Scratching my own funny bone for shits and giggles. Lampooning books, music and being a single woman over 40. Recording observations with an almost Seinfeldian obsession for the minutiae of life. Things can get sweary around here. You understand.

Monday, September 19, 2016

PRUNES AND JUNKET

FROM 2009: I was taking a spin down Newmarket Road in the suburb of Windsor on the weekend when I clocked all the gorgeous vintage cars parked outside Harry’s Diner. This restaurant is reminiscent of ‘Arnold’s’ from ‘Happy Days’ and as to be expected, is full retroheads admiring each other’s Chevrolets and Cadillacs. My friend tells me the place does a roaring trade. As far as themed restaurants go, Australia tends toward American concepts like the Lone Star Steakhouse and Hard Rock Café. Well I’d like to put forth a few ideas of my own. The Orifice Kitchen: Self-serve at its finest. Patrons select a chipped and filthy ‘decaf is the anti-Christ’ mug from the overflowing sink and ferret through cupboards and drawers to find a teabag and a fork. All tea comes with complimentary sugar laced with instant coffee granules and trim milk well past its use-by date. Today’s specials are complimentary birthday cheesecake and something growing spores in a Tupperware container labeled ‘this is mine-piss off’. The walls are covered with graffitied memos from the boss’ PA asking ‘would you leave your own kitchen looking like this?’ blu-tacked above the water purifier. Patrons that take advantage of BYO should not complain when their Snickers bar and six pack of Red Oak disappears. This restaurant is, after all, a shining beacon of modern communal living. Make sure you leave your crusty crockery and cutlery for someone else to clean up in The Orifice Kitchen. The Stadium Soirée: An establishment for the whole family. The car park is always full and conveniently located ten kilometres in the other direction and the toilets, merely a mirage in the desert. All the essential food groups are represented: tepid chips, microwaved pies scalding hot on the outside and frozen in the middle and watered down beer (that inevitably runs out so don’t forget to BYO). Anticipate your hunger by three hours and stand in a cue while you crane your neck to view the impossibly placed monitors. Hear the roar of the crowd die down as you make your way back to your seat only to find foreigners with hygiene problems have taken up residence. Blanche at the DNA and tomato sauce left by way of evidence. Here’s your chance to dine alfresco, no matter what the weather, and rub shoulders with potty-mouthed yobbos who swear and threaten murder in front of their children. Don’t forget to blue with our security guards before you leave at The Stadium Soirée. The Blue Rinse Café: Embroidered table cloths and napkins smelling of mothballs, lazy Susans and crocheted teapot cosies set the scene at The Blue Rinse Café. So authentic, it’s just like being at your Gran’s. You really haven’t experienced bland until you’ve eaten at The Blue Rinse Café. Our menu offers Toad in a Hole, Tuna Mornay, Corned Beef with White Sauce and None Of That Foreign Muck. Make a selection from our sweets trolley comprising of Pink Junket, Prunes and Custard, Baked Sago with Jelly and Stewed Rhubarb, or just sit in front of the Days of Our Lives with a tray and let our surly staff cater to your every whinge. Velvet slippers and gaping brunch coats are considered more than acceptable attire here at The Blue Rinse Café. The Blue Collar Brassiere: Sit on a fold out stool or balance on the scaffolding. It’s your choice at The Blue Collar Brassiere. Your Kentucky Fried Chicken, mashed potato and gravy and Pepsi will be personally delivered by an idiot apprentice who couldn’t even bang in a nail straight. Openly ogle and wolf whistle our waitresses and don’t forget to trample mud all over the cream carpet as you leave. Cattle and Pig dogs are welcome here at The Blue Collar Brassiere. Patrons please note: we are closed when it’s too wet, too hot, too cold, either side of a long weekend or when the Holden Ute is playing up.

Friday, August 12, 2016

THE MUSICAL BANSHEE

Edvard Munch The ScreamIf there is one thing of which I am certain, a set of tubular bells does not belong within cooey of any studio where a song is being produced unless it’s the theme to a movie about demonic possession. They’re the banshee of musical instruments. No percussion device portends death more than a set of tubular bells; or so I thought until today. Evil has a new face my friends. Available for purchase here are lullaby renditions of Metallica, Nirvana, The Cure, Nine Inch Nails and the like. Seriously. Some of the most depressing rock songs ever have been arranged for music box chimes to put children to sleep. Now chemistry students will tell you that acid and alkali neutralise each other. Well I’ve got news for them. These arrangements are so diabolically depressing that I can guarantee anyone that plays them to their newborns will be seeking compensation from the damage inflicted in about 20 years time. My sad parental predictions are:

Metallica: As a baby the infant Timmy develops a cry so strained you’d think he was dead-lifting a Clydesdale. By two years of age Timmy has painted his very first portrait, a triumph, disturbingly similar to Edvard Munch’s The Scream, but rendered in poo.

The Cure: As a angst-ridden teenager, Timmy decides it’s a really good idea to dress like Nosferatu and sneak into local farms to suck the blood out of cattle. Shortly after he progress onto sleeping in coffins surrounded by empty absinthe bottles and the drained corpses of pale young virgins. Poor Timmy ends up in prison after bludgeoning his girlfriend to death with a bloody big Anne Rice novel.

Nine Inch Nails: After ten years in the slammer, the hardened Timmy embarks on a music producing career and decides that Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson singing a duet of ‘Danny Boy’ whilst jamming syringes into each other’s eyes is gonna be the next big thing. Bless.

Nirvana: Lithium is the drug de jour and Catatonia the 35th state.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

MAGAZINE MANTRAS

How I looked before the sledgehammer incident.
I’ve never been into gossip mags but when I walk into a newsagency, occasionally I am drawn to the women’s section. I quickly scan the titles looking for something new and interesting to materialise but this task is usually futile with lashings of Beckett. I’ve been reluctant to part with the green stuff for Australian magazine literature for a number of years now but I did once have a fashion magazine obsession and I don’t intend going there again. I could cry when I think of all the money I wasted before I realized I was reading the same article over and over again. There’s only so many times you can do ‘Too Fast. Too Droopy. How to Handle His Erection’ before you realize that you got the same advice from a Better Homes and Gardens article on transforming boggy wet spots in your garden. So in an effort to redress my former fiscal errantry, I’ve decided to have a virtual garage sale on eBay. In three weeks I have made a neat $500 from selling celebrity autographs and posters, CDs and DVDs, vinyl records, electronics and computer parts, sheet music, jewellery and perfume. It’s been fabulous to offload some of this stuff and make some room in my tiny living quarters and I even managed to get rid of that magazine collection. My mum and sister reckoned they wouldn’t sell and told me I was mad. Sure enough, a woman in her early thirties from Dunwich on Stradbroke Island drove to my place to pick up a slice of that collection. She was absolutely thrilled with her fifty issues of Cleo and Cosmopolitan and even offered me money for my old Rolling Stones and Kerrang! magazines but I demurred. When her husband clocked my stash he just slumped his shoulders and ambled off to back the ute up to the garage. My family were surprised to say the least. I told them it was all in the selling and my carefully constructed ad which appealed to the student of magazine journalism to read the original 'How to have 10 Orgasms and Succeed on the Stock Market by Lunch' article. Even this morning when I idly picked up one of the remaining copies of my collection: a particularly pretty issue of Vogue with Natalie Portman on the cover, I turned to read an article that I’ve seen written in so many guises that it’s getting kind of beyond ridiculous. It was one of those ‘men and their feelings’ stories written by some intern who thinks she’s channelling her inner David Attenborough but instead, comes off with all the integrity of a marzipan dildo*.

Apparently the woman from Vogue writing this article has an apartment balcony that directly overlooks the courtyard of a bunch of twentysomething guys that have pizza and beer nights regularly. She writes the article as an eavesdropper, claiming she was privy to uncensored male conversations unskewed by the presence of women or the lens of reality television. (my kinda night!) She then goes to great lengths to assure us these men weren’t metrosexual nancy boys either. Just in case we thought they were gay or something. They windsurfed and rode motorcycles. They got laid regularly. The author then seeks to prove that tough boys talk about their feelings too with snippets like these:

The next night they talked about economic disparities between men and women (“Carly earns more than me, but who cares? I just want to support her in her career” said Peter”) The night after that they had an intense discussion about the trials and tribulations of raising girls (“I’m not going to give my daughter dolls when she’s a kid – it just sets her up for being a Mum and disappointment”) This assumption that friendships between men are shallow, puerile and devoid of any emotional content remain strong.

Ahem.

It’s about at this point I give the author B for BULLSHIT. The last time I heard such a tearful soliloquy coming out of the mouth of a twentysomething windsurfer, public or not, was at a wedding and it was a lively little toast, randomly punctuated with enthusiastic expressions of affection like ‘I fucken love yous all hey’. Toward the end it kind of got rambling and incoherent not to mention further marred by cries of 'Speak up Chad!' and 'Shut the fuck up Uncle Dave, you wanker' but overall I don’t remember anything particularly emotive or pertaining to gender roles and equality. Though the sweariness factor did increase significantly when the drunken ex-boyfriend made a cameo appearance.

It makes me wonder why women get such a boner for re-engineering man. He’s functioned perfectly well as is until now it seems. Traditional male traits like stiff-upper-lip stoicism, keeping one’s own counsel and taking risks, appear to be undervalued by today’s modern woman. Can you imagine if pre-historic man got a load of this feelings gear? A group’s cohesiveness and collective confidence depended on an unimpaired and unfettered male. As hunter and protector the last thing you want to hear from a man’s mouth when faced with a wild stampede of hairy mammoths is, ‘Hey guys, I’m just not sure if this hunting thing is working for me. I’m might go discuss these feelings with my wife, then have a Bex and a good lie down’ and yet these nutty little copy girls remain undaunted. I wish for once they’d just be honest about what women really want from men. Women want compliments. We want attention. We want to be the centre of your world and if you’re not talking about us then you must be thinking about something else and we can’t have that. Let’s talk about your feelings so we can get some closure on the issue and get back to me. I think there’s something in that for all of us
now.....don’t you?

I've been dying to work a *Malcolm Tucker quote into something!

Thursday, January 8, 2015

TOTO TWEETS

THE WIZARD OF OZ by L. Frank Baum

@totorulz

I just bit that fugly biaatch next door. Then she conks me over the head with a rake. No-one gives a FCK ‘cept 4 Dorothy.

Biaatch dognapped me. Said the pleece gave her the nod to smash me over the head with a brick. When the time comes I’ll maul her snatch.

Hairy muff dive FTW!

Me and Dorothy ran away but some dude that stunk like cabbage made her cry and go home. Just in time cos big black clouds r brewing. I hate storms.

WTF? Suddenly I’m not colour blind anymore.

There’s a bunch of short arses harassing me with lollipops. Least I can sniff their crotches no problemo.

Bet that MILF in the sequins smells like chocolate. I’d so hit that.

Scores! Dorothy just got a fancy new pair of shoes. Can’t wait to piss in them. The fugly biaatch has a twin. W/e.

Off 2 find body parts & spare pair of nuts. Wish straw boy wld STFU. Ditto 4 bucket head & whining rug. Can’t a dog lick his balls in peace?

It’s hard to keep up when you’ve only got little legs. Can we pls go home now??? #FML

Not until we find the fugly biaatch and bring back her fluorescent dildo says the big green mouth in the steam room. Kinky.

Prolly have better chances finding prOn starring nasty lions, tigers and bears on the interwebz. ROFL!

Scored a mystery flight on Gorilla Airlines. L8R!

Fail frosted with arse.* Gorillas working 4 Fugly Biaatch. Dorothy locked up in her den of iniquity. I’ll never get to piss in those shoes.

Must piss in shoes. Must piss in shoes. Must piss in shoes. Time to fetch straw boy & bucket head. Maybe the rug has grown a pair.

Wet T-shirt competition sorts out Fugly. Problem is she only has a strap-on. Hope that big old green mouth is into that sort of thing.

I can sniff an arse a mile off. Big green mouth is nuthin but smoke & mirrors. Least the dude behind the curtain can give us a lift. #PWND

Uh-oh. My bad. Couldn’t resist the pussy. Now we’re stuck in this FKN hell 4ever. Who’d have thunk I’d miss the smell of Aunty Em’s crotch?

MILF suggests to Dorothy that her new shoes have secret powers. GTFO! Hope the puddle of piss doesn’t electrocute her.

This bed smells like cheese. There’s no place like home.

*© Dr Yobbo

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

TEN QUICK SPY-GIRL ODDITIES

1. I turn on the indicator to coincide with the downbeat of the music I’m listening to on the radio. I go mental if the tempi match. If I’m feeling reckless I’ll add counter-rhythms with the windscreen wipers.

2. Both of my little toes are squashed as if I was the childhood victim of some bizarre foot binding ritual. One of my legs is longer than the other by about an inch. I have it manipulated back into place every couple of years or so. I have one dimple, not two. Actually now that I think about it, my features and limbs are completely beleaguered by asymmetry! (a bit too much chlorine in the gene pool methinks) I’ve a dropped right shoulder that constantly needs stretching and realignment. I blame Bob the Double Bass for that one.

3. I prefer the Clydesdale over all other horses cos they've got flares. They're the hippies of equine society.

4. Sometimes I can't even remember what I had for tea the night before but I have this freakish memory for tunes. I'm often left standing like a mute when asked to recall names, dates or places unless I have a musical reference for them. For some people, smells trigger memory, for me it’s always been 70s advertising jingles, Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers.

5. If I’m not totally convinced a book is going to be good judging by the content, author and cover notes, I will read random chapters out of order before starting at the beginning.

6. Rather than throw it over my shoulder, I put a pinch of salt in my coffee. I swear by pork spare ribs coated generously in chinese five spices as a hangover cure. I hate melons.

7. Drinking a lot of alcohol makes me terribly funny. It also makes me terribly fat. This is not necessarily an oddity but as a die-hard beer lover, it certainly seems a bit odd to me.

8. I get lonely at night and have arguments with myself over the amount of blankets and what side of the bed to sleep on. Sometimes, I just like to hear the sound of my own voice.

9. My vices all belong to the ‘c’ family: coffee, codeine, cigarettes, cheese, chocolate pineapple lumps, chunky chips and chinese checkers...actually I think it’s Mah-jong I have the addiction to but since when did I ever let the truth get in the way of a chance to use alliteration? I issue instructions to the Mini-Spy in spoonerisms just to drive her a little crazy.

10. I can’t swim the butterfly. Previous public attempts to rectify this have alarmed epileptics and near-drowning victims.