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”

WARNING

The following clips contain graphic sexual and/or erotic images, concepts and allusions which may be unsuitable for viewing by children.

To prevent the occurrence of any potential trauma developing in the delicate matter of your dearest darlings at some future stage of life, we recommend you install a bunker under the stairs of your home and lock your innocent sweeties in it for 10 or 20 years until all danger has passed, and the deviant miscreants responsible for these outrages against public morality have been duly apprehended, charged and hanged in the town square.



From 1980, Kate Bush “Babooshka”



From 1976, Blondie “In The Flesh”

CALM DOWN, IDIOT

Andrew Bolt and his flock of flying fuckwits certainly love to whip themselves up into a seething frenzy of stupidity over the merest whiff of a non-story on a regular basis, and here they go again ...

... A couple of publicity-deprived Islamic ratbags have stated that they'd like to see polygamy allowed by law in Australia. So, as far as Bolt and his monkeys are concerned, sharia law - it's on der cards, run fer da hills, stock up on dried goods, and grabs yerselves a gun or six to protect der wimmin and chillun from der impending eeeeee-vil dat stalks der land ...

What a load of bullshit.

...There are all sorts of dickheads in this country who'd like to see all sorts of things made law, and all sorts of other things banned ...

... Whenever a particularly ghastly crime is committed and reported, a whole bunch of them call for the re-introduction of the death penalty ... Whenever teens misbehave, another bunch of hardnuts holler for the re-introduction of the draft ... There are people who'd insist that religion be a compulsory class in public schools, that creationism be taught in science and evolutionary theory not; that we close our shores to immigration from people of colour; that we deport the ones already here; that smokers be denied medical treatment ... Frankly, there are far too many stupid ideas, theories and propositions floating about on any given day from any number of ridiculously silly tosspots than can possibly be countenanced here, and all the time in the world wouldn't permit a comprehensive summation of them ...

... Needless to say, every ideology, whether religious or political in nature has its fair share of thoroughly unhinged knobjockeys, noisy little turds who pop up on a regular basis to grab a headline or three by saying something patently stupid, leaving the more moderate of their kind to shake their heads in astonished wonder and despairingly mutter to themselves, "Ah, shit. Here we fucking go again." ...

... Inevitably, the ratbags will take it upon themselves to insist they "represent the community" or are "spokespeople" for it, when essentially, they represent no one but themselves and their own hard-core adherants and whackily whacked-out admirers - a minority, in other words ... and one begging for attention, from anyone, over anything, and, preferably, all the time ...

... Most men and women of faith however are quietly content to practice and observe their beliefs in a manner and fashion that brings them comfort. That is why they chose it. They seek not to impose it on, or bother and irritate others with their beliefs, even those who may well be members of the very same club. Many Catholics will practise contraception and so they should if they so choose. George Pell's view is an irrelevancy to them. Many Anglicans have no problem whatsoever with the existence of gay men and women in their midst, and so should they not if they want. Peter Jensen rules not in their church. Many Buddhists probably get thoroughly pissed off from time to time too, and may well have had occasion to swat at a dive bombing mosquito in the dead heat of a summer night. Good for them ...

... And many Muslims would not want a bar of Sheikh Khalil Chami and Keysar Trad's absurdly stupid notions, preferring instead that both of them would simply shut the fuck up and stop making people of their faith look like a ratpack of whining, radical dickwads ...

... They, like we others of a less hysterical bent, would realise immediately that such a proposition will never be adopted or promoted by any Australian politician from any party at any time, and that it is, instead, a rather sad bleat for attention from a couple of fools, Trad having had his taste of media fame after lurking about in the fevered wake of Sheik Taj Din al-Hilali's "uncovered meat" statements of 2006 and having been reduced to public irrelevancy ever since his pal was told to fuck off and shut up ...

Unfortunately, Bolt and his sour-milk-fed creche of cretins can't see that, so enamoured are they of their own brand of ideologically driven perpetual hysteria.

It's a non-story. It'll never happen. Bet on it. Move on.

And take your meds.

MARATHON WUSSMAN

9 a.m.

Tuesday.

Periodontist.

Sharp metal poking sticks. Sticks that scrape. Sticks that go “whirr”.

Poke. Poke. Prod. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Prod. Scrape. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke. Scrape. Poke. Poke. Pain. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Pain. Stop. Pain. Ouch. Stop. Ouch. Pain. Please. Kill. Me. Now.

For 45 minutes. Feet trying to twist themselves off ankles. Hands grabbing armrests. Sweat through shirt in 22 degree weather. Finally. Over. Wobble off chair. Wobble out to reception. Extract debit card from wallet. In a wobbly fashion. Wobble off. Less 200 bucks.

See you again in 4 months.

Yeah. Good. Can’t wait.

Below - Chucking a wobbly ...

/////////////////////////////////////////////!
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\!
/////////////////////////////////////////////!
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\!
/////////////////////////////////////////////!
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\!
/////////////////////////////////////////////!
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\!

... Wobbly chucked.



From 1986, Steve Martin “The Dentist Song” from “Little Shop of Horrors”

“WHO WANTS TO EAT THE GIRL?”

Dario Argento has a new film coming out, “Mother of Tears” ...

The line, “Who wants to eat the girl?” is destined for greatness. Fucking priceless.



From 2007, Dario Argento “Mother of Tears” trailer

FREQUENTLY FUNDING

My published contribution to the letters page of today’s Sydney Morning Herald ...

Re the Senate inquiry into swearing on television, I am more than happy to help the industry "clarify what is meant by the terms "occasional, some and frequent" coarse language" for the benefit of Senator Bernardi. Occasional – Sometimes; Some - A bit; Frequent - Often. Can I have my cheque now, please?

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.5

AN expletive-laden episode of celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay's TV show has prompted a Senate committee to recommend changes to the way we all watch television.

From now on, we shall all be required to don three-piece dinner suits and stand on our fucking heads.

The report, unanimously endorsed by the committee, recommended parental lock-out systems should be made an industry standard for all digital televisions sold in Australia.

Oh, joy. Yes, please. Let's lock out the parents. They can throw a blanket over the Hills Hoist and sleep on the fucking grass from now on.

The report also recommended broadcasters should consider permanently displaying the classification symbol of a program on screen.

Nothing like another little symbol on the fucking tube to burn out your screen in one specific spot.

The industry should also clarify what is meant by the terms "occasional, some and frequent" coarse language, it said.

Occasional = Sometimes. Some = A bit. Frequent = Often.

Bad mood was getting better. Now worse. Need beer. Now.

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.4

From “The New Yorker”, "One Angry Man" by Peter J. Boyer on Keith Olbermann ...

[Olbermann] wrote ...

"Mr. Bush, I hate to break it to you six and a half years after you yoked this nation and your place in history to the wrong war in the wrong place, against the wrong people, but the war in Iraq is not about you. . . . It is not, Mr. Bush, about your golf game! And, sir, if you have any hopes that next January 20th will not be celebrated as a day of soul-wrenching, heartfelt thanksgiving, because your faithless stewardship of this presidency will have finally come to a merciful end, this last piece of advice . . . when somebody asks you, sir, about your gallant, noble, self-abnegating sacrifice of your golf game so as to soothe the families of the war dead. This advice, Mr. Bush: Shut the hell up!"

Phil Griffin, the senior vice-president in charge of MSNBC ..., raised the matter of tone. Why did Olbermann need to end his commentary by telling the President of the United States to “shut the hell up”?

“Because I can’t say, ‘Shut the fuck up,’ that’s why, frankly,” Olbermann responded.

This pleases me. Mood improving. Time for food.

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.3

I am fucking sick and fucking tired of CGI superhero and “epic” movies. They’re fucking crap, pretty much all of them. Slick, sleek, soulless lumps of shit shoved together by twitchy packs of arrested adolescent dickheads with bad skin permanently hopped up to the gills on a steady diet of Coke and triple-cheese, stuffed crust pizzas and Twinkies, their sweaty fucking hands forever fiddling about with their fucking joysticks and fucking function buttons ...

“Hey man, if you F8-Shift-Control-Alt then Left Open Square Bracket Close Right Bracket and hit Enter, you can make a Roman!”

“Way cool, dude.”

Go stab yourselves, the whole fucking lot of you.

I’ll take George Reeves’ “Superman” any day over Brandon or Brendon whatshisname.

And you can shove “Gladiator” up your fucking clacker as well and run “Spartacus” instead thank you very much. At least Kirk Douglas knew he was only making a fucking movie, unlike Russell fucking Crowe who thought he was starring in his own autobiographical adventures, the tedious little twat.

Happily, I find I am not alone in my views ...

Paul Byrnes from the Sydney Morning Herald on “The Incredible Hulk” ...

“These guys have crafted more movie superheroes than anyone would have thought possible, or desirable. I wish they would stop. I am sick of superheroes. I'd like to see a movie about an under-performing hero or just someone who didn't go weird on the full moon. Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Wolverine, even Clark Kent just won't go away. They are a blight on the movie landscape: overblown, banal, numbingly noisy epics of emptiness aimed at the desperate American desire for righteous heroes.

The finale, in New York City - where else? - has two mutants duking it out, rather than one, just as in Iron Man (and 50 other superhero-mutant hero movies). lf there is anything duller than two computer-generated giants fighting each other, I have yet to see it. It's like two bags of marbles being thrown against each other for 20 minutes.

These movies are as tiring as kryptonite.”

Righteous!

And Peter Bradshaw from The Guardian is hilariously scathing about same ...

"Hulk. Smash!" Yes. Hulk. Smash. Yes. Smash. Big Hulk smash. Smash cars. Buildings. Army tanks. Hulk not just smash. Hulk also go rarrr! Then smash again. Smash important, obviously. Smash Hulk's USP. What Hulk smash most? Hulk smash all hope of interesting time in cinema. Hulk take all effort of cinema, effort getting babysitter, effort finding parking, and Hulk put great green fist right through it. Hulk crush all hopes of entertainment. Hulk in boring film. Film co-written by star. Edward Norton. Norton in it. Norton write it. Norton not need gamma-radiation poisoning to get big head. Thing is: Hulk head weirdly small. Compared with rest of big green body ...

... Critic remember Ang Lee version. Ang Lee version slagged off. Yet rubbish new Hulk film make that look like Citizen Kane. Critic exit cinema miffed. Film take away two hours of critic's life. Critic not get time back. Ever. Rarrrrr."

I know how he feels.

“Rarrrr” indeed.

God, I’m in a filthy frame of mind today. Did I mention?

BAD MOOD BUBBY PT.2

Here she fucking goes again, Miranda Devine, self-anointed spiritual leader of the sensible shoes, twin-set and pearls perpetual puritan practitioners of professional hysterics set, lurching back and forth, back and forth, back and fucking forth between her dual obsessions of the day – drugs and porn, drugs and porn, drugs and fucking porn.

Today, it’s fucking drugs again with Darling Devine whipping herself into another fucking snit over an information booklet for teens about illegal drugs ...

Let’s get something into your thick fucking head, you stupid fucking bint ...

No one in their right fucking mind wants their kids to be spending their time pulling fifty bongs a day behind the school toilet block or dropping a dozen ecstasy tabs during an early morning session of Video fucking Hits ...

... However, if a teenager, whether they be 15 or 19 or even 25, find themselves in a situation where illegal drugs are on offer and they choose to partake, it is far better for them that they be reliably and sensibly informed as to what it is they may be about to consume and what effects and potential dangers the consumption of said drug may produce than to be endlessly hollered at by a bunch of saggy-titted, dreary middle-aged ideologically-addicted irrelevancies furiously flapping about like so many whirling dervishes on a carousel in a fucking hurricane screaming, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!” ...

She writes ... "Among "a few tips that might help" in the brochure is advice to "use only small amounts and not too often" ...

Yeah, right. Shocking stuff. Like, totally, yeah, right, no, yeah, like, WOW, Miranda!

Fuckwit.

She goes on ... “To be fair, the brochure also states: "The best way to keep your head together is not to use drugs at all." But it immediately goes on: "BUT, if you choose to experiment …"

“To be fair” ... Well, that’s like, rooly, rooly generous of you deary. What part of “The best way to keep your head together is not to use drugs at all” hasn’t quite penetrated your thick fucking head exactly?

I tell ya what, you sensibly stylish little luvvie you, why don’t you send a copy to Glenn Milne ... I reckon he could do with a little helpful advice.

Stupid cunt.

Have I mentioned what a foul fucking mood I happen to be in today?