bowl, the floor’s there for a reason too, you know.

7. Wash your hands? Nah. Go and rub them all over the biscuits in the lunchroom upstairs.

8. Hepatitis is a real buzz if you can get the right drugs, so don’t bother with soap.

9. Hide your discarded syringes in places where other people might sit on them. What a hoot. Whoopsy!

10. Last, but by no means least, don’t flush that big brown thing, you silly nong! The people who come in after you are really keen to have a look-see.

Thank you all.

THE MANAGEMENT

BRIT-NAY'S MAMA (APOCALYPSE REDUX)

I'm currently busier than a maggot on a stackburger so, in view of the news of these "shocking" revelations, and instead of buggering about with something new, the time seems apt for a re-presentation of Rebus Flatbush and "The Tale of Brit-Nay's Mama" ...

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales of the American Mid-West” ...

“Now ... Feetus, Teetus an’ Meetus, you boys git in here and settle yerselves up for bed cause I’m a gunna speak a story at yer ... This here’s a story ‘bout Brit-nay’s momma ...

Once upon a time Brit-nay’s momma done once lived raht here in this ol’ trailer park, an’ afore she done popped out Brit-nay, she useta set in her trailer a’drinkin’ an’ a cussin’ at herself ‘cause she weren’t a fam-ous person. She’d rub her big bumpy belly and take a big swig a’ corn likker and tell herself, “Mah baby’s gonna be someone one day, yessir she is, I’m a gonna show ever’one I ain’t no common piece ‘a trailer trash, no sirree I ain’t! I gots talents! An’ so will mah chil’, dagnabbit!!”

Then she’d let go of a buncha burps and farts so loud they fair stunned all the woodchucks fer miles aroun’ and set the grizzlies a-runnin’ for higher ground and then she’d fall down lahk a dead person an’ set fire to herself agin an’ we’d all haveta come a-runnin’ with buckets ‘a water and put her out. This useta happen, oh ... ‘bout every day or two.

(Feetus ... stop rubbin’ yerself agin yer’ brothers an’ pay attention, boy ... )

Anyhoo, Brit-nay was popped outta her momma’s belly one afternoon in the toilet block while she wuz givin’ Otis the janitor a seein’ to ‘bout sumfin’ (though why they wuz both nekkid at the time ah ain’t ever been able to figger, but ah guess that’s a’ no mind of mine to think upon), an’ she picked her baby up outta the toilet bowl an’ says “I gots myself a ticket to a fortune at last!”

An’ she taught that chil’ how ta dance an’ swivel her liddle hips an’ poke out her chesty bits and sing into a hairbush, all the time tellin’ her, “You gonna be fam-ous, Brit-nay, yes you are, an’ ah don’ wanna hear any arguments about it, you gonna be someone and ahm gonna be someone too! ... Now you gotsta learn how to poke out yer liddle baby pillows sum more and smile when all those nahce men from the talents agency come ‘round ... Oh!, that reminds me ... we gotsta git yer teeth bleached agin! ... You stay raht there now whiles I git the Persil.”

An’ sure e-nuff, Brit-nay got herself fam-ous an’ made a whole buncha money, an’ her momma made a whole buncha money too coz she done went and made herself Brit-nay’s manager person.

An’ then one day, when Brit-nay was a lot older, she started actin’ jes lahk her momma what with the drinkin’ and the smokin’ an’ cussin’ an’ gettin’ herself tattoos an’ havin’ a baby wif some fella who lahked to wear his pants ‘round his knees so as to show off his unnerwear an’ such ... Yessirree, she was actin’ up sumfin’ feerce all the time, an’ she got herself a dee-vorce an’ lost custody a’ her own l’il baby, an’ on top a’ all that, she went an’ tol’ her ol’ momma to go feck herself, ‘cause she was mahty sick of her.

An’ her poor ol’ momma soon found she had no more money left an’ she weren’t fam-ous no more an’ she had to come back an’ live with Otis the janitor in the toilet agin’.

Now, the moral of the story, boys, is this – no matter how many times you change the size an’ shape of yer trailer, the trash’ll always stay the same ...

(Er, Teetus ... take yer thang outta Meetus’s earhole and git yerself off to sleep, son.)”

I'VE HEARD THAT VOICE BEFORE

Don LaFontaine, 1940-2008

DON'T JUST SIT THERE, GO GET US A STORY!

Lindsay Lohan's DJ girlfriend flew into Sydney this morning and, upon leaving the airport terminal ...

...

LIT. A. CIGARETTE.

...

That's it.

And this has been deemed worthy of (online) reportage by The Sydney Morning Herald.

Jesus wept.

YOU’RE LEAVING US? AWWWWWWW …

The Managing Director of the company I have worked for these last 3 years retired on Friday. A number of functions had been held in the previous couple of weeks to mark the auspicious occasion – after all, he had worked here for over 20 years and an appropriately spiffy series of send-offs seemed well and truly warranted after such a lengthy stint.

So, rather than simply scribble a few inane remarks on the card that came around, I decided instead to send the dear fellow an email with some personal thoughts and observations as to the matter of his departure.

This was it …

Dear Mr. D********,

Even though I am a mere newcomer to this illustrious company (relatively speaking in respect of yourself, that is) I do feel that, in light of the recent comments and speeches and slideshows and spontaneous bursts of politely restrained laughter and applause that have accompanied even the most banal or slightest of enthusiastically intoned anecdotes as regards your impending departure, some things have been left out, and in the leaving of them, a somewhat skewed and unarguably unrealistic portrait has been conveyed ...

So, please indulge me a few final thoughts in order to restore some semblance of truth to the matter ...

Now certainly, while those who have spoken of you have done so fondly, I feel, in all honesty, that it is with a fondness for the man they once knew at his peak rather than the sad and distressing spectacle that so many of us have had the misfortune to witness you become in these, your declining and debilitated years ...

And while it is undoubtedly fair to say that your contribution to the success of this organisation is respectably significant (I mean, let's not so obligingly shoot our heads up our own anus just yet, shall we?), none of us who now remain will feel any sense of loss whatsoever at the recent sightings of you shuffling about the lunch-room in an old pair of fluffy slippers and poo-stained pyjama bottoms, regaling any poor bugger within earshot of the ever-increasing number of ailments with which you have now found yourself afflicted.

Frankly, we'll all be a damn sight better off now that we won't be hearing the gloopy details of your irritable bowel syndrome and erectile dysfunction problems while we're trying to chow down on a bowl of curry or a banana. I mean, for fuck's sake.

And it will certainly be reassuring to know that we will now be able to move freely through the building to go about our business without our senses being shockingly assaulted at every turn by the toxic by-products of your embarrassingly inappropriate occasions of explosive incontinence. Did you know that one of the cleaners was so overwhelmed by the fetid stench from your office that she thought she was Timothy Leary for a week and is now looking at spending the rest of her life in an iron lung? At least we'll be able to attend to meetings from now on without having to bring along our own sponge and bucket and cover our clothes in Glad-Wrap. Thank fuck for that.

Nevertheless, despite these often disturbing aspects of your character and person, may I take this occasion to wish you well for the future. I'm sure that the life you have decided to map for yourself in retirement will be an auspicious one and exactly as you desire. That is to say, spending many a gloriously lazy day at the Golden Years Caravan Park up from the Ipswich Bowls Club, eating sausages and meatballs from a can while sucking VB from a 44-gallon drum through a bendy straw and throwing rocks at any poor pigeons who have the audacity to poop on the heads of your impressive collection of garden gnomes.

Have a nice time.

P.S. I hear Pauline Hanson's looking for a fella. You'll be in the neighbourhood, why not give it some thought? All you'll need do is shove a plug up your butt on the night and who knows what might just happen?

I really do wonder sometimes precisely how I’ve managed to remain employed for the last 30 years …

But then again, why settle for just pushing an envelope when turbo-charging one is so attractive an option?

It also helps if the boss has a sense of humour.

Lucky me.

I SEE “RED” ... NOT.

I was poking about a movie site earlier in the week and came across trailers for 2 films, "The Girl Next Door" and "Red", both based on books of the same name by Jack Ketchum, an author I'd never heard of ...



From 2007, “Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door” Trailer



From 2008, “Red” Trailer

So I did a bit more poking about and, from the looks of it, Ketchum is someone I definitely need to get acquainted with (given the type of things I occasionally like to read, examples of which are here and here) ...

"The Girl Next Door" is based on an actual case from 1966 which was brain-numbingly horrific in nature, and incredibly disturbing. I'm not sure how "satisfying" it would be as a movie but happily, from the tone of the trailer and reviews so far, the makers appear to have decided against churning out another entry in the ghastly "torture-porn" genre, cf the "Saw" and "Hostel" franchises, opting instead for a bit of substance over spillage.

Curiously enough, another film, based on the exact same crime, was also made last year starring Ellen Page and Catherine Keener. This one is called "An American Crime", and was made for Showtime. Keener was nominated for an Emmy for her role earlier this year …



From 2007, “An American Crime” Trailer

Neither film has been released in Australia. I can't even find a tentative date for a DVD release.

Why?

Why can I not watch these two fucking films here? Fair enough, "Red" is still doing the rounds of various film markets, so it's a bit early in the day to have a whine about that, but both "The Girl Next Door" and "An American Crime" have been released already and are now on DVD, but as far as Australian moviegoers are concerned, we can just fuck off and go watch crap like "Don't Mess With The Zohan" or "The Love Guru" or fucking "Prom Night" instead.

This just shits me. Also, can you believe that my local Blockbuster hasn't even decided to put "Teeth" on their shelves? What am I supposed to be watching, "Martian Child"?*

Here's another one that, despite excellent reviews, we probably won't be seeing ...



From 2008, “Martyrs” Trailer

Outside of the recent Melbourne Film Festival, no one will probably get a chance to see "Inside" either ...



From 2008, “Inside” Trailer

And the much-admired Spanish horror film "[REC]", while it had a brief run at a couple of film festivals this year, won't make it to cinema or DVD either, I suspect. We may not even get the dubious honour of seeing how the Americans fuck up the remake, of which the original directors had this to say, "I would prefer them to release our movie as an art-house film in the U.S., and not to make a fool of themselves by copying it."

Now, before someone tries to write me off as a sociopathic gore 'n' guts lovin' ghoul, scientific journal "Behavioural Neuroscience" has another explanation that makes a great deal more sense ...

And my favourite film of all time is Bruce Beresford's "Tender Mercies".

Seriously.

So there.

Take your assumptions as to my sanity and sensibilities and … and …

…

Oh, never mind.

…

*Well, I might … John Cusack’s not too bad, I guess.

RETHINKING “CASABLANCA”

- Thing is, people want it to be a period thing … they should think about it now.

- Bring it up to date …

- Yes, bring it up to date, do it now.

- Okay.

- So. Is, then … Is … “Casablanca” “the” place? Or is it “a” place?

- If it’s a place, then it’s a nightclub, right?

- But the nightclub is called “Ricks” …

- So you got a guy called Rick runnin’ a nightclub called “Casablanca” … that works for me …

- But what happens? Where is he that something can happen? … No. It has to be that it’s the place.

- Exotic, like.

- Yes. So stuff can happen. Foreign stuff. Nobody’s gonna give a fuck about some guy runnin’ a bar called “Casablanca” in Pittsburgh. You see, the old one, that’s World War II, for Christ’s sake. No-one’s interested in that stuff anymore. It’s history.

- History. Pfhht. That’s just for dusting.

- You need new foreign stuff … Arabs 'n' shit. There’s Arabs there.

- They can be sneakin’ around …

- Doin’ Arab stuff.

- With guns ‘n’ shit.

- And the letters of transit … from the original …

- I’m trying to think …

- … They can be something else. Something … ancient, yeah? Rare shit. Ancient. Holy. Dangerous shit ... Old, holy, dangerous shit. Huh?

- You get some Dan Brown thing happening there.

- Yes. Some Dan Brown thing … that worked for him. So. We got Ilsa trying to get this ancient, holy hoodoo out of the country …

- It’s cursed. If the hoodoo’s cursed, you could get some “Mummy” action in. Sandstorms, like that. After all, it’s the desert, let’s fuckin’ use it while it’s there.

- I dunno I want a “Mummy” thing goin’ on … Anyway, this old hoodoo don’t belong in Arab land, it was stolen, blah blah blah, has to be returned to its rightful place, blah-de-blah-de-blah, and they gotta smuggle it out, but first they need Rick to pull a few favours with the military, so they can get … you know … the thing out … without, without, er … you know, getting searched and stuff.

- Is it a military hoodoo?

- No, it’s a holy hoodoo.

- Why does the army care?

- Who’s army?

- Theirs.

- They’re Arabs. It’s all the same to them.

- How does he pull favours?

- I don’t fucking know. He just does. Fuck, I mean … they’re fucking Arabs, y’know?

- Fuckin’ way to run a fuckin’ military.

- What can I say? It’s why it works out … if they knew what they were doing, they’d do it, we wouldn’t have a story.

- We wouldn’t have a fuckin’ paycheck.

- They’re Arabs. They fuck it up.

- Our guys win.

- What else? … We get Blanchett for Ilse, Clooney for Rick …

- Clooney’ll wanna have a few pals along.

- I don’t care. We’ll let him have David Strathairn for Captain Renault. Maybe we could get Brad Pitt or Matty D. for the Victor Laszlo part … he’ll go for that. Fuck, maybe he puts some money in. Huh?

- Steve Buscemi does the Peter Lorre part.

- That’s fuckin’ excellent. I like that.

- Thank you.

- No. No, really, that’s good. What about, in that vein, what do you think … John Goodman in Sydney Greenstreet’s role?

- Fuck, yes. I can see that. They’ve both worked together before anyway, haven’t they?

- I dunno. Have they?

- In the … the, the, Coen thing.

- Huh?

- The Coens.

- …

- The Coens.

- Yeah.

- You know.

- Yeah yeah yeah yeah … Yeah … Anyway, if they’ve worked together before, it’s good. They’re already friends. You see?

- Very smooth.

- As it should be.

- …

- …

- “McCasaburger”.

- Huh?

- “McCasaburger”. The burger. Tie-in.

- Nice.

- A true taste of the desert.

- What would that be?

- I dunno. I’ve never eaten a burger in the desert.

- Fuckin’ flies …

- Maybe … I think maybe they can just make it, you know, deserty by putting some fruit on it. …

- Dates with meat … Do dates go with meat? What’s an Arab fruit?

- … An’ a new sauce.

- Hommous!

- Perfect!

- Right …

- Okay …

- …

- …

- Fuck. We’re really good at this, you know?

- Yes. Yes, we are.

REMAKE: REMODEL “SOME LIKE IT HOT.”

Hollywood, have I gotta fucken concept for you ...

A remake. “Some Like It Hot”, the Billy Wilder thing from the 50’s. It’s time is due.

With Adam Sandler and David Spade taking on the Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon roles respectively, Jessica Simpson in the Monroe part and Chevy Chase updating the George Raft role of Spats Colombo.

Bringin’ the story up to date for the kids, Sandler and Spade will now be playing two nightclub DJ's who witness Chase and his mob take out a rival gang over a multi-million dollar ice deal and decide to go into hiding by posing as a couple of female backup dancers in Simpson's teen-sensation electro-pop touring variety show. Much hilarity ensues as our hapless pair of wanted witnesses struggle to maintain their disguises and their dignity as they find themselves sharing tour digs with some smokin'-hot babes who ain't afraid to let it all out whenever the mood takes them! Think of the tittage we can get on the poster! … Sandler and Spade also get the chance to deliriously bust a few moves in some sizzlin' and sexy Simpson routines that'll have audiences howlin' for "Some Like It Hotter" for next summer! … The soundtrack’ll go crazy, we can do a buncha clips. Think of the tittage … We got some cameos, too … Macauley Culkin will be doin' a bit as a hitman in Chevy Chase's gang; Jackie Chan's in it ... he'll do some stuff, you know, that stuff he does; Kirstie Alley's playing the tour manager ... Jim Belushi we got too ... um, people from all over, you know. Jason Alexander ... like that.

Rodney Dangerfield will play the part of Spade's love-blind paramour that was made famous by Joe E. Brown in the orig -

Dangerfield's dead?

...

Oh.

...

Bugger.

...

We'll get John Candy, then.

...

Oh.

...

Bugger.

...

Martin Lawrence?

...

Fuckin' excellent.

Anyway, Lawrence takes Joe E. Brown's part, and Paris, Posh and Rhianna are already lined up to play some of the other girls in the roadshow.

Shawn Levy's directing, Joe Eszterhas is on script.

Good, eh?

What's not to like?

UNCLE JACK FLATBUSH AND THE STRANGE TALE OF THE RETARDED, BILE-SPURTIN’ IDIOT CHICKEN FROM MORON HELL

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales from the American Mid-West”

“A cautionary fable for chin-dribblin’, crotch-fiddlin’, one-tooth banjo-playin’ retards, imbeciles, idiots, and egg-suckin’, overall-wearin’, straw-chewin’ dumb-ass inbred cretins and backward halfwit morons everywhere.”

Once upon a time, Rebus Flatbush found 'imself with sum important bizness to attend to at Ol' Mammy Wineshack's House a’ Joy up the Ol’ Baccy Road outside a' Dogpile, so he thought to leave the boys at Uncle Jack's place down at Lickass Town fer a few days ...

But what Rebus di'nt know at the time wuz that fer well over a year now, the strangest lookin' idiot creature any man's a'ever set his peepers on either in this lahf or the next had bin wandrin' in an' out of poor ol' Jack's patch a’ turnips with nary as much as a howdy-do or a may-I-please, an' ol' Jack was gittin' a mite itchy in his brain about it ...

And sure ‘nuff, later that very same day, while's Uncle Jack was tendin' to his pint-sized an’ summat sickly lookin’ melons and the boys were messin' about with the hawgs, that damn stupid thang came a’scuttlin' an' a'cluckin' an' a'spurtin' it's way inta the weed bed agin ... an' ol' Jack let fly a series a’ curses an’ ‘jaculations sumfin' evil at the sight a’ that mangy retard afore he whooped at the boys to come an' have a looksee.

"Hey Feetus, Teetus and Meatus! You boys leave that hawg alone for a minute an’ wipe yerselves off an' come have a gander at this goshdarn funny lookin' moron chicken that keeps a flappin' about mah patch a’ dirt!"

"Eeeee-ewwwwwwww", said Feetus, "Wassat thing there thass a' spurtin’ green stuff all over the turnip patch, Unca Jack?"

"Why Feetus", said Uncle Jack, "thass a bahl duck."

"A bahl dick?"

"No boy, a bahl DUCK. A bahl DUCK. (Damn it boy if you ain't ever had nothin' but wood on the brain since you were jest a little fella) ... This 'ere funny lookin' imbecile chicken looks lahk it's been born with it's bahl duck on the outsahd 'stead a' on the insahd!"

"Thass one goshdarn retarded lookin' chicken, Unca Jack", says Meatus.

"Well, boy, 'pearances ain't ever'thing, y'know ... (An' yer momma's plenny a' proof a' that, thass fer sure, boy)."

Uncle Jack cackled a bit at his own li'l joke, 'gratulatin' hisself on his smarts, an’ so he gave 'hisself an' extra large chunk of Jolly Roger chewin' baccy, and then blew off the last remnants a’ that mornin's meal through the hole in his coveralls he'd had made jes fer that very purpose.

"I'm gonna call that chicken George Jnr, Unca Jack", says Meatus.

"You do that, boy, though if I have any sayin' in the matter, that dumb-lookin’ thang ain't gonna 'ave a name fer much longer."

And then, whiles Uncle Jack wuz a musin' on the various ways an' means that he maht use to rid 'imself a’ the curse a’ this dirty ol' spurtin', stupid chicken, Teetus came a scootin' outta the shack yellin', "Uncle Jack!! Uncle Jack!! You gots to come insahd!! Quick!!"

"Wassup, Teetus?"

"Why, Ol' Woman Moses done gone and got herself stuck on the four-poster again! She got the lockjaw sumfin' feerce!"

"Dagnabbit all to heck! ... Ol' Man Moses's bin dead all year now, an' that ol' gal's brain's so rattled she's got to humpin' an' a’suckin' at those bedknobs as if he were still raht there aside her! ... You boys keep an' eye on that spurtin' chicken an' make sure it don't scare the hawgs none whiles I fetch the denture solvent an' pull her off those things afore she sucks all the varnishin' clean off ..."

Anyhoo, after takin' care a’Ol' Woman Moses an' her oral fixations an’ givin’ her dry ol’ lady bits a dustin’, Uncle Jack wandered back outside ta give some thoughts as ta how ta deal with this vexatious tarnation that were the devil's spurtin' imbecile chicken ...

Which is when he noticed sumfin' he ain't a’ever noticed afore ...

When that thang a' spurted its stuff alls over the turnips, the turnips died. But ... when it spurted its stuff over the melon patch, those things thrived. So Uncle Jack got the boys to lasso it's scrawny neck with a buncha ol’ crusty rubbers tied together (he wuz savin’‘em up to use fer Chris’mas stockin’s fer the boys, but danged if this weren’t a mite more ‘portant) an’ then he tied them rubbers 'round a big steel stick and planted that stick raht there in the melon patch an' that ol' devil chicken ran about that stick spurtin' it's bahl all over where the melons were supposed to grow and, lordy lordy, grow they did! Them things got so big, Uncle Jack won hisself firs’ prize in the annual fair up in Frottage County that very year, a first-class ticket on a steamer to Cleveland.

An’ later on, when that ol’ dumb chicken had run out of green stuff to spurt, Uncle Jack took a mahty big mallet an’ mashed it’s mangy ol’ body flat as could be, stuck a coat-hanger up it’s be-hind and used it fer a weather vane.

Yessiree now, Ol' Uncle Jack might not have known all that much 'bout the ways of stupid, spurtin’, dirty ol’ dumb devil chickens, but danged if he didn’t have a magic way about him when it came to tendin’ hisself a fine patch’a melons.

BORN STANDING UP

A couple of weeks ago, deliberately and very much on purpose, I decided to waste 3 bucks and 90 minutes of my life watching Shawn Levy's pointless and unremarkable remake of "The Pink Panther", with Steve Martin starring as Inspector Clouseau.

It was pretty crappy, actually, with Jean Reno wandering around looking thoroughly perplexed and just as equally bemused by the proceedings he's found himself a part of. Perplexed no doubt by the total absence of a reason for his character even existing, and bemused by the sizable stacks of cash he was probably being paid for turning up. However, when you're an actor in such a notoriously volatile and fickle industry and you find yourself confronted with the choice of a quality role at scale or a minor role in a piece of crap for a slice of a squillion ... turn up, take the cash for the crap, and fuck off quietly, I reckon. One of the more tiresomely stupid rhetorical questions often asked by idiot critics of actors is "What on earth was he/she thinking when they did this?" Well, what they were probably thinking was something along the lines of, "I need money for food so that I may live".

According to John Cleese in a Comedy Channel special (6 parts on YouTube), Steve Martin may have been thinking, "I need money to buy some art ... This'll do." Fair enough. Actually, I'm all for Steve Martin making a whole bunch of crap whenever the hell he feels like it as long as he throws in a "Shopgirl" or "Bowfinger" or "L.A. Story" every few years.

Or writes another memoir that's as good as "Born Standing Up".

As some critics have noted, it's easy to forget that Martin has been at his "trade" for over 40 years now. For an entire generation, he's just that white-haired bloke who plays dads in middle-of-the-road light comedies, not the "wild 'n' crazy" guy from the 1970's who used to play to stadium-sized crowds whilst wearing an arrow through his head and making balloon animals and singing stupid songs about dead Egyptian kings. Those days are long past and it is those days Martin's book deals with.

Without getting all sappy about it, he looks back at his youth, his childhood, his early days as a magic and comedy act, his subsequent breakthrough success and his decision to leave stand-up comedy with a warm, clear eye, refreshingly free of the type of impotent nostalgia and dreary sentimentality that so often mar show-business autobiographies with their over-abundance of self-serving schmaltz and who-cares-now apologia. Instead, there's something warmly and appealingly melancholic about the best of Martin's work, and it's a quality apparent here. By melancholic, I do not mean sad or depressed or even kind of blue. It's what happens when you look back at a thing, at a point in your life, regard it with fondness, know that it is gone and feel a sense of wonder at what has been lost and left behind. Even Martin, early on in his book, writes that he regards "Born Standing Up" more a biography than an autobiography as it is about a person "he once knew".

That “person” once worked in a shop at Disneyland. He did stand-up for years and years in all sorts of rickety and subterranean little clubs, often working 5 shows a day, sometimes to no audience (he had to be seen doing an act through a window so people might be encouraged to wander in for a look-see). He wrote for the then cutting-edge television satire of “The Smothers Brothers”. He also wrote for “The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour”. Yes, that’s right, Sonny & Cher had a “Comedy Hour”. He hung out with Laurel Canyon hippies. He once opened for a folk-duo who, a few years later, wound up morphing into the Eagles. He did Johnny Carson’s show. He dated Linda Ronstadt, but was so intimidated by her looks and “street-smarts” that on the 8th or 9th date, Ronstadt asked him if he often dated girls and deliberately tried not to get them into bed. He opened for Ann-Margret’s act in Vegas once and met Elvis Presley backstage. Elvis congratulated Martin on his “ob-leek” sense of humour and then proceeded to show him his guns. Elvis had an “ob-leek” sense of humour too, you see.

Then he became a success, playing to stadiums of tens of thousands of people, selling squillions of records. And eventually he realised it was all becoming a bit pointless doing small moments of comic business that would be lost on anyone beyond the second row and that having your own catchphrases hollered at you by a horde of strangers before you’d managed to get a word out yourself wasn’t particularly satisfying.

So, he decided to put it to rest, and went about doing other things.

As Billy Connolly notes in the same Comedy Channel special, it was a brave, some might say foolish, move to make. You’re going from a known quantity at the peak of success in your field to just another face on an 8x10 in the crapshoot of feature filmmaking. Martin could’ve milked his stand-up act for years. He could’ve wound up playing any RSL he felt like. And for a percentage of the door, too. Instead, he threw the world a loop and decided to dance and mime his way through Herbet Ross’s 1981 adaptation of Dennis Potter’s “Pennies From Heaven” for his second feature. Nobody saw that coming, that’s for sure.

“Born Standing Up” is not written as a “comic” book, but it is often laugh out loud funny, especially when Martin describes the evolution and impact of many of his sketches which were not as randomly thrown together as one may think, but were, rather, often painstakingly deliberate in nature, directed and informed by Martin’s early university studies of philosophy. He always seems to know exactly what he’s doing.

I hope he writes another book soon. Or sometime. About films and film-making, perhaps. He’s very good at it.

But he’s not particularly prolific these days, though. At least not to the extent that he was during the 1980’s. It was 8 years between “L.A. Story” and “Bowfinger” and 6 years from that to “Shopgirl”. He’s provided the storyline for a Don Cheadle drama called “Traitor” this year, so that may prove interesting. But he’s only one of three screenwriters on his next feature film, to be released next year, which probably means he just wrote a few gags or a bit or two …

Martin’s next film is “The Pink Panther 2”.

…

Oh, well.

…

That’s a bit of a bugger, eh?

Primary production has been completed. It’s directed by Harald Zwart. Harald made a Norwegian film in 2006 called “Lange flate ballær” which translates as “Long Flat Balls”.

How about that?

Jean Reno’s in it once again, too.

Jeans’ agent is very, very happy.

After all, he eats so that he may live.

From 1981, Steve Martin & Bernadette Peters from “Pennies from Heaven”

BRIEFLY BRENDAN

This is what really happened on last night's 7.30 Report when host Kerry O'Brien asked Federal Opposition "leader" Brendan Nelson a few questions about some stuff ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Given the struggle that you've been having to establish some sort of credibility with the electorate as leader, how big a political setback do you think this is?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: And you so far have completely ignored my question. Is it true that you said it to your party the joint party room today that you apologised at the start for the lead-up to this policy decision and that you took responsibility for what has been a mess?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Did you apologise to your party room?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: You don't think it's important enough, that this is an important issue for the electorate to know whether you as leader of the Coalition felt it necessary to go into your joint party room today and apologise for the way you have conducted your side of the climate change debate in recent weeks.

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: This is how the Australian media have reported the outcome of your Shadow Cabinet room yesterday:

The Financial Review: Nelson rolled on emissions plan.
Sydney Daily Telegraph: Brendan Nelson humiliated.
Sydney Morning Herald: Nelson's team leaves him high and dry on climate.
Melbourne Herald Sun: Nelson gives in on policy.
Brisbane Courier Mail: An Embarrassing double back down.
Adelaide Advertiser: lame Duck Nelson Loses More Feathers
The Australian: Nelson's new client shift.

A pretty comprehensive picture of leadership failure, wasn't it?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: This represents nine of Australia's most senior political correspondents. Do they have it wrong?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: You've said time and again that Mr Rudd is in too much of a hurry on emissions targets, he's in too much of a rush. You talk about his missionary zeal.

Yet all he is doing, it seems, is honouring his election promise to introduce an ETS some time in 2010. He went to the election saying 2010, John Howard said 2011, or 2012.

Kevin Rudd won the election, he's implementing a promise. Why is that irresponsible?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Dr Nelson, isn't it true that you are still not yet committed, definitely, categorically, to a 2012 start-up? Isn't that right?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Isn't that right?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: It is open ended still, isn't it, when you would commit finally to introducing a scheme. You might not introduce it before 2013 or later. You say probably 2012.

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Which might be after 2012?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: But might start later?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: But might start later?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: A simple yes or no Dr Nelson. It might be later than 2012?

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Dr Nelson I'm simply trying to clarify with you what your position is. So potentially an ETS under Dr Brendan Nelson's Coalition might not be introduced until some time after 2012.

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

KERRY O'BRIEN: Dr Nelson thanks for talking with us.

BRENDAN NELSON: ...

I wonder if Kerry went home and punched a wall afterward?

Brendan Nelson's such a thoroughly damp little squib I doubt he could manage to set his own farts aflame after a month-long bean-eating tournament.

BUSH OR BATMAN?

From SecretPants.net, average Americans are asked to identify the original speaker of various quotes. Was it Bush or Batman?

Watch out specially for the old bloke in the white t-shirt with the magazines …

MAMMA, PLEASE MAKE THEM STOP

Well excuse me, but if the newly released film "Mamma Mia!" is a musical, then I'm Fred fucking Astaire.

Understand I have no particular antipathy toward Abba, their songs or their success. Good luck to them. Beats making an honest living from something like margin lending, I suppose. But I have no great nostalgic fondness for their work either, having been far more interested in other musical genres at the time of their chart supremacy, and I'd always found their lyrics a little ... well, dumb ("Feel the beat of the tambourine"? Tambourines don't have a beat, and the only time you'd ever "feel the beat" of a tambourine is if someone thwacked you over the head with one. Talking about the beat of a tambourine is akin to talking about the "exquisite tonal range" of a bloody kazoo. It's just silly).

Now, most actors who’ve undergone some form of sustained professional training in their craft will have, at some point, been required to do a little singing. It’s an excellent way of instilling and understanding the basics of breath control, phrasing, and hitting key words in a text (Frank Sinatra was, in my not-so-humble opinion, the best example of this talent for hitting specific key words in a lyric and I still regard him as the finest interpreter of popular song from the 20th century. So there).

Yet most actors can’t sing, and some really shouldn’t be encouraged to try. However, if a director really insists on it, they should also insist on ensuring that the actor or actors in question sing within their range and register, even if that amounts to the type of rhythmic speak-singing that Rex Harrison admirably managed to get away with in “My Fair Lady”.

But for Christ’s sakes, taking a bunch of extremely talented performers and asking them to belt out a bunch of insipid pop songs at the top of their bloody lungs and rip their throats to ragged shreds in the process is just fucking insane. It’s a form of horrible abuse for the poor actors and complete and utter torture for anyone being asked to listen to it.

Stop it. Stop it at once.

Anthony Lane, writing in The New Yorker had this to say …

“I thought that Pierce Brosnan had been dragged to the edge of endurance by North Korean sadists in his final Bond film, “Die Another Day,” but that was a quick tickle with a feather duster compared with the agony of singing Abba’s “S.O.S.” to Meryl Streep through a kitchen window. Somebody, either a cheeky Swede or another North Korean, has deliberately scored the number a tone and a half too high, with visible results: swelling muscles along the jawline, tightened throat, a panicky bulge in the eyes. There is no delicate way of putting this, but anyone watching Brosnan in mid-delivery will conclude that he has recently suffered from a series of complex digestive problems, and that the camera has, with unfortunate timing, caught him at the exact moment when he is finally working them out. What has he done to deserve this? …”

And this …

“… Study any of the classic musicals, and you see how they pull away from head shots and become meditations on bodies in space and voices on the move, whereas Meryl Streep, given a windy cliff top, a red silk wrap, and “The Winner Takes It All,” is obliged to hold still and belt it out like Cassandra calling down ruin on Troy. And poor Brosnan (him again) has to stand in the blast area and listen to her at a distance of eighteen inches, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as if to check when he last shaved …”

And, as for “dancing” … well, jumping up and down on the spot or skipping along a footpath waving your fucking arms in the air with no thought to rhythm or reason is not dancing, it’s St. Vitus’ disorder with a soundtrack.

It’s simply horrid.

Vincente Minelli and Bob Fosse knew how to make a musical. The people responsible for “Mamma Mia!” do not.

Nor should they ever try to do it again.



From 1979, Ensemble “Take Off With Us/Air-Otica” from “All That Jazz” directed by Bob Fosse

VIRTUAL PANADOL FOR A FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Thank God it's Friday, so ...

... I've always loved this song in all its incarnations whether it be by Linda Ronstadt, Mike Nesmith (who wrote it) or The Lemonheads.

Here's another version, and a fine one it is, too ...



From (?), Susanna Hoffs and Matthew Sweet “Different Drum”

A LOATHSOME, STUPID MAN

I don't intend to go into much discussion about this piece of contemptible filth by the boy-child typist from Melbourne's Herald-Sun as it is being appropriately dealt with and properly denounced over at The Blair/Bolt Watch Project.

However, upon reading the repulsive cunt's post yesterday, I was compelled to fire off a quick email to the ABC's MediaWatch, the first time I have ever done such a thing ...

Dear Media Watch,

I'd like to bring this item to your attention -

[Insert URL]

Andrew Bolt is attempting to draw some hysterical metaphor between the finding of a baby's body in a green shopping bag to the "environmental" movement.

It's an utter disgrace, and possibly one of the most maniacally stupid things I've ever read by Bolt. Some of the comments are worse.

I feel it warrants some attention from either yourselves or the Press Council.

Kind Regards
Ross Sharp.

Last time I checked on the post in question (this morning), there were 346 comments, which makes this remark by Darryl Mason on Blair/Bolt Watch very interesting indeed ...

“What’s even more fucked up than The Professional Idiot somehow connecting the tragedy of a dead and abandoned baby to people favouring far more practical ‘green’ bags over plastic is that Bolt gets bonus payments for heavy commenting and traffic flow on his blog. Payments that he demanded when advertising first began appearing on his blog.”

None of the 346 comments were made by myself. I'll be damned if I'll be helping to line the pockets of the filthy little whore.

Oh.

I've just realised this is my 100th post. Wheeee.

VIRTUAL PANADOL FOR A FRIDAY AFTERNOON

Wow.



From 1997 (?), Emmylou Harris and Robert Duvall “I Love To Tell The Story”

21st CENTURY OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDERS

In his excellent book about "end-of-times" devotees in the United States, "Have a Nice Doomsday", author Nicholas Guyatt points out that while the lunatic fringe of the “right” have their global apocalypse scenarios, so too do those of the “left”. These scenarios are inevitably environmental in nature – global warming, overpopulation, mass food shortages, resource depletion and so on.

To my mind, these are far more compelling and logical arguments than are those that posit the destruction of the planet by an Antichrist, or being carried off to the 9th circle of Hell by flocks of flaming homosexuals.

Yet one thing continues to elude me about these theories of man-made, environmental doom, and that is the science behind them.

I have no aptitude for science whatsoever.

I also have no aptitude for tennis. Or electronics. Or carpentry. Or tax returns. When confronted with the whys and wherefores of these topics, my brain turns to taffy and my thoughts wander to subjects that I feel far more comfortable with. Like sex, for example, and why I haven’t managed to get any for ... oh, never mind, you get the picture.

As far as global warming and climate change are concerned, every day, every week, every month for a few years now brings new articles for and against, graphs and maps and statistics. The science of this, the science of that, elements and chemicals and gases and measurements from here to here, from there to here, from one moment in time to another, analyses and arguments and theories and conjectures, rebuttals and confirmations and more and more bloody statistics, proposals and schemes.

I’m sorry, but frankly, my eyes glaze over just thinking about it all. I can’t even manage to herd all my marbles for long enough to even contemplate a position either for or against because ... well, I just can’t be fucking bothered. I simply can’t sustain an interest in the science of the thing, and in that I do not think I am alone in the world.

It’s not that I am skeptical of the claims that are being made in the case for climate change, it’s not that at all, as many of them, on the face of it, seem perfectly valid.

I just have a whole bunch of other things to occupy my mind, and I honestly don’t feel much like shuffling about in a perpetual cloud of despair and gloom every day for the rest of my life worrying myself into an early grave over the potential end of life on the planet as we know it.

I mean, for fuck’s sake, there’s bugger all I can do about it, so stop fucking hollering at me all the time about this stuff. I don’t know what the fucking answer is. I can’t think of any solutions. Fuck off and leave me alone. Go throw some darts at the head of an Exxon executive, why don't you.

I’m almost middle-aged, I live by myself in a flat, I don’t own a car, I don’t even own a fucking microwave oven. I walk to work and back most days. I turn appliances off at the power-point, not out of any environmental concerns, but purely because it helps keep the bills down. When I’m at home, there’s usually only one light on at any given time, and that would be the light in the room where I happen to be at. If I’m in the living room, I don’t see much point in having the fucking light on in the bedroom or the laundry, ‘cause there ain’t nobody there. And it helps keep the bills down.

And also, I put my cigarette butts in a bin instead of dropping them on the ground or in the gutter where they can get flushed into the ocean and choke flathead, so fucking shut up about that too. Piss off and mind your own fucking business.

I have an air-conditioner in the unit I’m renting, but it was there when I moved in, and by Christ, in the searing heat and humidity of the summer months up here in Brisbane, I fucking well use it and I use it often. If that offends you, I don’t care. You too can fuck off.

I have an electric toothbrush. It has a little green standby light on it, indicating that it is charged, and it’s the only appliance (aside from the refrigerator) that I do not turn off at the power point. This little light would emit no more in the way of greenhouse gases than farts from a butterfly. I’m leaving it on. Understand?

But whether for or against the case for climate change, the issue has, for some people, become an all-consuming obsession, one that appears to be threatening to tip their minds over the edge of sanity and render them completely and utterly unhinged.

Whether for or against the case, both sides need to realise that, when they insist on preaching from the farthest extremes of the argument and preach with such stridently raucous frequency, a vast number of people, myself included, simply switch off.

Witness, for example, the seemingly infinite number of posts on the topic (for the case against) from everyone’s favourite boychild-journalist Andrew Bolt. It appears to have sent him thoroughly ratty in the head, for there is nary a day goes by where this particular drum of his doesn’t get the shit thrashed out of it.

Yet, Bolt is little more than a staggeringly unremarkable and unimaginative writer with no scientific qualifications whatsoever or investigative chops for a DAILY TABLOID, for God’s sake. He is to science and the deliberations and particulars of evidence-based scientific research what Paris Hilton is to the evolution of pop music.

The last couple weeks, I’ve done a round-up and summation of the topics Bolt has addressed in his “nervous tic as blog” and you can see from those how big a part the whole climate change topic plays in his world.

However, yesterday, Thursday July 17, 2008, this is what I found ...

12.07am - Global warming cunts.

12.08am - Global warming cunts.

12.13am - Global warming cunts.

05.54am - Global warming cunts. Chinese cunts too.

06.11am - Global warming cunts.

06.13am - Kevin Rudd is a cunt.

06.17am - Global warming cunts.

06.31am - Nude cunts.

11.43am - Global warming cunts.

09.13pm - Global warming cunts.

Extraordinary, isn’t it?

For the casual passer-by (such as myself), it exerts the same fascinatingly morbid voyeuristic appeal as does a car crash. Or watching a lobotomised chimpanzee masturbate itself into a coma.

Unhinged. Utterly. Utterly. Mad.

I won't be doing these round-ups and summation of Bolt’s “blog” again as, quite frankly, it really is starting to do my fucking head in.

The man is in desperate need of a prescription. And I'm in desperate need of a Panadol.

MEN OF GOD

Adapted and edited for clarity from this source ...

World Youth Day co-ordinator, Bishop Anthony Fisher, BLAHED yesterday that some victims were "crankily dwelling … on old wounds" ...

... He was BLAHING to news that a Melbourne man, Anthony Foster, was returning ... to confront Cardinal George Pell and Pope Benedict over the repeated rape of two of his daughters by Father Kevin O'Donnell at a primary school in Melbourne's Oakleigh parish.

The Archbishop of Sydney refused to BLAH BLAH yesterday and gave no BLAH that he would BLAH Mr Foster, as he had requested. Cardinal Pell said BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Mr Foster's eldest daughter, Emma, committed suicide last year, aged 26, after a long struggle with drugs. His second daughter, Katherine, who turned to drink, was hit by a car in 1999 and left physically and mentally disabled ...

... Yesterday he branded Bishop Fisher's BLAH outrageous. "We are still grieving over our daughters ...”

... Cardinal Pell said BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. He said BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.

"BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH, BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH; BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH." ...

... But Sister Angela Ryan, prevention officer for Towards Healing, said BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. "BLAH BLAH BLAH, BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH, BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."

The director of the Vatican press office, Frank Lombardi, gave a BLAH BLAH that BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Bishop Fisher did not BLAH to media inquiries..

COME HAIL OR WHINE

My published contribution to the letters page of the Sydney Morning Herald of Saturday 12, 2008 ...

What Alexander Downer was really trying to say was, "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I'll go and eat worms."

BIG BOTHER

"Big Brother", after 8 years, is no more.

I have never watched a single episode of "Big Brother". Ever.

I have not so much as watched 5 minutes of any episode of "Big Brother". Ever.

There have been times when I have wanted to watch something that followed "Big Brother", yet, as seems to be the way of such programs, "Big Brother" inevitably ran over time. In which case, I chose something else or punched the mute button on the remote until it had ended and the program I wished to view began.

"Big Brother" was, essentially, a program about various groups of witless fuckwads sharing a house.

I shared houses with various people for about 12 years. Why I would want to watch a program about people sharing a house I do not know. The attraction to viewing such a thing eluded me then and it continues to elude me now.

I have done it in real life. And it was not like "Big Brother". Nothing like it at all. It was "real life".

"Big Brother" bore no more relation to "real life" than a wank can be equated to a really good fuck. It was about one thing, and one thing only - encouraging a group of retarded fuckwads to humiliate themselves and humiliate each other, and to encourage the audience of retarded fuckwads who watched this shit to regard themselves as being "entertained" by the humiliation on display. And so they were. I guess that’s the post-modern definition of success in today’s la-la land of commercial television.

"Big Brother" was, like all reality television shows, a program conceived by, produced by and presented by, middle-aged arrested adolescent dick-twiddlers possessed of not even a modest modicum of talent, creativity or intelligence. Not for them the intricacies of a script, of a story, of the development of characters in whom we may take an interest. Not for them such trifles as a plot, a purpose, or even a desire to inform, educate or enlighten on any particular topic.

No.

Instead, the best these utterly worthless and intellectually denuded little twats could come up with was, “Hey, I know. Let’s stick a dozen people in a house and film ‘em takin’ showers and shittin’ an’ sleepin’ an’ stuff! An’, an’, an’, hey, let’s make sure that a couple of ‘em got really good tits! Yeah?” “Fuck, man. That’s excellent! Wanna snort?”

And the retarded fuckwads who watched it are no better. In fact, they are worse, as they encouraged the candy-nosed dick-twiddlers who made this rubbish to make more of it and fling it onto our television screens at any and every available opportunity.

Every night for 8 years while this program aired, millions of these drooling, slack-jawed, monosyllabic fuckwads plopped themselves onto their couches and armchairs, mobile phones in one hand, jumbo packets of junk food in the other, as they shouted and screamed encouragement or disapproval at unremarkable strangers of remarkably unremarkable intelligence doing and saying unremarkable things for no apparent purpose or aim other than the fact that “I’s on der tee-vee! Lookee me! Lookee me!”.

So.

May I say to you if you were one of the witless idiot yokels who thought “Big Brother” worth watching for some reason ...

Kill yourself. Stab yourself now. Throw yourself off a fucking cliff. Take an overdose and go die in a gutter somewhere. Walk in front of a train. Play in the fucking traffic. Ask your parents for a retrospective abortion.

For your mere existence is an insult to the universe and its multitude of wonders.

And we need the space. With a few million less of you “Big Brother” fanatic fuckwits out of the way, just think of the savings in greenhouse gas emissions.

Go on. Make the sacrifice.

Knock your fucking selves out.

WEDNESDAY WITH ANDREW BOLT NO.2

Last week I posted a quick run-through of topics from the obsessive-compulsive nervous disorder that the nation’s “most connovershal jurnlist” Andrew Bolt calls a “blog” just to see what type of things rattle around the little fella’s peanut on a regular basis. This week, I thought I’d have another whip-through just to see if anything has changed ...

12.03am - Boris Johnson is a cunt. (1)

12.04am - Global warming cunts. (1)

12.06am - Global warming cunts. (2)

05.38am - Visual artists are cunts. (1)

05.43am - Global warming cunts. (3)

05.46am - Petro Georgiou is a cunt. (1)

06.50am - Global warming cunts. (4)

09.01am - Global warming cunts. (5)

09.04am - Global warming cunts. (6)

09.31am - Kevin Rudd is a cunt. (1)

As at 9.31am, he’s even with the previous Wednesday’s count of 6 on the number of “Global warming cunt” posts, though he’s way off the mark so far with only one “Kevin Rudd is a cunt” item as opposed to last week’s count of 4.

And there’s just 10 posts today compared to last week’s 16, though we may be able to put this down to the fact that everyone’s favourite “ce’brity colummist” is probably boning up his bully-boy-talk-over-everyone-else tactics for his upcoming appearance on the ABC’s “Q&A”, something Andy’s been prattling on about the last few days to anyone who could be bothered listening.

Still, at least he’s maintaining a consistency of sorts by throwing in the usual item about what a bunch of cunts contemporary performers and visual arts practitioners are, and we can definitely look forward to a few more of those ... Probably around the time a new Australian film is released or Cate Blanchett gets her photo taken for something somewhere.

New to the rundown this week, small “l” Liberal Petro Georgiou comes in for a serve for daring to suggest an opinion contrary to the current party leader and Upstanding Man of Tinfoil, Brendan Nelson, which makes Petro something of a cunt, though what the UK’s Boris Johnson has to do with anything of relevance to anyone I’m fucked if I can figure out.

Our boy Andrew’s just full of spiffing little surprises some days, ain’t he?

What a source of constant joy.

DOWN AND OUT

Alexander Downer is all a-twitter over journalist Peter Hartcher’s summation of his brilliant career ...

What more can a poor boy do ...

“I’d spent 40 minutes talking to him to help him with a book he is writing about the Howard years.”

A whole 40 minutes?! ... No doubt the provision of this valuable and extensive source of vital information will result in a 3 volume epic ...

“And the week before he’d been at a conference with me in Washington and seemed perfectly affable. He was pleading with me for time to help him with his book.”

Pleading? "Oh, please, Alex ... PLEASE! PLEEEEEEEASE!" ...

Somehow, I doubt it.

“Mind you, we all know there’s nothing worse than an insincere opportunist.”

Oh, for God’s sake, just fuck off, Alex. Take your WMD's with you and blow 'em out your stockinged arse, you huffy little twat.



From 1980, Split Enz “Poor Boy”

FOUR SECONDS

A mother takes a photo of her child for artistic purposes and the morally righteous wrath of the nation's so-called "leaders" crashes down upon her head.

A Catholic priest sexually abuses a minor, is given a "token sentence of four seconds", and the nation's so-called "leaders" fall over themselves to throw cunts like this a week-long party.

By these criteria, if convicted pedophile Dennis Ferguson had been a priest, he would've scored ... oh, about 20 seconds of punishment for his crimes. What a slog.

No doubt Ferguson now rues the career path he chose for himself in his younger days. I'm sure he would've proven himself a fine "servant of the Lord".

THE PERFECT DATE MOVIE

No comment.



From 2007, “Teeth” Trailer

WEDNESDAY WITH ANDREW BOLT

It’s all steady as she goes in Andrew’s world ...

12.03am - Global warming cunts. (1)

12.03am – Barack Obama is a cunt. (1)

12.03am - Global warming cunts. (2)

12.04am - Middle Eastern cunts. (1)

12.15am - Belinda Neal and John Della Bosca are cunts. (1)

05.20am - Kevin Rudd is a cunt. (1)

06.05am - Toilets. Cunts shit in them. (1)

06.19am - Kevin Rudd is a cunt. (2)

06.20am - Dead celebrities are cunts. (1)

06.21am - Kevin Rudd is a cunt. (3)

06.34am - Judges are cunts. (1)

08.36am - Global Warming cunts. (3)

09.46am - Global Warming cunts. (4)

11.57am - Global Warming cunts. (5)

12.35pm - Puppy Dog Sits in a Hat. What a cunt. (1)

02.52pm - Kevin Rudd is a cunt. (4)

03.04pm - Global Warming cunts. (6)

Yep. Steady as she goes ...

WELL BUGGER ME, IT’S THE POPE!

I'm stumped.

“EXTRAORDINARY new powers will allow police to arrest and fine people for "causing annoyance" to World Youth Day participants and permit partial strip searches at hundreds of Sydney sites, beginning today.”

This rubbish is simply beyond the realms of parody.

10's of millions of dollars to perve on a corpse. 10’s of millions of dollars to have a massive clusterfuck of bead rattling and wafer munching while an old bloke in a glass cage whizzes around the city streets and then, to top it all, a re-enactment of a guy with a beard getting nailed to two chunks of wood.

As Gordon Ramsey might say, "Fuck me".

If you're unfortunate enough to be in Sydney on World Youth Day, may I suggest that you do please be annoying by wearing a special Goatboy t-shirt to mark the occasion and organising a whole bunch of mates to gather in Martin Place for a massed vocal rendition of Tom Lehrer's "Vatican Rag" ...

After which, go find a church and pee in the holy water.



From 1965, Tom Lehrer “The Vatican Rag”