Have you caught sight of Miley Cyrus’ vuvuzela yet?
I tried, because I am a happily married man and thus, curious about these things. But alas all I could find on the web were photos of her with a red star blocking whatever it was that had popped out of the one piece she was wearing.
Now had it been a fella wearing the same garment ‘that’ which popped out would have been a teste, which gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘cut lunch’ doesn’t it? But given that the fuss the picture had generated wasn’t yet of pandemic proportions I was pretty confident Miley doesn’t have a set of spuds. Yet, I had to be sure....
So I turned to The Marvellous Matty Tee’s Pornassium. My mate Matt – he of the shaven Asian haven – has so finely turned his epic stack of search engine servers that he can find even the smallest spot of skin on the web. Naturally my trivial request was hardly worth the SAN space it took to find the image in question; he already had several copies of it on file.
I must admit I was disappointed with what I saw. From all the carry on I had expected maybe a tuft of pubes, a stray labia majora or heaven forbid, the whole damn bearded clam to be on show, but no. What we do see in the photo is a bit of smooth skin, in an area that can be seen on most female sports stars and the only truly revealing thing is that clearly Miley waxes.
It should be mentioned at this point that a lot of people came down on Reuters for publishing this photo, claiming it was pornographic. I reckon those people need to get down to their local dairy and pick themselves up a stick mag because clearly they have no idea what porn looks like. At the very least they could do a ‘vulva’ search on Wikipedia like I just did...
Anyhoo, what a letdown. Especially after all the ridiculous uproar that has arisen recently regarding Miley promoting her new sexier, raunchier image now that she has turned 17 and finally started to shake free the carefully manicured, wholesome Hannah Montana character she has been associated with since ages ago.
Why is this transformation news to anyone? Did Britney Spears, Christina Auilera and Hillary Duff – all former Disney girls - not do the same thing? Or any girl that hits the age where she begins to notice that she is starting to get noticed more for her nubile breasts than she does for what comes out of her mouth?
Which doesn’t make it right and long time drinkers at ClubDes will know that sexploitation of young girls is not cool round these parts. It happens all too easily these days and is often promoted by people who should know better, like parents.
Who knows where Miley’s new look is coming from. It might be being pushed by a record label who can see more dollar signs in an album that allows them to make soft core music videos and concert dates which can best described as The Jailbait Tour.
Or it might be from Miley herself, who just maybe is sick of being pigeonholed in a role that has no future for anyone over the age of 12 and for that can we really blame her for wanting to sex it up a bit? In any case picking on Miley like we are now is a bit like closing the door after the horse is bolted.
Yet, amongst all this itty bitty titty madness, are folk who are trying to make a change for good. Australia, a land full of Miley wannabes itself, has this week introduce a new code of conduct for the fashion and beauty industries over there that will encourage healthy sized models and less digitally enhanced images.
The voluntary code of conduct will dissuade organisations from digitally enhancing images and encourage them to tell consumers when the image has been altered. Apparently.
It’s a shame it’s only voluntary really and only time will tell if it makes the slightest bit of difference to the sales of mags like Cosmo who don’t promote a realistic body image to young girls, but hey, it’s a start.
Maybe that means next time Miley pops out something like a Bruce Lee (hard nip), we won’t need to make such a fuss.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
A Tale Of Two Teams
And so it ends.
It’s a good thing that I’m a fan of football in general because otherwise my World Cup campaign, like that of the All Whites and England, would be over.
The All Whites were eliminated from the World Cup late last week, despite not losing a game. They didn’t win any either which just goes to prove that maybe, just maybe, the non politically correct have been right all along; winning is everything.
The All Whites over achieved and excelled everyone’s expectations, not just here in New Zealand but the world over, not least Slovakia, Italy and to a certain extent Paraguay. In those countries I daresay the only thing they knew about NZ four weeks ago was that they would be an easy three points.
Going on our track record at these types of things it was a fair assumption that we might have embarrassed ourselves over in South Africa, but that certainly never happened. The All Whites were in the biggest shopping window ever these past three weeks and several of them put up one hell of a CV.
I sincerely hope that they get the opportunities and financial rewards that come with having done so well.
England on the other hand, well, they were England.
Over hyped and under delivered is a phrase which sums up England’s performance up every major tournament since 1996 really. Before the start of these Finals the BBC surveyed a number of football personalities who picked Engerland to finish fourth. I only hope they haven’t given up their day jobs to become football ‘experts’.
The reception of the two teams amongst the fans of the two countries will make for an interesting contrast over the next few days. We Kiwis are lining the arrival lounges of airports up and down this small country of ours, prepared to cheer our team as each individual member staggers home.
In England the players will be ushered in through the back door by airport officials in an attempt to avoid the sight of them whipping up the frenzy of the welcoming crowd that won’t actually exist. A lynch mob might, but a supportive and grateful sporting public, no.
Of course all the hype around England at these kinds of things is usually down to two things; a fan base that is incredibly myopic and blinded by the eternal misguided optimism that comes with that and by media that milk that particular teet for all it’s worth.
The problem with the English game is that the success of the English clubs is down to no small part, to the large number of foreigners playing in them. Fans of Chelsea, Manchester United et al take great pride in supporting their clubs but fail to see that when you take out all the Spanish, French and South American players from them you’re left with, well, the English national team.
It’s all a bit like being the bassist in the world’s biggest band really.
Thankfully New Zealand football fans don’t suffer from delusions of grandeur. Not yet anyway. Whether we do after this World Cup remains to be seen, it’s a concept we’re not unfamiliar with when it comes to our rugby and cricket teams...
It’s a good thing that I’m a fan of football in general because otherwise my World Cup campaign, like that of the All Whites and England, would be over.
The All Whites were eliminated from the World Cup late last week, despite not losing a game. They didn’t win any either which just goes to prove that maybe, just maybe, the non politically correct have been right all along; winning is everything.
The All Whites over achieved and excelled everyone’s expectations, not just here in New Zealand but the world over, not least Slovakia, Italy and to a certain extent Paraguay. In those countries I daresay the only thing they knew about NZ four weeks ago was that they would be an easy three points.
Going on our track record at these types of things it was a fair assumption that we might have embarrassed ourselves over in South Africa, but that certainly never happened. The All Whites were in the biggest shopping window ever these past three weeks and several of them put up one hell of a CV.
I sincerely hope that they get the opportunities and financial rewards that come with having done so well.
England on the other hand, well, they were England.
Over hyped and under delivered is a phrase which sums up England’s performance up every major tournament since 1996 really. Before the start of these Finals the BBC surveyed a number of football personalities who picked Engerland to finish fourth. I only hope they haven’t given up their day jobs to become football ‘experts’.
The reception of the two teams amongst the fans of the two countries will make for an interesting contrast over the next few days. We Kiwis are lining the arrival lounges of airports up and down this small country of ours, prepared to cheer our team as each individual member staggers home.
In England the players will be ushered in through the back door by airport officials in an attempt to avoid the sight of them whipping up the frenzy of the welcoming crowd that won’t actually exist. A lynch mob might, but a supportive and grateful sporting public, no.
Of course all the hype around England at these kinds of things is usually down to two things; a fan base that is incredibly myopic and blinded by the eternal misguided optimism that comes with that and by media that milk that particular teet for all it’s worth.
The problem with the English game is that the success of the English clubs is down to no small part, to the large number of foreigners playing in them. Fans of Chelsea, Manchester United et al take great pride in supporting their clubs but fail to see that when you take out all the Spanish, French and South American players from them you’re left with, well, the English national team.
It’s all a bit like being the bassist in the world’s biggest band really.
Thankfully New Zealand football fans don’t suffer from delusions of grandeur. Not yet anyway. Whether we do after this World Cup remains to be seen, it’s a concept we’re not unfamiliar with when it comes to our rugby and cricket teams...
Rooney, the worlds most recognisable Downie, was cake the whole tournament.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Fruity All Blacks
All Black fans might’ve seen that something fruity is afoot with the team’s training kit this season. Then again rugby fans are big masturbators so maybe they haven’t.
Adidas have seemingly gotten around the fact that the AB’s, unlike so many of the other teams they supply, never change the look of their jerseys. Ever. It’s black mofo, and what’s more it’s written into the contract that Ze Germans can never change that particular aspect of dressing the ABs, which is a damn good thing because if there’s one thing sports clothing companies like to do it’s fuck shit like that up.
But they seem to have found a loop hole; the training jersey.
This season Adidas, in conjunction with shirt sponsor Powerade, appear to be dressing the team like giant bottles of the stuff. So now they don’t look so much like mega walls of chiselled granite as they do large containers of sugary piss water.
In the week leading up to the first test against the Irish they wore Powerade blue. In the second week, leading up to the first test against the Welsh they still wore the blue, but had a day where they wore all white, supposedly paying homage to the All Whites before their game against Italy.
Coincidentally, lemon flavoured Powerade, is white.
Now they’re wearing an aquamarine number that not surprisingly, makes them look like a bottle of Powerade. Which made me wonder just how many colours there are in the Powerade rainbow and more importantly, just how gay will this trend will go?
Be concerned rugby fans, because if I’m on to something then it’s about to go as gay as the volleyball scene in Top Gun:
Rene 'Dude with a chicks name' Ranger clad in Powerade aqua
Adidas have seemingly gotten around the fact that the AB’s, unlike so many of the other teams they supply, never change the look of their jerseys. Ever. It’s black mofo, and what’s more it’s written into the contract that Ze Germans can never change that particular aspect of dressing the ABs, which is a damn good thing because if there’s one thing sports clothing companies like to do it’s fuck shit like that up.
But they seem to have found a loop hole; the training jersey.
This season Adidas, in conjunction with shirt sponsor Powerade, appear to be dressing the team like giant bottles of the stuff. So now they don’t look so much like mega walls of chiselled granite as they do large containers of sugary piss water.
In the week leading up to the first test against the Irish they wore Powerade blue. In the second week, leading up to the first test against the Welsh they still wore the blue, but had a day where they wore all white, supposedly paying homage to the All Whites before their game against Italy.
Coincidentally, lemon flavoured Powerade, is white.
Now they’re wearing an aquamarine number that not surprisingly, makes them look like a bottle of Powerade. Which made me wonder just how many colours there are in the Powerade rainbow and more importantly, just how gay will this trend will go?
Be concerned rugby fans, because if I’m on to something then it’s about to go as gay as the volleyball scene in Top Gun:
Rene 'Dude with a chicks name' Ranger clad in Powerade aqua
Powerade, although fruity by nature, contains no fruit whatsoever.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
China vs The Geek
Now I might have only been the fifth smartest non Asian at my school but if there’s one thing I know its how to rark somebody up and waving a flag at them isn’t it. Unless it’s a swastika - that usually gets a reaction every time.
Case in point, Green Party co-leader and complete poindexter Russell Norman, who tried to take on the Chinese delegation at Parliament the other day armed with his curly red hair, ladies disposition and Tibetan flag.
It was a mismatch of epic proportions. The Chinese may come from a long way overseas and in some cases, only come up to our knees, but beating down flag waving skinny guys is their shit.
Norman used his parliamentary position and privilege to get up close and personal with the ping pong boys but that particular victory was short lived. As soon as he was within reach he, in his own pathetic words, "had his flag ripped out of his hands and somebody smacked him in his elbow".
He was lucky to walk away; clearly it was a death match.
What a peen-arse and another outstanding example of New Zealand politicians being completely useless when amongst the grown ups of world politics. It reminded me a little of a teenage girl who catches a glimpse of their idol after having waited outside their hotel all morning.
I used to wait outside a girls house back in the day too but I never got so much as a glimpse of her. Admittedly it might have had something to do with the note I had left her that one time which read “Dear Lisa, I was in your room whilst you were out and left you something in the toilet”, but I doubt it. Rude bitch.
The whole Tibet thing gets a bit tired anyway. Sure as far as human rights violations go, it’s grim. But it’s a sexy cause to get behind, not that you could ever use the ‘sexy’ in any sentence containing ‘Russell Norman’. How many celebs claim to be into freeing Tibet? And how many of the same do-gooders have a houseful of tat made in China? Not Tibet.
China has a long list of shit that it should be held accountable for. Like the small matter of it being the country that executes more people each year than the rest of the world combined does. Or the one child policy it maintains, or the accusations of organ harvesting and the general crack down on any belief that isn’t sanctioned by The State.
Conveniently none of these things come as a flag.
Some of which, admittedly, probably helps keep the numbers down over there so maybe we shouldn’t make a fuss. But if you do don’t be all limp wristed about it like Russell Norman, there are a number of things you can do to protest against China.
None of which I can think of right now. I’ve just remembered how good Lisa looked in her school uniform and suddenly have the urge to play with myself...
Case in point, Green Party co-leader and complete poindexter Russell Norman, who tried to take on the Chinese delegation at Parliament the other day armed with his curly red hair, ladies disposition and Tibetan flag.
It was a mismatch of epic proportions. The Chinese may come from a long way overseas and in some cases, only come up to our knees, but beating down flag waving skinny guys is their shit.
Norman used his parliamentary position and privilege to get up close and personal with the ping pong boys but that particular victory was short lived. As soon as he was within reach he, in his own pathetic words, "had his flag ripped out of his hands and somebody smacked him in his elbow".
He was lucky to walk away; clearly it was a death match.
What a peen-arse and another outstanding example of New Zealand politicians being completely useless when amongst the grown ups of world politics. It reminded me a little of a teenage girl who catches a glimpse of their idol after having waited outside their hotel all morning.
I used to wait outside a girls house back in the day too but I never got so much as a glimpse of her. Admittedly it might have had something to do with the note I had left her that one time which read “Dear Lisa, I was in your room whilst you were out and left you something in the toilet”, but I doubt it. Rude bitch.
The whole Tibet thing gets a bit tired anyway. Sure as far as human rights violations go, it’s grim. But it’s a sexy cause to get behind, not that you could ever use the ‘sexy’ in any sentence containing ‘Russell Norman’. How many celebs claim to be into freeing Tibet? And how many of the same do-gooders have a houseful of tat made in China? Not Tibet.
China has a long list of shit that it should be held accountable for. Like the small matter of it being the country that executes more people each year than the rest of the world combined does. Or the one child policy it maintains, or the accusations of organ harvesting and the general crack down on any belief that isn’t sanctioned by The State.
Conveniently none of these things come as a flag.
Some of which, admittedly, probably helps keep the numbers down over there so maybe we shouldn’t make a fuss. But if you do don’t be all limp wristed about it like Russell Norman, there are a number of things you can do to protest against China.
None of which I can think of right now. I’ve just remembered how good Lisa looked in her school uniform and suddenly have the urge to play with myself...
Friday, June 18, 2010
Whether You Smoke 'Em Or Poke 'Em...
Heard the one about Sammy Davis Jnr greeting Dean Martin at the pearly gates after his death?
“Well” says Sammy, “That’s fags for you Deano; whether you smoke ‘em or you poke ‘em, they’ll always kill you in the end”. You might need to Google it – or JFGI as my mate KB would say – to fully see the humour in it.
But I was reminded of it just the other night whilst waiting in the ‘express’ isle at the local chicken coop of a supermarket. What should have been a five minute milk and cat food expedition turned into a near death experience; I waited so long to get through I nearly lost the will to live.
The holdup was some silly bitch buying cigarettes, which are so unpopular these days even supermarkets can’t be arsed selling them. And hey, if Countdown can’t be bothered selling it then you know it must be shit. Lounge suites, yes. Durries, no.
So when you ask for smokes now at a supermarket there is a very high chance that the Chinese / Japanese / Indian girl at the checkout a) won’t know what they are, b) have any under her counter if she does and c) spend the next ten minutes rummaging through the various checkouts trying to find some.
Eventually, when she does get back to your line of dead men walking, it will be the wrong size packet, which is important because if there’s one thing that a smoker needs its more nicotine.
Funnily enough the cat food I was holding was not the one I really wanted either – the healthy weight formula – because that too was the wrong size. It only comes in big bags does the diet stuff, so you have to buy a shitload whether you like it or not. Defeats the point doesn’t it?
On one hand the wait is great, for making the buyer feel even more ostricicsed for still buying the silly things, but stink for every sad bugger waiting in the queue behind them. Like me. Why is it that supermarkets never make the promise that if you’re not served in ten minutes your purchase is free...?
Speaking of annoying, my son made me sit through the latest Justin Bebo video today. The one where he sings about having an Eenie Meenie penis or something.
He’s a smart cookie is the boy with a toilet swirly for a haircut; in this video he’s teamed up with the token black soul guy and he’s doing his bit for the self esteem of teen girls everywhere by having some of the biggest breasted adolescent girls I’ve ever seen dancing around him.
Can someone do us all a favour and get the kid hooked on smokes real quick please? Sammy Davis Jnr is waiting to greet him...
Deano and Sammy - cooler than The Beibo will ever be.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
No One Celebrates a Draw Quite Like We Do..
Not even one week into the World Cup and suddenly everybody is a football fan.
Or more specifically an All Whites fan, so much so that Nike have had to get the sweatshops working 23, not the usual 22, hours a day just so they can churn out more jerseys for a gagging NZ public. It seems the total sum of 28 years worth of jersey sales – roughly a dozen - was not enough to keep the racks stocked this time round and for that you can hardly blame Nike. Or maybe you can.
We – see what I did just there – drew with Slovakia to make a four way tie in a group that is suddenly looking a lot more interesting than it did a week ago. Winston Reid, the guy who was for most of his life Danish through and through until he realised he wasn’t good enough to make their senior team and decided to be a Kiwi instead a la Rory Fallon, scored a last gasp equaliser that sent the country into delirium.
You can't blame him wanting to stay Danish, they do wonderful things with pastry do the Danes. As do the Dutch. Not so the Swiss who are great with watches, pocket knifes and Toblerone, nor Ze Germans who just like to do kinky things with their sausage....
And then things started to get a bit funky. Some sleep starved, caffeine pumped journo decided that it could quite possibly be NZ’s bestest sporting achievement ever. Meanwhile over in Australia, where the football fraternity there are still coming to grips with their team playing like, well, what we all expected NZ to play like (against Ze Germans), declared the victory an ‘Australasian’ one.
To top it all off – and I wish he would - Martin Devlin, quite possibly the most annoying fuck ever, continues to grind out “C’mon you All Whites” at the end of every promo he does in a manner that makes you wonder if he’s passing a vuvuzela. Through his urethra.
I personally didn’t stay up and watch the game, something that seemed to disappoint a colleague of mine who appeared to be quite distraught when she learnt that I hadn’t and promptly gave me the silent treatment for an hour or two. Plenty did though, last night’s match was watched by just about as many people who watch the TV1 news each night, which is as good as it gets for viewership in this country. Great stuff.
See, I’ve watched enough World Cups to know that one has to pace oneself when it comes to late night matches; get into the schedule too early, when teams are happy to play out a draw, and you’ll be physically and emotionally shot. It’s best to save that shit till the knockout stages when teams will still play out draws, albeit high scoring ones.
Which brings me to my point. Football, particularly World Cups, have always been this emotionally charged. Maybe not to the fair-weather fans who now want to buy the jersey to prove that they’re New Zealanders, but we football fans have been soiling settees the world over every four years for quite some time with all the excitement.
Now I love that the success, or perceived success, of this All White side has gotten people into the game that otherwise wouldn’t give a flying fuck. I really do. All of my boys at training are talking about and wanting to be All Whites which augers well for the future, so for that I am right chuffed.
But let’s slap ourselves out of it shall we? It was a draw and with two group games to play we’re still in the same boat we were before the thing started and with the two toughest teams still to play it ain’t going to get any easier.
Yep, no one celebrates a draw quite like NZ football fans do, which is a bit tragic really.
Or more specifically an All Whites fan, so much so that Nike have had to get the sweatshops working 23, not the usual 22, hours a day just so they can churn out more jerseys for a gagging NZ public. It seems the total sum of 28 years worth of jersey sales – roughly a dozen - was not enough to keep the racks stocked this time round and for that you can hardly blame Nike. Or maybe you can.
We – see what I did just there – drew with Slovakia to make a four way tie in a group that is suddenly looking a lot more interesting than it did a week ago. Winston Reid, the guy who was for most of his life Danish through and through until he realised he wasn’t good enough to make their senior team and decided to be a Kiwi instead a la Rory Fallon, scored a last gasp equaliser that sent the country into delirium.
You can't blame him wanting to stay Danish, they do wonderful things with pastry do the Danes. As do the Dutch. Not so the Swiss who are great with watches, pocket knifes and Toblerone, nor Ze Germans who just like to do kinky things with their sausage....
And then things started to get a bit funky. Some sleep starved, caffeine pumped journo decided that it could quite possibly be NZ’s bestest sporting achievement ever. Meanwhile over in Australia, where the football fraternity there are still coming to grips with their team playing like, well, what we all expected NZ to play like (against Ze Germans), declared the victory an ‘Australasian’ one.
To top it all off – and I wish he would - Martin Devlin, quite possibly the most annoying fuck ever, continues to grind out “C’mon you All Whites” at the end of every promo he does in a manner that makes you wonder if he’s passing a vuvuzela. Through his urethra.
I personally didn’t stay up and watch the game, something that seemed to disappoint a colleague of mine who appeared to be quite distraught when she learnt that I hadn’t and promptly gave me the silent treatment for an hour or two. Plenty did though, last night’s match was watched by just about as many people who watch the TV1 news each night, which is as good as it gets for viewership in this country. Great stuff.
See, I’ve watched enough World Cups to know that one has to pace oneself when it comes to late night matches; get into the schedule too early, when teams are happy to play out a draw, and you’ll be physically and emotionally shot. It’s best to save that shit till the knockout stages when teams will still play out draws, albeit high scoring ones.
Which brings me to my point. Football, particularly World Cups, have always been this emotionally charged. Maybe not to the fair-weather fans who now want to buy the jersey to prove that they’re New Zealanders, but we football fans have been soiling settees the world over every four years for quite some time with all the excitement.
Now I love that the success, or perceived success, of this All White side has gotten people into the game that otherwise wouldn’t give a flying fuck. I really do. All of my boys at training are talking about and wanting to be All Whites which augers well for the future, so for that I am right chuffed.
But let’s slap ourselves out of it shall we? It was a draw and with two group games to play we’re still in the same boat we were before the thing started and with the two toughest teams still to play it ain’t going to get any easier.
Yep, no one celebrates a draw quite like NZ football fans do, which is a bit tragic really.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The New Black (Man).
Let’s lighten the mood a little and talk about terrorism.
Terrorism is the new ‘black man’ in terms of being the best panic making phrase, particularly in the States, but even over here in little ol’ New Zealand, the country that no bugger would want to blow up.
That’s not to say we don’t have things worth blowing up. Wainui for example, would be a good start. Maybe even Dave Dobbyn because you know and I know for every ‘anthem’ he’s written there are two or three annoying as fuck numbers he’s also penned...
During the mid to late eighties there was the populist notion that most of the crime being committed in the States was being done so by ‘a black man’. Every time someone reported the suspect for a misdemeanour matched that particular description the hysteria got whipped just a little bit more.
Terrorism has reached that same absurd level and like just about everything, we are in a rush to prove we’re not immune to the same perceived invisible risk as everyone else. Why just last month a ‘mysterious package’ was discovered on someone’s desk at The Beehive.
It had written on it that it was a bomb, but apparently that wasn’t clear enough. The package remained a mystery until it was found to contain flies, of the cluster variety, which, admittedly, are extremely concerning if you’re rotting caribou, but not so much if you’re the PM. Or so I would have thought.
Why even today as I write this a mysterious device was found in a suspicious vehicle, which really sets two out of three alarm bells ringing doesn’t it? Imagine if that same vehicle was being driven by a black man then the shit really would have hit the fan. Fuck me.
Up and down the country old ladies are peering out their windows, phone in hand, finger poised over the 1 key - which they've already pushed twice - just waiting for the next black man they see driving a suspicous vehicle to go past....
Where has all this paranoia about bombs and terrorism come from?! When was the last time any bugger blew up anything of note in this country and at what point did we stop treating cars and briefcases and wrapped up boxes with ‘bomb’ written on them as anything but the obvious?
It’s at times like these I apply the ‘What would Grandad have done in the same situation?’ rule of logic because it seldom fails me.
Had he seen a car acting suspiciously – or rather the shifty bugger driving it – he would have gone over, tapped on the driver’s window and told him to piss off. He would have kept the briefcase and tossed it in the shed never to be of use, ever. And after laughing at the absurdity of the package having ‘bomb’ written on it, would stick his pocket knife in it to see if it really was an explosive device.
But that would be too easy wouldn’t it? Sure, bombs going off in Kabal and other such exotic destinations are grim and no laughing matter, but that doesn’t mean we have to start running around like a bunch of dicks every time someone forgets their briefcase whilst on lunch, or parks their rust bucket in an upmarket area.
And if someone is really serious about blowing something the fuck up are they going to write ‘bomb’ on the bloody thing? No. No they are not.
Terrorism; It’s the new black man.
Terrorism is the new ‘black man’ in terms of being the best panic making phrase, particularly in the States, but even over here in little ol’ New Zealand, the country that no bugger would want to blow up.
That’s not to say we don’t have things worth blowing up. Wainui for example, would be a good start. Maybe even Dave Dobbyn because you know and I know for every ‘anthem’ he’s written there are two or three annoying as fuck numbers he’s also penned...
During the mid to late eighties there was the populist notion that most of the crime being committed in the States was being done so by ‘a black man’. Every time someone reported the suspect for a misdemeanour matched that particular description the hysteria got whipped just a little bit more.
Terrorism has reached that same absurd level and like just about everything, we are in a rush to prove we’re not immune to the same perceived invisible risk as everyone else. Why just last month a ‘mysterious package’ was discovered on someone’s desk at The Beehive.
It had written on it that it was a bomb, but apparently that wasn’t clear enough. The package remained a mystery until it was found to contain flies, of the cluster variety, which, admittedly, are extremely concerning if you’re rotting caribou, but not so much if you’re the PM. Or so I would have thought.
Why even today as I write this a mysterious device was found in a suspicious vehicle, which really sets two out of three alarm bells ringing doesn’t it? Imagine if that same vehicle was being driven by a black man then the shit really would have hit the fan. Fuck me.
Up and down the country old ladies are peering out their windows, phone in hand, finger poised over the 1 key - which they've already pushed twice - just waiting for the next black man they see driving a suspicous vehicle to go past....
Where has all this paranoia about bombs and terrorism come from?! When was the last time any bugger blew up anything of note in this country and at what point did we stop treating cars and briefcases and wrapped up boxes with ‘bomb’ written on them as anything but the obvious?
It’s at times like these I apply the ‘What would Grandad have done in the same situation?’ rule of logic because it seldom fails me.
Had he seen a car acting suspiciously – or rather the shifty bugger driving it – he would have gone over, tapped on the driver’s window and told him to piss off. He would have kept the briefcase and tossed it in the shed never to be of use, ever. And after laughing at the absurdity of the package having ‘bomb’ written on it, would stick his pocket knife in it to see if it really was an explosive device.
But that would be too easy wouldn’t it? Sure, bombs going off in Kabal and other such exotic destinations are grim and no laughing matter, but that doesn’t mean we have to start running around like a bunch of dicks every time someone forgets their briefcase whilst on lunch, or parks their rust bucket in an upmarket area.
And if someone is really serious about blowing something the fuck up are they going to write ‘bomb’ on the bloody thing? No. No they are not.
Terrorism; It’s the new black man.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Football Fever Cometh
This month heralds the arrival of every football fans wet dream; The World Cup Finals.
Now if there’s one thing I know its masturbation, but I also know a lot about football and thus I feel it prudent that I say a few words about the next four weeks which will mean more late nights than when Sky 1 used to play soft core porn after 11pm…
There is of course an added incentive for we Kiwis to be watching this time round because the All Whites are playing and aren’t some of us excited about it?! TVNZ for instance has started referring to the team as ‘our’ All Whites thus alienating the large number of it’s viewers who are not New Zealanders but let’s not let something like nepotism get in the way of impartial reporting aye?
Personally I don’t think the All Whites will embarrass themselves like they did at the Confed Cup two years ago when the Spaniards gave us a right good, pant’s down, ruler across the bare buttocks spanking. But then neither do I think we’ll be the giant killers some silly buggers seem to be proclaiming NZ to be. Hey I’m all for being optimistic but let’s be realistic first shall we?
So my money, or at least the sweepstake money at work, is on Spain. I like the look of the Dutch – who, least we forget, do wonderful things with pastry – and I do want Lionel Messi to dominate like he does at club level because that kind of shit just gets me moist, but if you threatened me with a broomstick dipped in Deep Heat I’d still pick Spain.
And that’s hardly a threat is it? More like a tease really.
Incidentally I’m running not one, but two sweepstakes this time round. Now close friends and those I’ve had awkward, but pleasurable drunken moments with will recall that my track record of such things is sketchy at best. The memories of the sham that was Sully and my attempt to run a sweepstake for France ’98 still linger on and all ‘lost entries’ jokes aside On Yer Bike Stu was watching me like a hawk the whole time.
I’ve got one on the go for my boys too, although there’s no cash involved, this is strictly a candy affair. The winner gets a dozen chocolate bars which as good as it gets when you’re eleven years old. I did contemplate cash, or cigarettes, but I had my doubts if the parents would really go for it.
But aside from all the punditry my heart beats for only one team. I may be NZ born and bred but for as long as I care to remember I’ve supported an English club and the English team. Every emotional football related memory I have ever had is tied, inexplicably to England and like any good relationships it’s a few good shags here and there but mostly disappointment.
Still, there’s no other team I’d love to see than Engerland to win it. More so than the All Whites and despite all the hype that sounds the English team at this point in the lead up to a major tournament, all of which comes out of England it should be noted, I know that deep down, they won’t.
Like I said, I’m optimistic but realistic.
Now if there’s one thing I know its masturbation, but I also know a lot about football and thus I feel it prudent that I say a few words about the next four weeks which will mean more late nights than when Sky 1 used to play soft core porn after 11pm…
There is of course an added incentive for we Kiwis to be watching this time round because the All Whites are playing and aren’t some of us excited about it?! TVNZ for instance has started referring to the team as ‘our’ All Whites thus alienating the large number of it’s viewers who are not New Zealanders but let’s not let something like nepotism get in the way of impartial reporting aye?
Personally I don’t think the All Whites will embarrass themselves like they did at the Confed Cup two years ago when the Spaniards gave us a right good, pant’s down, ruler across the bare buttocks spanking. But then neither do I think we’ll be the giant killers some silly buggers seem to be proclaiming NZ to be. Hey I’m all for being optimistic but let’s be realistic first shall we?
So my money, or at least the sweepstake money at work, is on Spain. I like the look of the Dutch – who, least we forget, do wonderful things with pastry – and I do want Lionel Messi to dominate like he does at club level because that kind of shit just gets me moist, but if you threatened me with a broomstick dipped in Deep Heat I’d still pick Spain.
And that’s hardly a threat is it? More like a tease really.
Incidentally I’m running not one, but two sweepstakes this time round. Now close friends and those I’ve had awkward, but pleasurable drunken moments with will recall that my track record of such things is sketchy at best. The memories of the sham that was Sully and my attempt to run a sweepstake for France ’98 still linger on and all ‘lost entries’ jokes aside On Yer Bike Stu was watching me like a hawk the whole time.
I’ve got one on the go for my boys too, although there’s no cash involved, this is strictly a candy affair. The winner gets a dozen chocolate bars which as good as it gets when you’re eleven years old. I did contemplate cash, or cigarettes, but I had my doubts if the parents would really go for it.
But aside from all the punditry my heart beats for only one team. I may be NZ born and bred but for as long as I care to remember I’ve supported an English club and the English team. Every emotional football related memory I have ever had is tied, inexplicably to England and like any good relationships it’s a few good shags here and there but mostly disappointment.
Still, there’s no other team I’d love to see than Engerland to win it. More so than the All Whites and despite all the hype that sounds the English team at this point in the lead up to a major tournament, all of which comes out of England it should be noted, I know that deep down, they won’t.
Like I said, I’m optimistic but realistic.
Can the European Champs be World Champs?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I'm Not Always Right...
Who was it that said that silly bitch from Twilight needed a slap?
Oh that’s right, me. And before you go waving your white ribbons all up in my face, just read this and I bet you, like I, will struggle to restrain yourself from taking Mr Jug Cord to your monitor.
But seriously, all beaten wife jokes aside I only have to tell my bitch the once.
The weather is still doing what it does at this time of the year, have you noticed? News pieces like this are everywhere which just reinforce my view that we all get a little too carried away with ol’ predictable winter.
To those news reporters who seem to crack a fat whenever they sense a little hail in the air, I ask them this; Is it a once in a lifetime, act of God of biblical proportions? No. Fuck off then.
And just to prove that my being right about shit usually comes in threes is this story about Pete Buffoon, who has been all but disowned by the same Greenies he was eating lentils with not so long ago.
That’s the things about Greenies, they’re cowards deep down, that’s why they try and save things that can’t tell us otherwise and do their activist thing in the dark when no bugger can see them. Ninjas they ain't.
Bit like me really; I'm not always right but I'm never wrong. Although there was that one time with the dude on the bike who looked like a chick from behind. Damn his shaven legs, tight lycra and bouncing pony tail...
Oh that’s right, me. And before you go waving your white ribbons all up in my face, just read this and I bet you, like I, will struggle to restrain yourself from taking Mr Jug Cord to your monitor.
But seriously, all beaten wife jokes aside I only have to tell my bitch the once.
The weather is still doing what it does at this time of the year, have you noticed? News pieces like this are everywhere which just reinforce my view that we all get a little too carried away with ol’ predictable winter.
To those news reporters who seem to crack a fat whenever they sense a little hail in the air, I ask them this; Is it a once in a lifetime, act of God of biblical proportions? No. Fuck off then.
And just to prove that my being right about shit usually comes in threes is this story about Pete Buffoon, who has been all but disowned by the same Greenies he was eating lentils with not so long ago.
That’s the things about Greenies, they’re cowards deep down, that’s why they try and save things that can’t tell us otherwise and do their activist thing in the dark when no bugger can see them. Ninjas they ain't.
Bit like me really; I'm not always right but I'm never wrong. Although there was that one time with the dude on the bike who looked like a chick from behind. Damn his shaven legs, tight lycra and bouncing pony tail...
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Lost - An Ending
It was a highly emotional time this past weekend for me and my old Nam bum chum, Lancey.
Lost, the TV series that ran for six seasons and lost many along the way with its multitude of mysteries came to an end and the two of us sobbed like babies through most of it. We’re no strangers to crying through the night, him and me, but unlike those long nights spent in the Cambodian jungle we weren’t able to hold one another tightly till the sun came up this time round.
I loved Lost and for me the finale was a fitting conclusion to what has been one hell of a ride. I haven’t felt this way since I watched Matrix Revolutions for about the fifth time and finally understood it all. It’s a strange feeling this; finally ‘getting it’ but feeling a sense of loss at the same time because it’s only now that you realise the getting there was the best part.
I don’t know about you lot but I like to stimulated when confronted with arty things. I like to read books that you can’t put down, listen to music that stirs the senses and I like movies and TV shows that make you think about them long after you’ve finished watching.
These traditionally are not ‘paint by numbers’ productions. Sure, I like to put the brain on auto pilot occasionally and flop out with my cock out, who doesn’t? But if I had the choice – and it’s TV so I always do – I’d pick shows like Lost over anything that starts and ends predictably in an hour.
This isn’t the case for everyone and I get that, I really do. Lost was not a linear show. Right from the first episode that much was apparent and it wasn’t long before what we all thought was a story about a plane crash started to become so much more.
It was at this point that the Desperate Housewife and Greys Anatomy crowd started to turn off and again, that would be fine, if that was the end of it. But it isn’t. These fuckers were back in droves this week, on any site that would let them post shit, bleating about how stupid Lost was and how its mother dressed it funny.
I’ve decided that people who watched Lost can be categorised into three groups:
1. Those that watched it from beginning to end, got it, enjoyed the journey and were happy with the final episode and the thought provoking questions it left you with
2. Those that watched it from beginning to end, begrudgingly, because they couldn’t really figure it out and were pissed off with the final episode because it wasn’t the A to Z of answers that they had hoped it would be
3. Those that switched off in the first few seasons because they thought they had it figured out and watched the final episode only to find that they were way off all along. Now they’re fucked off because they’re not quite as cool as they thought they were.
For this last group ignorance is bliss because they will never bother to watch the series in full to appreciate it. They’ll continue on with the completely defunct ‘they were all dead the whole time’ theory because it’s far easier to do so and yet, rather ironically, they claim that it’s the Lost writers who lost the plot? I don’t think so braniac.
These are the same people that loved the first Matrix movie because of bullet time. They were disappointed when Reloaded and Revolutions expanded on the underlining story of love, choice and selfless sacrifice because they wanted five more hours of bullet time. Like Lost, they just didn’t get it. Why wasn’t there more bullet time, dammit?!
Lost was not a series about a plane crash. It was about relationships and the importance they play in all our lives and these weren’t candy coated, dreamy back ground music relationships; these were flawed, deceitful, dysfunction relationships. The characters were so well written that we found ourselves in them and the journey of redemption they all took became more than just a watching experience, it became an emotionally entwined one.
Along the way there were mysteries, red herrings and strange happenings that weren’t ever fully explained but you know what? Thats fucken life. You can know someone for thirty years and not know everything about them. Meeting someone and trusting them is a journey, one that changes every time we take it. If we all switched off after just the second series what lonely souls we would be. Sometimes it’s better to teach through the question, than it is by an answer.
And yes, there was a polar bear, but that was explained in Series 3. Maybe you should’ve kept watching, you peenarse.
"Live together and you won't die alone"
Lost, the TV series that ran for six seasons and lost many along the way with its multitude of mysteries came to an end and the two of us sobbed like babies through most of it. We’re no strangers to crying through the night, him and me, but unlike those long nights spent in the Cambodian jungle we weren’t able to hold one another tightly till the sun came up this time round.
I loved Lost and for me the finale was a fitting conclusion to what has been one hell of a ride. I haven’t felt this way since I watched Matrix Revolutions for about the fifth time and finally understood it all. It’s a strange feeling this; finally ‘getting it’ but feeling a sense of loss at the same time because it’s only now that you realise the getting there was the best part.
I don’t know about you lot but I like to stimulated when confronted with arty things. I like to read books that you can’t put down, listen to music that stirs the senses and I like movies and TV shows that make you think about them long after you’ve finished watching.
These traditionally are not ‘paint by numbers’ productions. Sure, I like to put the brain on auto pilot occasionally and flop out with my cock out, who doesn’t? But if I had the choice – and it’s TV so I always do – I’d pick shows like Lost over anything that starts and ends predictably in an hour.
This isn’t the case for everyone and I get that, I really do. Lost was not a linear show. Right from the first episode that much was apparent and it wasn’t long before what we all thought was a story about a plane crash started to become so much more.
It was at this point that the Desperate Housewife and Greys Anatomy crowd started to turn off and again, that would be fine, if that was the end of it. But it isn’t. These fuckers were back in droves this week, on any site that would let them post shit, bleating about how stupid Lost was and how its mother dressed it funny.
I’ve decided that people who watched Lost can be categorised into three groups:
1. Those that watched it from beginning to end, got it, enjoyed the journey and were happy with the final episode and the thought provoking questions it left you with
2. Those that watched it from beginning to end, begrudgingly, because they couldn’t really figure it out and were pissed off with the final episode because it wasn’t the A to Z of answers that they had hoped it would be
3. Those that switched off in the first few seasons because they thought they had it figured out and watched the final episode only to find that they were way off all along. Now they’re fucked off because they’re not quite as cool as they thought they were.
For this last group ignorance is bliss because they will never bother to watch the series in full to appreciate it. They’ll continue on with the completely defunct ‘they were all dead the whole time’ theory because it’s far easier to do so and yet, rather ironically, they claim that it’s the Lost writers who lost the plot? I don’t think so braniac.
These are the same people that loved the first Matrix movie because of bullet time. They were disappointed when Reloaded and Revolutions expanded on the underlining story of love, choice and selfless sacrifice because they wanted five more hours of bullet time. Like Lost, they just didn’t get it. Why wasn’t there more bullet time, dammit?!
Lost was not a series about a plane crash. It was about relationships and the importance they play in all our lives and these weren’t candy coated, dreamy back ground music relationships; these were flawed, deceitful, dysfunction relationships. The characters were so well written that we found ourselves in them and the journey of redemption they all took became more than just a watching experience, it became an emotionally entwined one.
Along the way there were mysteries, red herrings and strange happenings that weren’t ever fully explained but you know what? Thats fucken life. You can know someone for thirty years and not know everything about them. Meeting someone and trusting them is a journey, one that changes every time we take it. If we all switched off after just the second series what lonely souls we would be. Sometimes it’s better to teach through the question, than it is by an answer.
And yes, there was a polar bear, but that was explained in Series 3. Maybe you should’ve kept watching, you peenarse.
"Live together and you won't die alone"
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