Like Father Like Son

Junior's whiteboard on the bedroom door and guess who got in trouble for it? Not him...

Do Not Adjust Your Set.

My devoted faithful followers (or at the very least the five of you I’ve sent this new link to) will have perhaps wondered if you have stepped across some time and space continuum where the blog you’re now reading is very similar to one you used to read, only different. It is as we say at work; same shit, different toilet.

Fear not, an episode of Lost this aint. God I miss you Kate.

No this is just me stepping back into the shadows, out of the limelight, back inside the sanctum. Oscar Wilde once said that it was better to be spoken about that not to be spoken of at all and he was a right fruity bugger (or rather buggerer) so he should know.

In some instances I would agree with that sentiment but this blog was only ever meant to be an outlet for my over-active imagination, crazy logic and Vietnam flashbacks. How it got to be on everybody’s daily reading list I don’t know but that put me in the rather precarious position of having folk potentially mistaking my pisstaking for genuine opinion and I’m not having that. Not on my watch.

So enough already. I’m closing in the Sanctum to just a select few, like it should be. And if this gets out I know just who’s letterbox to shit in and which email address to sign up to the daily porn site.

As you were. And hey, let’s be careful out there.

Layering It On For The New Flattie

“Come support the multiple births club” the flyer at work reads.

Talk about unnecessary, a ‘club’ already exists for births; it’s called parenthood and you don’t have to be Jon and Kate to join either. And yes, a lot of the time spent in this club is shit, tough and all of it unpaid, but what bonuses there are will be the most rewarding you ever have and guess what? You don’t need to join another club for those that have popped a couple out through the beef curtains to have them experiences either. You dicks.

Speaking of clubs, changes are afoot at the ClubDes homestead next week as we welcome a flatmate for the first time.

Whether it was the fact we had a spare room worth a tasty week’s rent just gagging to be let, or the fact that the missus and I are done talking to each other after 10 years of wedded bliss who really knows, the ad went up and arrive in a few days she does.

My last experiences of flatmates, some 15 years ago now, are not favourable so I am a little apprehensive. They were the days of living with Coops older sister, who avoided confrontation by sticking post it’s to the bedroom door noting such helpful hints as “please don’t masturbate in the shower as it clogs up the drain”. Or something like that.

Usually I have a very big thing about stranger danger, especially in my own cave. I am creature of my own habits and I like my own routine so the prospect of some noob coming in and disrupting that would usually tighten the sphincter markedly. But truth be told I am quite excited about the whole thing. Yes she may be attractive but I am only looking forward to reading the articles.

Now naturally when one prepares to welcome a young lady into a house dominated by boys, talk naturally turns to the important issues like the state of the toilet, or ones attire in the early hours of the morning. Strangely it’s only the females in the household that seemed concerned about these things.

Thankfully Junior is at an age where most of what gets aimed at the carzie ends up in there. Unfortunately some of what ends up in there does tend to stick around though which presents a separate issue entirely because a quick mop up of the floor or seat with the sock, or Dads towel is not going to cut it where a good bowl dent is concerned.

It’s a strange phenomenon is the toilet dent. Theoretically it shouldn’t happen; the area is well lubed and unless we’re talking about public shitters, flushed afterwards. Mrs ClubDes, like all good women, has a technique that she swears by which is the layering of several pieces of butt wipe to catch the Cosby Kids and thus alleviate said skid marks.

I reckon that 'layers' are the female answer to everything though. Layers on the bed, layers of clothing, layers of pillows on the couch, my feelings are like layers, why paint the feature wall once when you can do several layers all different colours...

Which is fine in principal but it misses the one variable in all this; angles and height. Because anyone who has played bombers over Tokyo at the age of 12 whilst doing the business (and who hasn’t aye?) knows that get the range right and even the most mundane of bodily functions can get awfully creative, awfully quick.

So we might do the layer cake thing with the two ply but I ain’t wearing more clothes early in the morning. Besides, how do I expect our new flattie to feel comfortable waltzing around in her undies if I’m not….?

Now you can see why I've rushed around and put the hidden cameras up...

The In Joke Continues...

Speaking of which, this weekend I watched both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight again. That’s six hours of solid wood and it made me think how many of the ‘Best Film’ winners of the last 10 years could do that to a strapping young man like myself?

It doesn't make for pretty reading. The in joke that is acting and award giving continues alright...

2012: The Artist – No pulse, no will to live, no wood.

2011: The Kings Speech – The film you’d watch if distinctly not wanting to crack one.

2010: The Hurt Locker – A war movie yes, but no wood.

2009: Slumdog Millionaire – Curry, curry and more curry. No chubby.

2008: No Country for Old Men – Yes. Javier Bardem alone would do this, but not in a gay way.

2007: The Departed – Fuck yes. Two and a half hours of bursting blue veinage.

2006: Crash – Yes.

2005: Million Dollar Bay – Butch chicks boxing. Hmmmm. Tough call. Clint Eastwood though so yes.

2004: Lord of the Rings – Only if you’re into dwarves.

2003: Chicago – Watching this will give you a vagina. Fact.

The Departed: Full of wood.

Not A Real Job...

So movie award season has come and gone again and thank fuck for that.

Only the fashion industry surpasses their movie counterparts for gratuitous self congratulation and yet both are one big inside joke that we common folk don’t get. So you made two, maybe three decent movies in a year? Get over it.

I think things like the Academy Awards should be held every four years, like every other actual celebration of achievement i.e. sports. Because swanning around for three months in makeup speaking the lines someone else has written for you is not something worth celebrating every year, it really isn’t.

But like fashion, it’s the industry built upon the industry that laps this shit up. What would that silly bitch from TV3 do for example, if there were no award ceremonies for her to swan around at pretending she’s on txting terms with the A list? Heaven forbid they might have to replace her slot with something newsworthy.

What would the E Channel do without the source for their endless drivel about who wore what and then did whom? What would Ryan Seacrest do for fucks sake if he didn’t have The Dictator accidentally pouring Kim Jong’s ashes all over his perfect suit? Mind you, I’d tune in to see something like that every year, the highlight of this years ceremony.

What would we do as a nation if our small minds couldn’t get excited about the fact that some NZ company is up for ‘Best Catering’ or something on Tintin? Weta would still win shit but then they’re awesome. Where else would Brett McKenzie get to play the quintessential simple Kiwi boy? Again.

And just on that, why is it that actors continue to perpetuate the whole Muppet myth long after the cameras have stopped rolling? Why do they even buy into it in the first place? We all know they’re puppets, heck even the puppets know they’re fucken puppets, so why pretend they’re great actors or performers and it’s an honour working with them?

But just in case you needed further proof that the whole thing is arse then look no further at the latest post ceremony viral sensation: Angelina Jolie's superimposed right leg everywhere. It’s garnering more interest and hits than the awards themselves. Yep. Somebody is laughing but it ain’t you or me.

One of the most nominated flicks this year was a black and white silent film. That's right, two hours of silence in a room full of people masticating. Least they could have done was coloured the damn thing. But it's a novelty isn't it? No one is going to say a bad thing about it because it dares to be different. It dares to be bold. It proves the industry has run out of ideas is what it is.

Oh and the speeches and the tears and the emotion. Don't you just want someone to break it all up by yelling out "But it's not a real job, you cunt". But they never do.

Like I said, an in joke that none of us are in on.

"Muppets I say. Farken Muppets."

Getting On My Tits

My god some stuff round here gets on my tits.

1. Like ads for ad space which always promises that many millions will see your ad if it’s placed at the very same point that you’re reading it.

Only it won’t will it, because there’s no real ad there, only the promise of a real ad. Clearly there aren’t enough real ads to fill the space because their promises are complete bollocks. These types of ads are always above mens urinals as it happens, the last great untapped bastion of captive advertising.

2. Packaging that is ‘new and improved’.

So you haven’t done anything with what’s actually inside the cardboard box around the outside? No? Fuck off then.

3. ‘Welcome to your new Blackberry’

Which is not a lifestyle, not a luxurious property within some gated community and most definitely not something that came about from your man’s milk. It’s a phone. That’s it. Just a fucken phone.

4. The show / movie / book that 'critics are raving about’.

Now before we endorse something with a shout out like that let’s just ask ourselves who are these critics and what is their track record like? Are they haters or do they take all the promo material they get right up the arse, because objectivity is important to me. Or maybe I’ll just make up my own mind, fuck you very much

5. Kendra Wilkinson

Has not one, but two books on the shelves. What could she possibly have to write about that would fill a post-it let alone two paperbacks?! You might know her as one of the three stooges who hooked up with Hugh Hefner, starred in the reality show of it and the subsequent spin off after being upgraded by The Hef, for something younger and dumber. You might know her on account that she regularly gets her massive mammaries out. Or you might not know her at all. Chance would be a fine thing.

6. Printouts posted to shared noticeboards about shitty bosses.

Which are almost as big a waste of space as the person who anonymously put it there. It’s no different than writing - and sketching as a visual aide - on the toilet wall at school about just how massive Bruisers testes are when you were 10. Mind you, they were. But what purpose does it really serve other than to give someone a chubby for their perceived hard core defiance of authority?

My feelings on such matters are that if it’s a problem, do something about it. Unfortunately if your only plan of attack is to pin an unfunny print out up in the work place, during work time, using work stuff, then you’re part of the fucken problem. Why not grow a pair and man up?

A big pair, like Bruisers.

My toilet wall drawings of Bruiser were uncannily anatomically correct..

Gareth Says; Up Yours, Norway.

Move over Colin Meads, NZ has a new authority figure on everything; multi millionaire, philanthropist, the very nasal Gareth Morgan.

Gareth pissed off a bunch of Norwegians last week when he went on record as saying that he wouldn’t rescue one of their sailors if the guy just happened to be drowning in the same spot of Arctic water the two plan to be in next month. Morgan is going as part of an expedition, the Norwegian because he’s a waster with a death wish and has track record of spectacularly fucking things up.

Gareth is dead right, like he usually is. The man made has many millions from mastering the things that put Coops and I to sleep in Economics class back in College and you just know that he didn’t get that much wedge from being often wrong. Like most people with a ridiculous amount of coin he’s not afraid to speak his mind when he feels strongly about something and I for one like that.

More recently he’s gone in on bailing out The Phoenix and naturally his fan base just went up by a couple of thousand because if there’s one thing football fans love more than a rich benefactor its one who’s not afraid of a good sound bite. He even took his top of when they were one nil up with 10 minutes to go, what a guy.

He’s called the Norwegian guy a bottom feeder which I think is one of the funniest expressions around but then I would, the word ‘moist’ cracks me up too. Naturally this has soured the atmosphere a bit in gay ol Norway in much the same way that if I walked into your house and took a shit in your fridge you might not be too happy about it and it might sour the atmosphere.

But let’s not take fridge shitting out of its cultural context.

As a fellow blogger tells me, in Uruguay for instance there are no such prejudices. Shitting in someone's fridge can be seen as a friendly act like meeting a friend in the street, raising the right hand and enunciating the words "Hello my old friend". Fridge shitting is a national pastime and its exponents are much loved, known colloquially as "turd fairies".

It's only when we displace the amicable deposition of frozen ordure into a NZ context that it is likely to be seen in a negative light, due solely to the triumph of PC sandal-wearing do gooders who knit their own muesli. The freaks.

Of course even in Uruguay in some circumstances shitting in the fridge can be offensive, for example on the cold meats shelf or into a recently made trifle. Bum mince left by the turd fairy which has dripped into the lunch boxes for the kids tomorrow is also not seen in a good light. But if one is careful to deposit ones chilled choc logs into, for example, the egg holders, then the owner of the fridge door will smile on opening it in recognition of a beneficent auspice.

So please let's not get these things out of context or out of proportion.

Hey, Gareth wouldn’t and he’s always right, so get fucked Norway.

Gareth has shown a lot of guts in bailing out The Phoenix...