HE’S DEAD. GET OVER IT.

By all accounts, Heath Ledger was a pretty good actor.

But …

Maybe it’s just me, but does anyone else think that the endless and quite hysterical hype that has accompanied his performance as The Joker in Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight” is a lorry load of utter bollocks?

Sure, Ledger’s performance was a good one – dark, creepy and committed, it avoided lurching into comic book cliché and caricature – but, if one were to buy the buzz, one would think that this one performance by this one actor reinvented the art of acting in much the same way as the printing press reinvented the book.

And that, if Ledger does not win a Golden Globe, or an Oscar, there will be blood on the streets, as a grave injustice has been inflicted upon the decent folk of the commonweal.

What bullshit.

Here’s two performances that, in my opinion at least, are lightning streaks ahead of Ledger’s Joker …

Ted Levine as Buffalo Bill in “Silence of the Lambs” – Levine was nominated for nothing in the role, overshadowed by Anthony Hopkins’ Lecter, yet it is his (very brave) performance that ratchets the creep factor up to 12 and keeps the tale rooted in some semblance of reality, unlike Hopkins’ fantasy super serial-killer.

Ben Kingsley as Don Logan in “Sexy Beast” – Nominated for an Oscar and a Golden Globe as supporting actor.

Won neither.

I mean, really … Fuck. Off.

I‘d hazard a bet that Kingsley’s Logan could wipe the grin off Ledger’s Joker with naught but his little pinkie, a puff of smoke and a damp Chux …



From 2000, Ben Kingsley “Sexy Beast” (Acting Lessons 101)

A PLAGUE OF JESSICAS

A few days ago I was lurking about the handsomely appointed lunchroom upstairs (handsomely appointed due to the presence of coffee and biscuits in it and a few chairs that don’t break when you sit on them), when I began to leaf through one of the many magazines that live there.

There's a truckload of these things laying about, some of them dating back to the days when Michael Jackson was still vaguely recognisable as a human being and Madonna didn't look like Agnes Moorehead from "Bewitched".

"Women's magazines", they call them, though no woman I've ever had more than a passing acquaintance with would be seen dead reading one of the things, and if I ever did have a passing acquaintance with a woman who admitted to reading such stuff, I'd probably shoot her in the face with a musket as an act of mercy.

These things have oodles of pictures, mostly of people I've never heard of who do things I've never been aware of, but by golly they must do ‘em well and do ‘em often cause their faces, their bums, their armpits, their blackheads, zits, nits and shaving nicks are plastered all over these magazines for the benefit of our viewing and reading pleasure.

There's not much text in these things, though if someone vaguely “known” has announced an impending pregnancy, these magazines will often run a photo of the person with a texta-like drawing of a little circle with an arrow from it pointing at the woman's belly, just as a way of reminding us (I guess) that babies come from women’s tummies and not from storks.

Fancy that.

Happily, the editors have refrained from adding little texta drawings of that thing that mostly enables a pregnancy to begin, but it's early days yet. So don't be too surprised if you pick up one of these magazines one day and find it full of little texta penises and little squiggly tadpoles heading off to party up some poor lass’s crotch. With an arrow to guide them on their way.

But on this particular day, as I was leafing through this particular magazine, I began to feel vaguely unsettled in a chilly “someone wants to eat my soul” kind of way.

For on every page I looked at, page after page after page, a JESSICA looked back at me.

There was JESSICA Alba. There was JESSICA Biel. There was JESSICA Simpson. There was JESSICA Mauboy.

There was a Sarah JESSICA Parker, too. She has a big spot on her face, did you know? It’s name is JESSICA too.

A veritable plague of JESSICA’s had taken nest in this magazine and I wondered if I’d accidentally stumbled upon a Stepford Wife conspiracy of sorts.

You see, JESSICA Alba looks like JESSICA Biel’s younger sister. And JESSICA Simpson looks like JESSICA Biel would look if you stuck JESSICA Biel in a bleach bath for a year and wrung her out with a white shagpile rug. JESSICA Mauboy looks like an "Australian Idol" contestant and, strangely enough, Sarah JESSICA Parker looks like a horse with a big spot on its face.

Also, they all have these blindingly white teeth. Or at least, I think they’re teeth. Every time one of them smiles, it’s like peering in at a bunch of enameled miniature Miele appliances and all you want to do is move in and set up house and whip up a stir-fry. Or a quiche.

Or, in Sarah JESSICA Parker’s case, hose the poop out of the stable and bring in some fresh hay.

And another thing. They’re all actors. Except for JESSICA Mauboy, who was an "Australian Idol" contestant, so we can stop mentioning her right now ‘cause the rest of her life is utterly irrelevant to any aspect of reality anymore.

Now, I’ve seen JESSICA Alba in some films, but I can’t remember a damn thing about her in any of them. She was in “Sin City”, a film I loved to bits, but as far as I can recall, all she did in that was go twirling around a pole in her underwear for a while. Not an entirely unpleasant thing to watch, but whether or not she can actually act has yet to be determined. She was also in a movie called “The Eye”, which I may have seen, but can’t really remember, though I think it was about a possessed eyeball doing whatever it is possessed eyeballs do. By the way, did you know that the name JESSICA is derived from an ancient Hebrew word meaning “foresight” or “clairvoyance”? Uncanny, what?

And JESSICA Biel was in the remake of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, which I do remember because I liked it. But all she did in that movie was run around in a shirt that was tied off above her navel and ultra-tight jeans. I found it quite distracting. In a pleasing way, I guess, but I’m watching a horror movie and it’s beginning to resemble an episode of “Baywatch” gone feral, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing for a horror movie. By the way, did you know that the first noted usage of the name JESSICA was for a character from William Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Venice”, a quite nifty and entertaining little play about paying debts with chunks of your own bloody flesh? Unsettling, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, all I know about JESSICA Simpson is that she once had pimples. She slapped her face with some acne treatment stuff and got rid of her pimples and decided to raise some breasts instead, which appears to have worked out quite handsomely for her. Lucky girl. By the way, did you know that the word “pimple” is derived from the Latin “papula” or “papilla” which means nipple? Are you getting chills yet?

As far as Sarah JESSICA Parker is concerned, she made a name for herself in a show about dildos and shoes, which must have been a novel experience for those who watched it, but I much preferred her early stuff. By the way, did you know that the name Sarah means “princess”, and that there was once a famous princess who wore shoes and died in a car crash?

So.

What may we glean from this plague of JESSICA’s?

If we …

…

…

…

…

Um.

…

…

…

…

I KNOW!

LET’S START OVER! …

A few days ago I was lurking about the handsomely appointed lunchroom upstairs (handsomely appointed due to the presence of coffee and biscuits in it and a few chairs that don’t break when you sit on them), when I began to leaf through one of the many magazines that live there …

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

LISTEN! NO-ONE’S MAKIN’ YA READ THIS CRAP, YA KNOW!!

…

Leave me alone.

I’m unwell.

WHY ARE PEOPLE SO UNKIND?

When I first heard on the weekend that Guy Ritchie had (allegedly) said of Madonna that "she looked like a granny and couldn't act", I bust out laughing and went on giggling for the better part of the morning. He must have been saving that one up since "Swept Away".

Some people, however, tend to take a rather bleaker view of Granma Madge’s comings and goings, finding in them portents of darker, dimmer days to come ...

2:42 PM Kim Says:

Armageddon will be a wonderful time indeed. No more of this filthy, immoral conduct or the ones condoning & perpetrating it. The whole thing is sickening, & it seems the more nasty, immoral, untrustworthy & debauchery manner in which folks behave, the more the world loves them. Good & decent true Christian people do not take delight in such filthy, destructive behavior. Madonna looks like she's over the hill, very oldish, like granny-like nowadays but still has never changed her immoral filthy spirit inside. Her heart has always been like black coal, in that it can never be washed clean. I feel badly for her children & Cynthia's children. I could care less about A-Rod and Madonna. There will be news within the next year that "they are no longer seeing one another". And to the first answerer above, you feed right along with what the world loves to see, promiscuity and taking much delight in the senselessness and degradation of this entire situation saying Madonna is hot. Satan certainly has a grip on the weak-minded and truly disgusting ones.

… Filthy. Immoral. Sickening. Nasty. Immoral. Untrustworthy. Debauchery. Filthy. Destructive. Immoral. Filthy. Promiscuity. Senselessness. Degradation. Weak-minded. Disgusting …

Sheesh, Kim, they’re only getting divorced, not buggering orphaned black babies with silver-studded strap-ons and taking happy snaps of the doin’s …

Meanwhile ...

“Madonna’s 1965 stage acting debut as Mary Magdalene in her hometown church’s nativity play prompted horrified members of the small Michigan congregation to hastily organise a demon-expelling intervention in order to aid in the relief of any further community suffering.”

THE PITS

OH FOR GOD’S SAKE WOMAN, GIVE IT A FUCKING REST, WILL YOU?!

We’re bloody sick of it.

Do you realise what we all have to go through news-wise when, every second Tuesday, you get a jones on for adding another to your broody pile of cunt nuggets?

Jesus Christ, girl. What do you think you're doing, collecting action figures?

Why don’t you buy yourself a fucking puppy or something?

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.)”

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.

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.

PEOPLE I’D LIKE TO SEE BASHED TO DEATH WITH A HAMMER*

Being roused from slumber at 4.00am in the morning by the cacophonous farking about from a murder of crows does not bode well for one’s prospects of facing the day with good grace and humour.

No doubt disturbed by the snuffling of a possum or a cat about their roosts, these stupid fucking birds kept it up for the better part of an hour, and, try as I might, I could not so much as manage even a few brief snatches of light dozing, my mind constantly jerked back to thoughts of air rifles and poison at every squawk that farked out of their fucking ugly black beaks.

Thus gripped by a mood that progressively grew fouler than a prawn cocktail left out in the sun for a week, my mind turned to the topic of “People Who I’d Like To See Bashed To Death With A Hammer*”, not an inclination of actual intent by any means, but simply a reflection of mindset at the time. A flurry of names popped into and out of my fark-addled brain ...

How about the entire Executive Management and Programmers of Channel 9, a gaggle of witlessly stupid fuck-knuckled creeps, thugs and dipshit halfwits if ever there was one?

With attention spans shorter than the denuded dick of a leper, and possessed of the collective intelligence of algae on the waters of an outdoor toilet, surely the stupid cunts who came up with the idea of “My Kid’s A Star”, “Ladette To Lady”, “The Footy Show” and “Balls of Steel”, not to mention turning “60 Minutes” into “Jerry Springer Lite” are well deserving of a thorough thumping. Especially when programs to which they have the rights and are actually worthy of an hour of one’s time, such as “The West Wing”, “The Sopranos”, “Six Feet Under” and the recently disappeared “Sarah Connor Chronicles” are relegated to the graveyard shift as bookends for infomercials and fearsomely stupid sermons from rapturously rabid bible-bashing boofheads.

Yes, the whole lot of them would surely qualify as prime candidates for the inaugural presentation of “People Who I’d Like To See Bashed To Death With A Hammer*”.

Yet there was one name that kept rattling about my head like the proverbial marble in a tin can ...

It was the voice that did it. The first time I heard that hysterically high-pitched, squealing stream of put-on and put-upon protestation, I wanted to king-hit the kitchen wall. The second time I heard it, a shiver of loathing ratcheted its way up my spine in such a violent spasm it threatened to blow my arms from their sockets and send them soaring into the next-door neighbours weed bed, there to land with a sickeningly meaty thud. The third time I heard it, I changed the channel.

Here is a person, I thought to myself at the time, who I’d like to see bashed to death with a hammer*.

Heather Mills.

This is not because I have any great fondness for Paul McCartney, or even an interest in his life or works. Certainly, there is nothing among McCartney’s oeuvre post-Beatles that could even remotely be considered essential or influential in any way imaginable, his collaborations with Michael Jackson being so hideously dire that, by comparison, the collected works of Ringo Starr would appear to resemble the output of a man gripped by the creative twin spirits of Johann Sebastian Bach and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

But Heather Mills really gives me the dribbling shits something fierce.

I really can’t explain it any further than that.

I’m very, very tired.

Fucking crows.

*Not a statement of intent. Not meant to be taken as an injunction to any form of action whatsoever. Get a fucking grip.

CRACKING THE CRUISE CODE

What Tom Cruise was really trying to say ...

“I think it's a privilege to call yourself a Scientologist and it's something that you have to earn. And because a Scientologist does. He, or she has the ability to create new and better realities and improved conditions. Aaaah ...being a Scientologist you look at someone and know absolutely that you can help them.”

Tom likes to look at people.

“So for me it really is K.S.W. and it's just like, it's, it's something that err... I don't mince words with that ... you know, it's, with anything that L.R.H. does but policy to me has really gone (SUCKS AIR. CHOPS AIR WITH HAND) boy and I ran (mumbles indecipherably) I, there's a time when I went through and I said "You know what ?" 'n' when I read it, I, you know, I just went "PFOOOOOOO!!", this is it. This is exactly it.”

And he wants to be an airplane.

“But being a Scientologist... when you drive past an accident, it's not like anyone else... it's you drive past; you know you have to do something about it because... you know you're the only one that can really help.”

Also, he likes to drive.

“But that's ... that's what drives me is that I know we, we have an opportunity ... and errr... to really ... to help, for the first time. EFF, effectively change peoples' lives and errr ... I am dedicated that I'm gonna... I'm mmm ... DABSOLUTELY, uncompromisingly... dedicated to that.”

He really, really, really likes to drive.

“ORGS are there to help, OK, but w-w-we as, you know, as... else with the public it's like, we have a responsibility, it's not just the orgs, it's not just Dave Miscavige, you know... it's not just, not just me. It's you, it's everyone out there, kinda SSSS, re-reading K.S.W. and looking at what needs to be done and saying O.K.!! Am I gonna do it or am I not gonna do it? Period. And am I gonna look at that guy or am I too afraid because I have my own "out ethics" to put in someone else's ethics, and that's all it comes down to.”

And he likes to look at people ... Just not all the time, but.

“Because I won't hesitate to put ethics in on someone else, you know, 'cause I put it BRUTHLESSLY in on myself. And I think that errr... I respect that... in, in others. And errr, you know, I'm there to help, and we're here to help and my opinion is, is that look, you-you're on board ... or you're not on board. OK, but just ... if you're on board, you're on board just like the rest of us. Period.”

Also, he likes boats and stuff.

“We are the authorities on getting people off drugs. We are the authorities on the mind. We are the authorities on improving conditions. Criminon ... we can rehabilitate criminals. Way to happiness. We can bring peace errr... and unite cultures, errr ... that once you know these tools and you know that they work it's, it's not good enough, that errr ... I'm just doing OK.”

He has a shed full of tools.

“Travelling the world and meeting the people that I, that I've met, you know, talking with these leaders in various fields ... they want help, and they are depending on people, who, know. And who can be effective, and do it and that's us. That is our responsibility to do that.”

Tom wants to help. Also, he has a shed full of tools.

“It is the time now, now is the time, OK. It is being a Scientologist, people are turning to you so you'd better know it. You'd better know it. And if you don't, you know ... go and learn it. A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You know? But don't pretend you know it and, errr, or, for, you know, what ever it's like, we're here to help.”

What time is it? Ask Tom. He wants to help. And he has a shed full of tools.

“I mean, if you're a Scientologist, you see life tha-, you see things the way they are. In all its glory, you know, all of its complexity errr ... and the more you know as a Scientologist you don't become overwhelmed by it.”

Looking at things is fun.

“A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! And errr ... I would, you know, she ... they said ... so, what, have you met an S.P.? A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! (CLAPS HANDS) and I looked at though at, errr, you know, and I thought oh what a beautiful thing because maybe one day, it'll be like that, you know what I'm saying? Maybe one day, BA-HAHAHA HA!! It will be that, wow, S.P.s, like they'll just read about those in history books, you know? A-HAHAHA HAHAHAH HAHAHAHAHAH HAHAHAHA HA HA-HAHAHA!!!! HER-HER, HA-HA-HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Tom is happy! Clap hands with Tom!

“Thing is, I just go through that tech and it's, it literally it's, it's not SNORG! SNORT! how to run from an S.P., it's P.T.S.S.P., how to shatter suppression. Confront, shatter suppression. You apply it, it's like (SNAPS FINGERS!) BOOM!”

Then, let’s blow some stuff up!

“Because they don't come up to me and do that, errr... they won't do it to me. Not to my face. You know, or anywhere in my vicinity, where they feel they can be... confronted, you know. They just don't do it.”

Y’know, sometimes, people don’t want to look at Tom. Rude cunts.

“I wish the world was a different place. I'd like to go on vacation and go and, romp and, play and just... do that, you know what I mean? I mean ... that's what I want it to be, o.k.? That's how I, I wouldn't, you know, there's times I'd like to do that but ...but I can’t ... because ... I know ... I know, so... I ga, you know, but you know, you just you're, I da, I have to do something about it, it's not ... TSK, TSK ... You know you can sit here and wish it was different and then you look at it and then you go OK. this is it, alright, OK, and there's that moment when you go ... you know ... I have to do something, don't I ? Yeah, I really have to do it because I can't live with myself if I don't and it's and that really is it.”

Tom needs a holiday.

“I don't care if someone thinks it's hard or easy, it's either helping ... and contributing everything you can or you're not. OK? Errr ... because I'm carrying my load, all right? And only that as much as I'm carrying I still feel like I gotta do more, all right? There's still a thing of, let's go!”

He’ll carry his own luggage.

“You can just see it the look in their eyes, you know the ones that are doing, you know, and you know the spectators who are the ones who are going ... "Well it's easy for you or what am I doing?" and it's just, that thing is errr, I've cancelled that in my area. A-HAHAHA! Round my ... it's like, man you're either in or you're out. That spectator is I mean it's something that, that is, we have no time for now.”

Maybe later, then.

“So it's our responsibility to... educate. Create the new reality, you know, we have that responsibility to say hey, this is the way it should be done, because we do it this way and people are actually getting better.”

Somewhere new would be nice.

“And... let's get it done. You know, let's really get it done and have enough love, compassion, toughness, that, that you're gonna do it. Errr ... and, errr ... do it ... right.”

We can book the tickets today.

“And I have to tell you something ... I really... it, it is... you know ... it's rough and tumble ... and it's wild and woolly and it's a blast ... it's a blast. It really is ... fun... because, damn it, there is nothing better... than to going out there and fighting the fight and suddenly you see SHROOM!! BKKKKKKKKKAPOW!! Things are better.”

Then, we can play rocketships!

“I want to know that I've done everything I could, every day. And I think about those people out there, who... are depending on, us. And, errr ... I think about that. And it does make me feel, errr, like, man, I got, I got, there's, you know, we got more work. I need more help. You know, get those spectators, either in the playing field or out of the arena, you know. A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! That's how I really, that's how I feel about it.”

Hey! Let’s get everyone to play rocketships! ...

“I do what I can... and I do it... the way I do everything. A-HA A-HA AHAHAHAHAHA!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! There's nothing, part of the way for me. A-HAHAHAHAHAHA!! AHAHAHAHAHA!! It's just "WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

... Or trains!

Big laughing trains!

Big laughing trains that fly through space!

Cool.

WE’VE ALL HAD A GUTFUL

Jack Marx, on his News.com blog of April 11, 2008, spits the dummy and delivers a most righteous and admirable rant ...

“It was Demi Moore who started it back in 1991. Before then, getting pregnant was seen as something of a temporary disaster for an entertainer’s career, all photo shoots, publicity capers and public arsery put on hold while real life, quite literally, became too important for the nonsense of showbiz. Today, scoring oneself a “baby bump” is like releasing a new CD, with celebrities lining up to expose their bulging tummies to the masses, their spherical guts accompanied by leers that seem to say: “Look, everybody! I’ve been @#$%ed!”. It’s the big dick competition of the 21st century, and it’s time this childsplay were terminated.”

Continue reading “Pregnant celebrities get @#$%ed!”

THE MOST IMPORTANT NEWS STORY YOU’LL READ ALL YEAR!

Lindsay Lohan’s 67 year old grandmother was admitted to hospital after having driven her car into a tree.

The human race is doomed.

VERY IMPORTANT THINGS

Nicole Kidman's pregnant. So is Cate Blanchett. And Gwen Stefani. Daniel Johns of Silverchair is "not f**king gay". Lindsay Lohan's still out getting shitfaced, and Britney Spears is still fucked in the head. A football player has been nicked for being a dickhead. A cricket player called another cricket player a rude name ... chaos and controversies have ensued ever since.

Heath Ledger is still dead.

I'm sure there's more "very important things" deserving of a mention, but it's so hard to keep up with it all some days.

LI'L TOMOTHY CRUISE & THE CHURCH OF TINCANOLOGY

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

(Any similarity to actual persons, either living or deceased, or to this item from the Daily Mail is purely coincidental)

ONCE UPON A TAHM, there wuz a li'l feller by the name of Tomothy Cruise an' he wuz a purty li'l feller too, thass fer sure. All the ladies wanted to have their wicked, wicked ways with purty li'l Tomothy (an' sum a' the fellas too by gosh, but ah ain't a’ goin' down that manky ol' tunnel a' confusion raht at this moment, no sirree), but purty l'il Tomothy was a mite more innerested in a funny ol' religion that wuz alls about holdin' tin cans in yer hands so as ta get yerself raht in tha head.

Now ... this funny ol' religion was put tagether a whiles back by a funny ol' sailor fella by the name of Elron Bubba who useta write stories 'bout flyin' saucies and li'l green fellas from outta space ‘til he figgered that that weren't no proper way fer a grown man to make a decent livin’, so he thought he may's well start hisself a religion on account a’ all the other religions din't have no truck with holdin' onta tin cans an' such, an’ they weren’t no li’l green fellas from outta space in ‘em either ... they was all abouts sum fella from way back who git hisself nailed to a cupple a’ chunks of two-be-four, an’ by golly, that weren’t no fun to be readin’ on, Bubba reckoned ... Yep, Ol' Bubba lahked his tin cans and li’l green fellas a whole lot more, thass fer sure, so he set about makin’ hisself a new church ... the Church of Tincanology ... an’ purty li’l Tomothy Cruise found out about it sometahms after Bubba had passed on, and reckoned it sounded lahk a good idea to get hisself raht in the head, so he read up some books on it, an’ joined hisself up ...

Anyhoo ... Li'l Tomothy had bin grabbin' onta those tin cans for about a decade or so an' figgered hisself mostly raht in the head, when a few of the folks in Ol’ Bubba’s Church of Tincanology thought it maht be a good idea that he get hisself a lady to grab onto fer a change ... see, they figgered that purty li’l Tomothy with his purty li’l face could pull ‘em some wimmen folk inta the Church an’ they could ‘pregnate ‘em wif some a’ the frozen spuzz from Ol’ Elron they’d been keepin’ aside so’s they could have ‘emselves some li’l Elron’s to fawn on an’ follow about ... also, they was runnin’ real short a' tin cans at the tahm too ...

Now ... Li’l Tomothy may ‘ave bin a purty fella, but he wuz only about 2 an’ a half feet an’ one inch tall an’ sum a’ those wimmen folk he wuz hangin’ ‘round wif din’t stay fer long on account a’ how he wuz more inclahned to wanna play wif tin cans than take to pokin’ about their lady bits as much as they’d ‘ave lahked ... One a’ these ladies, who went by the name a’ Nikky Pigman, why, she was as tall an’ pale an’ scrawny as Tomothy was short an’ dark an’ stumpy an’ even standin’on a step-ladder that li’l feller couldn’t so much as scratch at her lady bits, an’ dang if those bits a’ hers weren’t just itchin’ fer some scratchin’ action after a whiles, so ‘ventually she tol’ ‘im where he could put his tin cans in no uncertain terms an’ she ran off an’ found herself a gee-tar playin’ feller to get scratched at by ...

But then, one day, Tomothy met a cute li'l gal by the name of Cattie Ohms, an' he tol' her again an' again an' again an' over an' over an' over all about holdin' onta tin cans an’ the Church of Tincanology an’ Ol’ Elron Bubba ‘til her brain fair did rattle with confusion an’ afore she knew it she’d agreed ta marry the li’l feller an’ ‘ave his babies ... But li’l Tomothy had hisself no intention a’ pokin’ ‘bout her private bits, no sir, he an’ the Church had ‘emselves another plan altogether ...

So’s one naht ... he waited ... an’ he waited ... an’ he waited, ‘til poor young Cattie had fallen fast asleep, an’ he went to the icebox an’ got hisself a big ol’ blob of Ol’ Elron Bubba’s frozen spuzz that the Church of Tincanology had given him a whiles back and which he’d bin keepin’ hidden behind the turkey gizzards fer jes’ this very moment, an’ he put that spuzz on a turkey baster an’ crept toward Cattie’s sleepin’ self so’s he could stick that spuzz inta Cattie where it could do what spuzz does when it’s stuck there ...

But ... as li’l Tomothy moved hisself forward, he hadn’t noticed that some a’ that spuzz had melted a bit an’ had dripped onta the floor an’ jest as he’d got hisself real close to Cattie, he slipped on some a’ that melted spuzz and went scootin’ across the floor, bangin’ his head smack inta the wall so hard that he bounced back the other way an’ onta the so-fee with such a mahty force that one a’ the so-fee springs popped raht through the so-fee cover and raht inta his neck where it ripped his neck innerds to stringy red bits a’ spurtin’ flesh an’ killed li’l Tomothy Cruise in a instant.

Whereupon, poor liddle Cattie Ohms woked herself up of a sudden an’ looked over to see the tiny li’l body of li’l Tomothy Cruise layin’ dead on the floor, a big ol’ turkey baster with meltin’ sailor spuzz on it still in his hands, an’ she realised then what he’d a’ bin goin’ to do to her all this tahm an’ thanked her lucky stars that she had escaped his foul intentions ...

Now, even though she survahved, from there on in, from that day to this, purty liddle Cattie Ohms still can’t hold on to so much as a tin o’ beans without a shiver a’ creepin’ up her spine, whiles at Christmastime, no matter how loud an’ how long her mama hollers at her, there ain’t no way in this world or the next one that she’s a’ gonna help out stuffin’ no turkey.

No, sir. Uh-uh.

NICOLEUS INSECTUS KIDMANUS, OR, THE KIDMAN EFFECT

In possession of a "dramatic" range that, on the evidence to hand, appears to extend no further than a butterfly fart in a brisk breeze, Nicole Kidman inexplicably continues to attract people's attention for doing little other than flashing her eerily inexpressive eyes and Tic-Tac teeth on any public occasion in the direction of a camera; an anemic-skinned, perpetually sheath-clad and curiously sexless presence forever tottering up and down the red carpets of the known universe for the delectation of those camera-toting flashbulb junkies of the gutter press known as the "paparazzi" and the peanut-brained halfwits whose lives revolve around bouts of serial drooling over amateur footage of this wraithlike creature who, sans clothes, would probably resemble little more than a pasty streak of pelican shit on a pavement.

Even David Thomson, a normally astute critic and commentator on all things filmic, was so moved in the mandatory mid-life crisis that afflicts middle aged-men of his ilk the world over, that he devoted an entire book to the woman, the thing itself being little more than a thinly-disguised, self-indulgent masturbatory fantasy about how keen he'd be to bonk the little bony bint.

Why on earth is this mammalian stick-insect so popular? What is the significance of Nicoleus Insectus Kidmanus to and in our lives, and why are we forever being inflicted with article after article and column inch upon column inch of torridly turgid tripe that strives so to convince us that not only is there a significance, but it is the type of significance which, in ancient times, may have moved nations to erect temples in her name and indulge in a little sacrificial throat-slitting of small children in her honour?

"Oh look, Nicole and Keith went up the shops on Saturday morning for a carton of milk ... what a lovely photo. Don't they look sweet?"

I'm fucked if I can figure it out.

Let's have a look at the films (or some of them) that feature this peculiarly popular specimen of weightless puffery that is "Our" Nicoleus Insectus Kidmanus ... "Dead Calm", "Days of Thunder", "Billy Bathgate", "Far And Away", "Malice", "To Die For", "Batman Forever", "Portrait Of A Lady", "The Peacemaker", "Practical Magic", "Eyes Wide Shut", "Moulin Rouge", "The Others", "Birthday Girl", "The Hours", "Dogville", "The Human Stain", "Cold Mountain", "The Stepford Wives", "Birth", "The Interpreter", "Bewitched", "Fur", "The Invasion" and the just released "The Golden Compass" ... (Alas and alack, we still await with breathless anticipation the most recent offering from world-renowned dance-party organise- ... er, film director Baz Luhrmann and his pre-proclaimed "epic" "Australia").

In a period of 18 years, from 1989 ("Dead Calm") to 2007 ("The Golden Compass"), there is nothing among that lot that could even remotely be considered a "classic" work of cinema or, unless you're prone to futile exercises in optical self-abuse, much worth bothering with again if you've already seen it once ... (I will cede that Anthony Minghella's "Cold Mountain" contains some excellent moments, but the best and most successful of these do not involve “Our Nicole” and revolve instead on sub-plots and situations played out and populated by an outstanding cast of supporting players including Philip Seymour Hoffman, Giovanni Ribisi, Ray Winstone, Brendan Gleeson and Eileen Atkins among a multitude of talented others. No, I did not forget to mention Renee Zellweger, I just didn’t want to, okay?).

Five films from Kidman's oeuvre (or ordure, if you will) to consider: Stanley Kubrick's final film "Eyes Wide Shut", a sluggish bucket of icily sterile crap that is widely held as his worst ever film; an emotionally crippled exercise in dirty-old-man-ism that makes "Barry Lyndon" look like part of the "Die Hard" franchise by comparison; "Batman Forever", the death knell of that series at the time and almost the death knell of George Clooney's career to boot; "Bewitched", in which she bravely attempts to channel the spirit and essence of Marilyn Monroe ... through her nose; "Days Of Thunder", a ridiculous Bruckheimer-Simpson film (is there anything Bruckheimer and Simpson ever did that wasn’t ridiculous?) about racing cars that memorably featured a scene where Robert Duvall, the greatest actor of this or any other generation quite frankly, was required to give a pep-talk to a fucking automobile for Chrissakes (one hopes he was extremely well recompensed for his efforts).

And then there was “The Hours”, in which Kidman, sporting a silly putty nose, picked up an Oscar as Best Actress in 2003 for sporting a silly putty nose, drabbing it up as Virginia bloody Woolf and putting us all to sleep in the process.

Nicole Kidman won an Oscar. If there is a god, he’s one sick little puppy. Yet Julianne Moore, in the same film and whose astonishing talents would be noted in cinema history forevermore if she’d stopped working after “Safe”, “Short Cuts”, “Boogie Nights” and “Far From Heaven” did not. You have got to be kidding.

Now, in comparison to Kidman, consider the ridiculously brief and far more accomplished film career of Grace Kelly ...

In only 5 years (to Kidman’s 18, remember) spanning 1952 to 1956, Grace Kelly starred in these five films: Fred Zinnemann’s “High Noon” with Gary Cooper; John Ford's "Mogambo" with Clark Gable; and for Hitchcock, "Dial M For Murder", "To Catch A Thief" and, most unforgettably, "Rear Window". It was in the latter that Kelly delivered unto James Stewart and film history a kiss so charged with raw sexuality and relentless eroticism that it could probably have reduced the entire pantheon of Roman and Greek Gods to bubbling little puddles of goo.

Furthermore, Grace Kelly was never so addled in the membrane as to consider for even one one-billionth of a nanosecond hitching her spunky little wagon to a stunted fuckwit such as this bleach-toothed, sofa-hopping tit.

Kidman did adopt a couple of wee bairns, and that was sweet of her I guess, though I suspect she only did so because given the extra-minus size of her hips, she could probably no more birth a busted Sao biscuit than I could pass a melon through the tip of my penis.

But as to the precise nature of “The Kidman Effect”, puzzled cinemagoers everywhere still anticipate delivery of that special feeling which is forever being promised by the snapping hounds of P.R. departments the world over and denied us by actual experience, as thus far, the only noticeable effect in evidence is that we, all of us, have been deprived of 15 bucks which would have been far better spent on a knees-up at McDonalds and a packet of toothpicks for after.

REBUS FLATBUSH & THE TALE OF BRIT-NAY'S MOMMA (AGAIN)

I posted this piece on the new Jack Marx blog recently and it elicited a really nice response from a number of people. So, here it is again ...

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales from 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.)”



From 2007, Seth Green "Leave Chris Crocker Alone"