Speaking of my parents’ novelty Christmas presents, as I’ve already noted – this Christmas I received an eerie, liquid-filled stress ball of George W. Bush’s head. Perhaps aptly, if you study it from certain angles, his noggin looks like a map of the earth.
In the closest nod we’ll probably get in Sydney to the tarantula-stuffed cactus urban myth, this morning we noticed that George’s head had split down the middle (oh, the fantasies) and his head was rather consistently and continuously giving birth to hundreds of ants. It would have made a great scene in that Rammstein video, even though it was extremely odd – we don’t normally have ants scampering around at our place, so I’d like to believe they were in George’s head all along, surviving on right-wing vitriol alone.
Then again, last year a mate of ours noticed his boxing bag had a suspiciously feminine impact when he was practising some biffo. Curiosity got the better of him: he gingerly removed the velcro from the boxing bag, to find it – petrifyingly – filled with hundreds of scarves from the 1970s. Scarves from the 1970s are scary enough, let alone when you’re not expecting them to attack at short notice.
In fact, I clearly remember as a child, my most treasured teady bear’s head eventually came apart at the seams to reveal stuffing including an assortment of Christmas tinsel and a scabby band-aid. In a youthful display of MacGyver-inspired ingenuity, I attempted to conduct emergency surgery and reattach Teddy’s head with the band-aid. Teddy was later swiftly sent to a special Bear Hospital by my parents, never to return.
Then there’s someone who’s possibly revealing himself as the human equivalent of all this: Scribe. God bless him and his odd little New Zealand security-blanket posse, I don’t mind his music at all. It’s just that I’m hearing repeatedly consistent reports about his try-hard Snoop Dogg Lite antics backstage from a lot of different sources.
That’s right. I’m licensed to critique him because I’m a, er… metal fan.
Speaking of which, Operation: Lose Some Fucking Weight You Fat Homo Fuck is nearing an end (I’m now back down to Regular Gay size) and I’m about to claim my self-designated reward: a new bass guitar (and, in a gay superficial way, purple hair and another piercing). Soon it will be time for my metalhomo world domination plans to begin – beware, the band known as Interrobang is beginning to form! Admittedly, mostly in my head, but we all know I’m a metal prodigy and will immediately start pumping out brutally classic riffs the moment I even think about touching a guitar. Before you know it, I’ll descend on the ARIAs and rumble through the ceremony like a wayward planet through space, picking up every award along the way before anyone can do anything about it. Even Best Children’s Release. Nobody will be immune to Interrobang!
Probably not a good time to admit my only prior musical experience was learning piano as a teenager, but then again, that’s all Andrew WK did, and look at his staggering, blinding success.
{ 1 trackback }