After moving house earlier this year, I noticed something very strange when I was updating my electoral enrolment details.
The lengthy form concludes with a request that you leave your “signature or mark”. Eh? Mark?
Now, I’m not completely certain what the government considers a “mark” – perhaps an official stamp of some sort? Imagine the delightful pretentiousness of being able to affix a wax seal to routine government forms.
But let’s be realistic: nobody can really afford to pump out wax seals every time they need to leave their mark. Won’t really work on the back of a credit card, either. That’s why I’m thinking that a gob of your own mucous would also surely suffice. You’ll be able to indignantly slag off shopkeepers in the face every time you need to reach for your MasterCard!
There’s a heaving pile of unread books by my bed, and it’s constantly a surprise to see what literary atrocities I forgot that I ever purchased.
Here’s the problem. Around ten years ago, I rediscovered how awesome books were. The idiotic problem I created for myself was that I was accumulating new books at five times the rate I was reading them. I stopped buying new books in 2002 and I’m still trying to catch up – I generally haven’t bought any new books since then.
It’s going to take me another five years to get through all this rubbish. Therein lies the problem: I’m resentfully plowing my way through books I bought as many as 10 years ago. My tastes over the last 10 years have changed quite a bit. Some books I can’t fathom that I picked up in the first place.
For example, this book recently ended up at the top of the reading pile. LOOK AT THIS FUCKING COVER!
Is this, or is this not, the most 90’s book cover you have EVER SEEN?
If you made it past the dizzying drag queen-inspired colour scheme on the cover, wait until you reach the blurb:
“Stassy,” he said, “let’s go for a ride in my car. And let’s get stoned and drunk and just step off the end of the world.”
Wogs. Westies. Girlfriends. At school. Livin’ large.
Wow, it sounds like the unwritten sequel to Pugwall where the band goes completely off the rails! Note how it took THREE FREAKING AUTHORS to weave this piece of literary genius together. Then again, when you’re all busy getting stoned and drunk and stepping off the edge of the world, it probably does take three people.
I’ll be honest, I’m tempted to read it for the dialogue alone. After flipping open the book to a random chapter, I was greeted with the following introduction:
So the three of us all got fucked by our boyfriends at the same time at the party on Saturday night.
Classy! Do I dare explore the world of 1994 wogs, westies and girlfriends at school livin’ large? Hmm.
Rammstein’s latest album is a pretty good return to form. It’s accessible bouncy industrial, although their subject matter often veers towards the unhinged -- porn, cannibalism sex… actually, pretty much every sexual perversion you can think of. Because they’re belting it out in German, it sounds that much more evil.
The remixes on their latest single had me in fits of laughter when I first came across them. I’m still not sure if this is a mark of genius or a sign that the band are on the verges of imploding again. You’ve probably heard about the band’s infamous single “Pussy”, which featured, well, fully blown porn. This video is safe for work, although the music may not be -- they’ve arranged for Scooter to remix the song. Yes, that’s Scooter, the cheesy Eurotrance DJ. Hardcore industrial it ain’t.
So that was one of the remixes. I was also pretty excited to see that Devin Townsend was also remixing their latest single “Ich Tu Dir Weh”, as I’m a pretty avid fan of anything that metal genius does. The problem is that although Devin’s a musical prodigy, he’s also got a pretty wicked sense of humour. See what you think -- here’s the original Rammstein song for comparison:
This is Devin Townsend’s remix, which I’m banking isn’t quite what Rammstein were expecting to hear:
Fart noises as percussion and crazy banjos… it’s almost an audio slap in the face back to the band, but I love it.
If industrial bands bothered to create remixes as crazy as these two on their singles, I’d be buying more of them!
Dental checkups: they’re not much fun, especially as far as your wallet is concerned. However, I think I’ve stumbled on an answer which could make everything much easier to deal with.
When I undertook a dental checkup recently, it struck me that the whole process is a slap in the face. Some sadistic dentist rams tools of oral destruction into your face for half an hour, charges you hundreds of dollars – and you’re expected to shake their hand afterwards and cop it sweet? Not cool!
After my particularly painful visit, and a quote for two fillings, I didn’t particularly feel like rewarding my dentist with joyful thanks. Which is when it struck me: if I had the opportunity to punch him really hard in the face, just once, I’d have been completely fine.
See, I’d gladly pay a $100 premium Dental Violence fee on top of my appointment. If I can get through that freaking dentist drill in the knowledge I can deliver a knuckle sandwich afterwards, then dentist visits are suddenly something I’d find much more platable.
I’ll be introducing my new health insurance policy soon. When it comes to any procedure which involves pain being inflicted on you – for an optional extra fee, you’ll be able to kick your healthcare provider in the crotch as a premium bonus.
It was one of those conversations that could only happen after too much beer.
We’d been discussing a mate of mine’s rather frightening obsession with cooking his own home-made jerky. If you’re going to the trouble of purchasing specific cuts of meat to shrivel it down into a lifeless husk – surely you’re less than six degrees away from becoming a serial killer?
This was when my friend Lauren piped up with a recent discovery.
“Did you know that there’s a popular kind of jerky for dogs…” she paused thoughtfully before swallowing her drink. “Well, it’s made from bull penis.”
After we’d regained consciousness from laughing ourselves into a coma, she delivered the king hit. “It’s called Bull Pizzle.”
Now, even before we’d begun our inevitable impersonations of Snoop Dogg hawking such a product (“Bull pizzle for shizzle… for your caninizzle”), it all ascended to a higher level. It turns out that “bull pizzle” is the grammatically correct butcher’s term for such a, ahem, cut of meat.
Of course, with more than a few beers in my system, I couldn’t help but search Google Images for “bull pizzle”. I STRONGLY RECOMMEND AGAINST THIS ACTIVITY!!
That’s when my buddy Dan piped up (and go check out his atrociously funny podcast, while I’m mentioning him). “I’d eat bull pizzle,” he volunteered. Then there was no going back. I’m holding him to this statement.
To make sure he doesn’t lame out on me, it’s my honour to incorporate this into a potential fundraising event. Unfortunately, the classiest alliteration I can come up with is Pizzle against Prolapse, but hey! It’s an important medical issue, and if bovine genitals can help us raise awareness, then that’s A Good Thing.
I’m compiling a hearty menu of bull pizzle items for Dan to eat, depending on the amount of money we can raise. For every fundraising tier, it’s another delicious gourmet bull pizzle treat for Dan!
Level 1: $10. A mere bull pizzle cube with a hastily cut piece of Coon cheese on a toothpick.
Level 2: $20. A glistening, freshly prepared garden salad… with a small pile of wobbling, diced bull pizzle as the centrepiece.
Level 3: $40. Spaghetti pizzlenaise.
Level 4: $100. A very specific pizza yet to be found on the Pizza Hut menu: Bull Genital Meatlover’s pizza.
Level 5: $250. The Grand Angus Pizzleburger.
Feel free to suggest your own bull pizzle gourmet treats, or pledge your donation to the inaugural Pizzle against Prolapse fundraising event in comments!
Has anyone ever bothered to read the packaging on cleaning products? It’s bizarre – check out the description of this Febreze “Hawaii” air freshener I purchased:
Febreze’s entire air freshener range features equally bonkers marketing material. Their Moroccan Bazaar scent solves a harrowing household storage problem:
Oh, thank god! My entire household was beginning to look like a level from the Prince of Persia games. I bet nobody’s ready for the surprises contained within the Brazilian Carnival scent, though:
HOLY SHIT I JUST WANTED TO DEODORISE MY HOUSE, INSTEAD MY NEIGHBOURS INVADED THE ROOM AND WE’RE HAVING AN IMPROMPTU MARDI GRAS! SEND HELP
Why don’t Febreze get real and invent scents inspired by more realistic domestic scenarios? My proposed air freshener is “Febreze Jilted”: flood your home with a suffocating mist of disappointment and regret – fragranced with a distinct symphony of frozen microwave dinners, moth balls and the unwashed human body.
The secret to why everyone is so bonkers at the Febreze factory is betrayed by their Wikipedia entry:
Alcohol is also present in the mixture as the second-most prevalent ingredient.
“Hmm, apparently we have to drive… directly through this football oval,” Adam murmured, squinting and stabbing at his iPhone screen.
We’d trundled to the outer suburbs of Melbourne to inspect a motorbike Adam was interested in. In order to navigate to the owner’s home, we were relying solely on the Google Maps directions on Adam’s phone. Unfortunately, as any iPhone owner will tell you, the damn-fangled thing can sometimes have problems placing your exact location on a map.
“Hang on, here… oh… no, here we… hang on… turn… left? Right? No, second left…” sputtered Adam, as my arms flew akimbo on the steering wheel, attempting to keep up with his navigational directions. Without power steering, I was getting quite the cardio workout.
“RIGHT! TURN RIGHT HERE!” bellowed Adam, and we began hurtling towards the motorbike owner’s home. We’d really reached the outer suburbs: the pavements were awash with broken glass and discarded children.
Having reached our location, we gingerly stepped over the piles of gravel and other thematic junkyard decor to reach the front door. After ringing the doorbell and patiently waiting, the front door opened just a crack.
“Whaddya want,” a pair of suspicious eyes barked at us. We explained we were here to inspect the motorbike for sale.
The door flung open so he could get a better look at us. “No fuckin’ bike for sale here,” he spat. Further into the house, I was certain I could hear a shotgun being loaded.
We patiently explained that we’d seen the bike advertised, and this was the address we’d been given. “Nup, no bike here,” the overweight bogan grunted, wobbling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Approximately four hundred children seemed to be screaming around the house in the background.
“Look, how’d you get this address?” he warily asked us. There was suddenly an intense feeling that we were being scanned for security reasons, as if we’d arrived to sus out the belongings in his house and return later in the evening to empty him out. Desperately repressing my already heaving bladder, I resisted the will to ask to use their bathroom.
“Ya got the wrong details,” he grunted, and slammed the door in our face. Again, I was certain I heard a shotgun being loaded. We carefully hurried back over the piles of gravel in the driveway.
“Did you double-check the address?” I quizzed Adam.
“Yeah, I wrote it down and everything, look,” he pointed at some paper. Which was when I realised our error: thanks to a frightful combination of the iPhone’s misplaced sense of direction and Adam’s confusion, we’d turned down Hutchison Street, instead of the nearby Hamilton Street.
We later found the actual guy selling the bike, but in the process, we learned just how difficult it is to scope out a house for theft in the outer suburbs. My hat is off to you, cat burglars. I bet you’re not using an iPhone to find your victims’ locations.
We can all agree that Antiques Roadshow is very safe television. It’s time for this franchise to be relaunched with some edgier spin-offs!
With the help of my buddy Sam, we came up with:
Antiques Roadhouse
Similar to the film Roadhouse, but instead of Patrick Swayze, it features old gay men beating each other up with Chippendale and Wedgwood. This spin-off will lead to…
Antiques Whorehouse
Valuations of found objects from bordellos.
Antiques Crackhouse
Members of the public attempt to convince valuers that plastic beads on a string really are genuine pearls.
Earlier this week, Defamer Australia lifted the lid on this darkly hilarious development:
I know you’ve all been missing Naomi Robson’s presence on the small screen. So here’s some news that ought to cheer you up immensely – she’s back! Kinda! She’s talking relationships and Secret Men’s Business with high profile penis owners like Nick Giannopoulos!
If you’ve not heard of Naomi Robson, cast your mind back to a current affairs show titled Real Life in the early 90s. After flagging ratings, the show was rejigged: it adapted a new title in Today Tonight, received a new set, and the existing host Stan Grant underwent gender reassignment. The result was Naomi Robson.
Nobody knew what hit us! She careened into our world like the star of a failed sitcom premise -- the self-obsessed socialite blackmailed into hosting a nation-wide TV program.
You may remember that a few years ago, everyone’s favourite Queen Bogan was thrashing around for a TV talk show deal. If there was ever scientific proof of perpetual motion, it surely lies with Naomi Robson’s narcissistic self-belief in her Christ-like human appeal, spurring her eternally onwards.
Our Nomes found little success in her talk show efforts. I’ve no doubt that those pilot tapes revealed her to be even more dreadful when she was let off the leash of an autocue. Naomi’s fascination with her own appearance over the feelings of any other human being surely couldn’t have made for comfortable viewing.
But who needs those TV network deals when you can plummet into the depths already cleared by Tom Green, and take your show internet-only? Ms Robson, that’s who!
Yes, Nomes has begun production on The Naomi Show: LoveLife, which sounds like an ominous threat by Ms. Robson and not an explanation of the show’s theme. Rather like waiting to see the sheer volume of pus which will explode from a festering boil, I’m both terrified and deliriously excited at her show’s imminent broadcast.
An article from The Australian a few years back perfectly demonstrates why she’s such an oblivious caricature of herself:
A former Seven publicist tells Media Robson is “totally self-obsessed”, even while she is working, and he couldn’t send her out to talk to the media because she “talks about her Gucci sunglasses, her personal trainer and her BMW” without a thought for how she may be perceived. She will sit in the studio and tell people how many stomach crunches she did that morning. Unlike your Ray Martins or Jana Wendts, Robson has little interest in the stories she presents and isn’t even professional enough to fake it.
“She doesn’t get who her audience is,” a former colleague says. “She can come across as a snob and very elitist.”
Her self-obsession is perfectly clear in the preview video for her show -- rather than even splashing out on even a cheap studio, she appears to have meticulously directed the entire broadcast in various rooms of her opulent home. Take a gander if you wish, but be warned, this will delete multiple units of your soul:
Mmm, has anyone heard anything more erotic lately than Naomi Robson robotically barking “DON’T FORGET ABOUT SEX”?
Actually, you could be forgiven for thinking this was a game show revolving around Robson disinterestedly nodding at a bunch of B-list celebs, while mentally calculating whose soul she’ll devour at the end of the show to feed her undead life-force.
The real rub is that despite her presenting herself as an oracle of relationship advice, THE GHASTLY WOMAN IS SINGLE. SINGLE SINGLE SINGLE! HOW THE.. WHAT… WHO… I DON’T EVEN
I’m definitely planning on sending in a question to The Naomi Show when it debuts. There’s got to be nothing better than a panel made up of people like Julia Morris, David Reyne and Hotdogs awkwardly bumbling through my question on genital herpes etiquette.
