A Little Something For All The Ladies

Ladies, don't leave home without one.

Good Music and Asian Children Are So Hard To Find

I'm just going to chuck something out there; I think there should be a Caucasian only music channel on TV. One that plays predominantly rock and maybe but other white folk music too, like alternative rock and hard rock or maybe even easy listening rock.

Now I don't doubt that Chris Brown and Usher aren't talented artists in their own right, when they're not ripping of each others songs, look and videos that is because they seem to do a lot of that, but I'm sick of seeing their faces - along with Rhianna and Nesian Mystic - every time I turn on a music channel. Thankfully there’s YouTube and alike to keep us, the majority that don’t dig Chris FitzUsher or Usher FitzChris, sane but it’s a sad day when a man has to interrupt his streaming online porn just to watch the latest Weezer vid.

If I really wanted to get rational about it all, I might argue with myself that the reason that the stations keep playing this shit is because the viewing demographic demands it. The fuck it does. I’m in the viewing demographic and I don’t. The top download on iTunes NZ at the moment is the Phil Collins classic ‘In the Air Tonight’ thanks to a bizarre – to say the least - TV ad. Last time I checked, Phil Collins was as white as my skinny arse so it just goes to show that there is an audience still out there gagging for a bit of classic rock and we all know there aint no party like a Phil Collins party.

While we’re at it - the Elemenop song that Telescum have raped for their latest round of bullshit has been erased from my play list too on account that I’d rather not have the mental images I now associate with that song. Shame, because it was a keeper and I really like them as a band. They let KFC kiddyfiddle one of their earlier hits too, the sell outs and they call themselves musicians? Jingle writers I think would be a better term. See The Beatles had the right idea in not letting anyone get their poo stained advertising hands on their back catalogue.

There was once a channel that catered for the majority of music fans, it was called MTV UK and it played its fair share of rock and whatever other types of music there are. This was real MTV too, not the dumbed down, browned out just-play-the-same-crap from the States version we have on our screens now. It was good in that it had specific periods where it played the different genres and you then knew when and where to watch if you wanted to see your favourite.

It also had the very rootable Cat Deeley as a VJ. She could have been playing Wiggles music videos and it wouldn't have mattered quite frankly because we were all just staring at her tits and luscious lady lips that we all imagined were wrapped around our remote.

Speaking of gorillas, Xin Xin the Panda was found safe and well this week, locked in a cupboard in an empty house 20 metres from her own. Does it seem weird to you that no one thought to look there five days earlier? It did to me but then I saw several of the residents of that extremely affluent street interviewed on the news and there wasn’t a Kiwi amongst them. I’m genuinely surprised they even stepped out of their houses to be interviewed let alone look for a missing panda. Why does every missing or abandoned Asian child have to have a nickname that sounds like an empty coke can rolling down the street? Why not try Lisa, Kate or Emma?

How unlikely is it that anyone having a boy in the next six months is going to call it Tony? Wife beater Veitch fell on his sword this week and possibly promptly packed himself when he heard that his ex has now filed a complaint with Police even after he paid her some serious hush money. Smart girl that, she got the money and the bag! But there’s still a chance for small man Veitch I reckon, he could co host with the Lion Man and they could share anecdotes on just how they like to smack their bitches up.

It’s a great country isn’t it?

Small Man Syndrome

A tighty whitey singlet – made famous by the likes of Jake the Muss – is commonly known here in NZ as a ‘wife beater’, but I propose that from this week on it’s referred to as a ‘Tony Veitch’. Let this go on record as being the first official bad taste use of the Tony Veitch affair.

Veitch finally came out and admitted what some already knew about NZs favourite – or most irritating depending which channel you watch the news on each night - small man; that yes, about a year ago, he did infact give his then missus a good kicking. Apparently this was one of those dirty little secrets that people within the circle of trust that is the B & C grade NZ celebrity scene had known for some time but it took the Dom Post to splash it across their front page Monday morning before we, the working class folk with normal jobs and normal lives were to find out that Mr Veitch is not so far removed from us at all.

Veitch – usually impossible to shut up – kept quiet all week before finally fronting up to the same sort of press conference he has so often been on the other side of and you could bloody tell too - his statement reeked of having watched one too many media conferences held by the high profile sportspeople that he spends all day talking, writing and wanking about. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see that several of them now sue the guy for outright plagiarism. I can hardly blame him for pinching their work though, I'm guessing it wasn't something he ever expected to have to do when he paid his battered and broken girlfriend a hundred thousand grand to shut the hell up about it all a few years ago.

The token gesture of having his current wife stand behind him as he made it was as convincing as the time Hilary stood behind Bill the day he finally revealed that he and Monica had poked, rather than toked, the cigar they shared that time they were alone in the oval office. In his impassioned plea for leniency, Veitch revealed that he was on medication and under immense pressure from two stressful jobs at the time, which explains the Once Were Warriors re-enactment that night. A good story and almost believable (although not condonable even if it were true) were it not for the fact that talking on the radio and reading the sports headlines on the TV each night are hardly right up there in terms of stressful jobs. Try having to scrape people off the road, run into burning buildings or jump start dead hearts before you reel that sob story out Tony, you tit.

What Veitch does to earn the considerable amount of wedge he earns shouldn’t be confused with those things in term of importance, because they’re not even fucking close. Guys like Veitch might think that the world of current affairs might stop were he to fall of the face of the earth (chance would be a fine thing) but alas, it won’t. It’s this sense of inflated self importance that leads a guy like him to think that it’s okay to buy off any mistakes he might make. His job is easy money and he knows it. The long line of dudes standing behind the small man currently in the chair, just waiting to take his place know it too and that’s why Veitch hoped he could pay his way out of this one, because annoying sports anchors are a dime a dozen.

He might think that a smart suit, a well scripted 5 minutes of bullshit and a steadfast wife standing by might get him back on the telly but those that pay his wage will have other ideas. They know only too well that the backlash from a public that view him as a wife beater means a loss in viewer ship or listener ship and thus ultimately in advertising revenue. This is not adultery we’re talking about here either, this is an actual crime (assault) that Veitch has managed to pay his way out of and its hard to see the man getting any sympathy even if he is a dwarf. Ironically TV3 took great pleasure in running the piece as one of its top stories each night, whereas TV1 didn’t’ want to touch it with a barge pole. The same thing happened in reverse a few years back when then TV3 sports anchor Clint Brown had a few too many in Taupo, but then he only took a swipe at another fella, Veitch smacked his bitch up.

The real problem is that Veitch suffers from – amongst a myriad of other issues I’m sure – small man syndrome, an affliction common in those that have spent their life looking up at real men. It leads most man midgets to believe that almost everything is about them. Like the guy I know who suffers from the same affliction and who my boys gave a soccer lesson to his boys last season. He did what all small men do in the face of adversary; he got fired up and started ranting and raving. Not a good look on the sideline of an eight year olds soccer game. Luckily his wife wasn’t there; she would have gone home in a wheelchair.

“Geez that poo chick from Wheel of Fortune annoys me, I feel like giving her a right Tony Veitching” – second official bad taste use of the Tony Veitch affair.

The Miracle Of Prime Time Porn

A moment of divine intervention fell upon the country this past Sunday and surprisingly it didn’t involve a crying statue of The Virgin Mary or a bleeding portrait of Jesus.

Instead there was 3 minutes 50 seconds of hardcore porn broadcast on free to air TV channel Prime in the middle of a cold, lazy hazy Sunday afternoon. Those that had huddled around the box to watch the latest instalment of Grass Roots Rugby, got a little more ‘root’ than they bargained for when inexplicably, their viewing was interrupted by a scene from Desperate Black Wives II. Now I know what you’re thinking and yes, I was surprised too, to learn that there was a sequel.

Parents watching Prime with their children were appalled. Wives slammed the TV3 (the parent company of Prime) switchboard with calls of complaints whilst fathers sent the children to their rooms so they could watch the offending material alone. TV3 ran a disappointingly small part of the offending footage as one of their lead stories that night on their 6pm news. Personally I was appalled at what I saw. The woman shown on the screen, though skillful with her application of the whipped cream to a fella’s pixelated dickie was alas white, not black. Needless to say I called TV3 in disgust at the blatant misrepresentation of the facts.

The official word on how it happened is that the feed from Sky’s adult channel got cross wired with the Prime channel. My white arse it did. I suspect like all good employers, Prime has a weekend skeleton crew consisting of low paid, low intellect staff and the good ol boys watching the porn tried to see if they could get it on the big screen. It stayed like that for nearly four minutes till their game of soggy biscuit was over and someone realised that the screen showing the Prime channel was no longer just showing guys in short shorts reaching between each others legs and grabbing balls.

This is the kind of stuff we fella’s grow up dreaming will one day happen. That one day free to air porn will just start showing and all will be good in the world. Its right up there on the list of hopeless male fantasies that will never happen, with other gems like the endless hope that some day a sexy shop assistant will offer to try on the skimpy outfit you’re planning to buy your girlfriend because she’s ‘about her size’.

The closest I ever got to that happening was the day I was waiting for my wife to try something on in Sussan and an attractive young lady exited a changing cubicle clad in only the skimpiest set of pyjamas, the type you usually only see on feminine hygiene ads. You know the ones, where girls have sleepovers, pillow fights, shave each others legs and practise their pashing on one another? Her mate was waiting next to me to critique the outfit choice and it’s fair to say she got the big thumbs up from the both of us.

Which is not quite the same as when the sales assistant in Glassons asked me whilst I waited for my wife outside the changing rooms another time, if what it read on my tee shirt – Big Cock (my local Asian takeaway) – was true or not? Needless to say the answer I gave her was not the same as the one I gave the heavily tattooed carnie who screamed it out across the field where the circus was laid out on the Napier foreshore another time. He thought it was funny, I thought he had remarkably good eyesight for a wanker.

All of which reminds me of the one time Coops crashed over at my place one weekend and we stayed up all night watching Jean Claude Van Damme and Arnie movies – as we did back in them days. We’d gotten our hands on one of the shared skin flicks too that was doing the rounds so what with that, the Muscles from Brussels and half a dozen Double Browns we had quite the night planned. Thing is, neither of us wanted to watch the porno together so it was a battle of wits to see who would stay awake the longest and this watch it alone. I won, but I was only a few segments of poor tracking in when two girls decided on a bit of anal bead action. I know what it is now of course, but back then it was just wrong so naturally I woke Coops up and we proceeded to watch the rest of it together, in our sleeping bags, with our knees bent.

Apparently Primes miracle was only broadcast in the Auckland region meaning the rest of us good folk gagging for a bit of hard core during a lazy Sunday never got to see it anyway. But I’m not taking any chances. Just today I went out and bought a 14 inch, a DVD recorder and a stack of blank DVDs that I plan to set up and record Prime around the clock.

And I don’t mind waiting because 3 minutes 50 is just about all I’ll need I reckon.

Hitler Was Great At The Sewing Machine

When is rape not rape? When it’s a truck and trailer sesh with four international rugby players it would seem. Quite what the full story is only the 18 year old recipient and the four players know for sure, but it seems that things did get a bit rough. Apparently not half as rough as it would get if it were to get to the courts because the young lady on the receiving end is so concerned at the possible character assassination she faces if she comes forward and actually lays a complaint that she’s decided not to.

It’s a sad day in this country when women are afraid to go to the Police after an experience like this because they fear being implicated as the guilty party by some sections of the media.

It’s nearly as sad as the night The Gusher bought back to our flat – ours mind you, not hers – some munter from the local rugby club and proceeded to treat his body like a ride at Movie World on our lounge floor. Quite what was happening audibly I try not to explain in too much detail because that inevitably leads to me having to imagine and heaven forbids, mentally picture, what was going on that night. Needless to say the sound was awful. I came to understand that night just why it is that porn movies have terrible background music, because nobody wants to hear what sounded to me like 67 cows being milked by hand, all at once by a guy with a lisp chewing gum.

The sliding doors that separated my gaff from the lounge were woefully ineffective that night at muffling the terrible noises that were being made, so facing the prospect of several hours of having to listen to a drunk girl trying to suck a golf ball through a garden hose all night and a Sylvester Stallone sound alike tell her how good she was at it, I bravely ventured into the lounge and told them both to ‘shut the fuck up’. It goes without saying that I left the lights off as I did so *shiver*.

See young girls have always flocked to rugby players and probably always will. If that rugby player is from overseas then there’s the allure of the exotic or the celebrity thrown into the volatile mix that is always inevitably alcohol, testosterone and hormones. I’ve already covered before my thoughts on the binge drinking culture that appears to befit most of our young women these days so it’s hardly surprising that an incident like this has happened. What’s surprising to me that it hasn’t happened a lot more and maybe it has, if the unnaturally hairy women at Rape Crisis are to be believed it happens a lot more than is actually reported which is a fucking travesty of justice in my book. The non reporting that is, not the hairy upper lips and chains of the staff at women’s refuge centres although that’s a close second.

Now I’m no sheila – sometimes I wish I was, purely so that I had my own nungas to play with – but it would occur to me that going back to a rugby players shared room, in or around the presence of other pissed, highly charged players who don’t have other girls with them is the type of environment I would be a little suss of. It shouldn’t be like that, no question. A consenting young woman has the right to expect that any shag she enters into gets as risqué as only she chooses to make it, but there’s something to be said for not putting yourself in the line of fire. Unfortunately common sense is not always at the forefront of a pissed 18 year olds mind here in NZ, but it should be.

And as for the four highly paid young men who clearly think it’s okay to rape and pillage their way through the colonies – a practice that ceased a good few years ago – even if there is no criminal prosecution bought to bear the English Rugby Union could do the world a favour and ban the pricks from playing and thus earning from rugby, for life. This was no ‘what goes on tour stays on tour’ consensual gangbang, the young woman involved had to seek medical treatment as a result of having three uninvited and over zealous meatheads decide that any hole was a goal that night. England as a country should be ashamed of the four of them. Shit, World wars have been started for lesser transgressions.

Speaking of gagging for it, the banks are getting desperate for our custom aren’t they? Why some of them even open on weekends these days. Dang, that’s whack. Problem is, when was the last time you walked into a bank and found someone pleased to see you, or in fact helpful? Actually, when was the last time you were in a bank? Now the staff members that were shitty because they worked in a bank during the week now have to work weekends too and guess what? They’re even shittier now. Go figure.

Thankfully their advertising is here to remind us that even though they’re open weekends, nothing has changed. Maybe I’m reading between the lines of their latest ad campaign but it looks to me as though reverse racism is alive and well at the ANZ bank. The have the smiley fresh Samoan girl who helps out the ginga Scotsman who is clearly tighter than a mans anus with his money; then there’s the Indian account manager who shows an Italian how to run her pasta restaurant (cause Indians do takeaways better, obviously) and finally the effeminate Asian with a penchant for expensive dye jobs who gets his budgeting, but not style, advice from a balding Caucasian. Now that last one is just plain factually incorrect because we all know Asians only do two hair colours – Jet Li black and the ginga-Chewbacca streaked look.

Kiwibank are on to a good thing with making their ‘struggle’ appear to be similar to that of the Free French resistance in the Second World War. That would make all the other banks Nazi Germany and if there’s one thing people can get behind it’s fighting the Nazis. Unless you’re German and then you’re caught between wanting to do the right thing and sticking with the home team, who have always had the better uniform.

Yes If there’s one thing Hitler got right it was magnificent uniforms. If he was around today, Adolf Hitler would win Project Runway no question and not just because Heidi Klum is German either.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

So I’ve decided that I’m going to watch the new series of 'The Hills' that starts on MTV in a week or so.

Admittedly this type of show goes against all that I stand against – the making of celebrities out of nobodies, popularising the typical sex sells stereotypes and creating an unrealistic expectation of life that the majority of young girls will aspire too but ultimately can never realistic attain – and fuck I’m still undecided if it’s even real, but it’s a free perv and I’m always up for that.

I’ve only ever seen about 20 minutes in total of the thing. It’s one of those shows that my wife is not so keen on so that means we don’t watch it. Funny how compromise in a marriage often means ‘let’s watch what I don’t dislike’ rather than ‘let’s watch something we both like’. After having to sit through half an hour of yet another game show with that freak of nature Jason Gunn I’ve decided to put my foot down and have decided we will be – at the very least – taping The Hills this season.

Jason Gunn reminds me of a time when you got K bars from the dairy for 10 cents, double happies weren’t illegal and occasionally you still stuck your willy up the bath tap just to see what it felt like. The problem now is that Jason Gunn still thinks and acts like his audience is 10 years old and that the person standing next to him is actually a puppet with a penis for a nose called, rather appropriately, ‘Thingee’. The only marginally funny thing Jason Gunn has ever done – and only then because he needed the money I suspect - was regularly appear on a NZ skit show in a reoccurring segment called ‘Jasons Tinnie House’. The irony is that some people actually believe Jason Gunn is ‘clearly on something’ and always has been.

I used to think parking a car was a relatively straightforward exercise that most people had mastered, until I spent the grand total of 30 days, several stories up, overlooking one of the busiest car parks in Wellington. Surprisingly I never got bored at watching just how much of a dogs breakfast some people made of it and we’re not talking about parallel parking here, this is your straight in and out job – the missionary position of parking – where unfortunately, unlike sexy time, not every hole is a goal. I am now convinced that driving tests should start with the ability to park and if the driver doesn’t get it right first time then no license for them, one year!

Fuck ups, whether an action or an individual, are not confined to the roads though. Going out to sea in a 6 foot wooden dinghy with no life jackets, motor or sense is right up there with the top ten decisions that changed the world isn’t it? Two good old boys seemed rather surprised when featured on the news this week to admit that they weren’t expecting the change in conditions when they set out to sea in Napier the other day. There seems to be a lot of that surprise when other guys like these are rescued too. Do you think they get walking down to the local dairy in their wife beater and stubbies mixed up with putting themselves at the mercy of mother nature or what?! I wonder if being landed with a $50,000 bill for the cost of the search and rescue operation that gets mounted for these numb nuts would make more of them wake the fuck up before they head out to sea?!

Not that stupidity at sea is confined to the Napier Chapter of the NZ Mensa club. Pete Bethune is the guy that’s mortgaged his house twice just so he could sail his suped up tri-maran jet boat around the world in record time, otherwise known as the Earthrace, a race of one incidentally. He mentioned at the completion of his race of one this week that “if you made a mistake out in the ocean, you’re dead”. Well you would be wouldn’t you; you’re in the middle of a vast expanse of ocean, that’s what its fucken there for!

The peasant fisherman they ran over and killed on the way to breaking the record ‘made a mistake out there’ alright, he chanced upon the same square metre of ocean that just happened to contain at that very same moment a high speed 78 foot wedge of Kevlar composite tri-maran. What are the odds of that happening aye? It might not have been the first thing to go through his mind that morning when he set out for a quiet fish but you can bet it was the last. Literally!

Now that he’s broken whatever obscure record he set out to break and won the race of one, Bethune now has to come home to a pile of debt and quite possibly the realisation that nobody really gives a shit about whatever record he just broke.

Maybe he should’ve just stayed indoors and watched The Hills.