Coles: Now Stalking Me For Your Benefit

by Jeb on March 5, 2009

Recently, I learnt that our local Coles supermarket is somewhat of a national testing ground. Apparently our suburb is almost equally covered by poor, middle-class, rich, and drug-abusing-AFL-player demographics – creating an ideal environment for Coles to test their latest bonkers ideas on us.

New store layouts and other experiments are constantly carried out at our Coles, and then carried out nationally if they work. This explains why products and layouts at our Coles keep moving around so freaking much. It’s almost impossible to find some products because where milk once lived, is now the new home of sliced meats. In particular, our fruit and veg section changes layouts constantly – everything from its current farmer’s market setup, to the bizarre diagonal aisles we had last year.

Coles also regularly test store opening celebrations at our local supermarket. Sounds very jolly in theory, but there’s only so many weekends in a row I can handle Con the Fruiterer yelling out Coles propaganda around our main street.

More interestingly, it explains why I always see Coles staff suspiciously hovering around the supermarket with clipboards. After someone did a really bad job of inconspicuously following me around the supermarket recently, I jokingly asked them what was going on, and found out that I’m shopping in a test marketing hotbed.

Someone tracking my grocery shopping is kind of creepy, so my new plan is thus: when I next spot a Coles staff member trailing me, I’ll purchase as many phallic vegetables as I can, then zoom to the medicinal aisle and agonise over lubricants. If lube starts popping up around the fruit and veg section of your local Coles in the coming months, you’ll know whot o thank.

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Marketers, The Dictionary is not your Random Flavour Generator

by Jeb on March 4, 2009

There’s an increasing marketing habit I’ve observed with food advertising in recent times, and I have something to say.

Corporations, take note: places are not flavours.

For example, what the hell am I supposed to assume “southwest sauce” is before Subway slop it all over my miserable, wrinkled sandwich? The gritty, earthy taste of Arizonian gravel? The desperate tears of Las Vegas tourists wringing out their mortgage repayments over a roulette table? Some filthy euphemism for man-sauce?

Similarly, emotions are not flavours. The “Angry Whopper” doesn’t sound like it’s supposed to be a spicy hamburger. It sounds more like Mark “Jacko” Jackson straining on the bog after a salty carbohydrates binge.

Finally, abstract concepts are not flavours. There’s a new sugar-free flavour of Eclipse mints floating around Australian convenience stores. Granted, “Sugar Free But Will Probably Give You Cancer Down The Track Mints” doesn’t quite have that zing to it, but did they really have to resort to naming the new mint flavour “Black Chill”? All I’m asking for is oral hygiene – not something which sounds like a Ministry of Sound compilation, or R-rated porn.

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Terminator 5: Rise of the Greased Pontoons

by Jeb on March 2, 2009

As locals are already aware, the following SMS was sent to all residents of Victoria today:

vic-police-sms-bushfire-warning

Nobody is going to argue this isn’t a good idea. I’m certainly not going to poke fun at the bushfires, especially considering my best mate has been going through a series of terrifying evacuations up in the Dandenongs. It’s been a horrible, shocking series of events.

However, I’m wondering if I’m the only one who received this SMS then later thought… I hope this SMS broadcast system is only used sparingly and properly.

I’ve been known to wear a tinfoil hat at times – everything from Facebook’s privacy policy to the highly suspicious uniform number of sausages in Watties Baked Beans & Sausages tins – but there is awful potential for this system to go terribly wrong. Imagine if a well-intended but carelessly worded SMS warning was sent out around the Northern Beaches area when the Cronulla riots broke out? A dreadful situation could have been intensified even further.

Nobody was expecting a SMS warning like this, I suppose, so it’s all a bit of a surprise. Most especially to any paranoid amphetamines dealer who rolled out of bed this afternoon, fired up their brekkie bong then made the ghastly discovery of a new SMS from”Vic Police” sitting unread on their phone.

So let’s hope this system is only used for clear danger and with good intentions. In this spirit, I present a list of the most unlikely messages you’d be worried about receiving on Victoria’s SMS broadcast system:

  • Reports of temporary blindness reported throughout metropolitan area. Avoid Channel 9 for next hour/any other medium displaying Matthew Newton’s pasty naked body
  • ARIA ALERT: Crash Test Dummies reformed, threatening re-entry to Victorian Top 50 Singles: remain under sturdy furniture until threat passes
  • SKYNET ACTIVE: REPORT TO NEAREST FOOTBALL OVAL FOR MANDATORY “IT’S A KNOCKOUT” TOURNAMENT HELD FOR YOUR NEW OVERLORDS’ PLEASURE
  • WARNING: reports of Gloria Jeans Coffee outlets in area no longer holding up tenuous pretense, staff shackling customers to walls until agreeing to purchase tickets to Hillsong Mens/Womens Conference. Approach with caution

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What’s More Painful: Lifting Your Entire Body Weight, or Breakast Radio?

by Jeb on February 22, 2009

It seems I may have to adjust the description of my site: for almost a month now, I’ve given up the grog in the name of fitness for the time being. This has been accompanied by a rather riduculous catalogue of other fitness-related activities at fairly criminal hours of the day.

My early weights training now unfortunately coincides with a soundtrack of breakfast radio at my local gym. I’ve mentioned before that this gym is heavily populated with bouncers, bodybuilders and other folk who would appear as a pile of sausages topped with a cherry tomato in silhouette form.

matt-tilleyThis painful soundtrack of breakfast radio has lead to the excruciating agony of trying to lift weights which feel like I’m thrusting a fridge beyond my head (when it actuality, its weight is closer to the polystyrene packaging it’d come in) while enduring the “art” of Matt Tilley’s Gotcha Calls. If you’ve yet to witness these with your own ears, it generally involves repeat-calling an ill-angered individual to the point of mental breakdown, revealing that it’s all A BIG HILARIOUS JOKE just after they’re provoked to the final thread of their own precarious sanity.

Here’s the frustrating thing: some of these Gotcha Calls, against the sheer will of my life force, have made me chortle from time to time. Attempting to suppress laughter while you’re trying to lift weights is one thing. The resulting self-loathing generated by laughing at Gotcha Calls in the first place makes things even more difficult. Usually, my facial expression ends up looking like Kerry-Anne Kennerly trying to thinly veil her displeasure with a guest chef, trapped in a stasis field.

Thankfully, it’s not just me. After looking around the gym while these Gotcha Calls boom out around the weights room, I’ve noticed the roidheads nervously trying to gulp down their chuckles, tiny heads darting around like meerkats to make sure their companions aren’t laughing either.

This increased weights/breakfast radio activity will continue for the time being, although I am letting myself off the hook for a few beers an alcoholcaust at Soundwave this Friday. Considering my absence from the bottle, I expect to be absolutely plastered on two light beers, which can only enhance my Dutch courage at attempting to meet my long-time metal man-crush, Brock Lindow of 36 Crazyfists. See you there!

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Whitewashed

by Jeb on February 21, 2009

You don’t see chefs proudly wearing smeared chorizo sausages over their apron.

You don’t see financial analysts stapling printouts of spreadsheets to their businesswear.

You certainly don’t see actors stickytaping DVDs across their own bodies.

So why do painters insist on wearing white uniforms to show off just how hard they’ve worked each day?! Dudes, we get it. YOU MAKE A LOT OF MESS AND WORK VERY HARD. Stop rubbing it in our collective faces!

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I Telecommanded Your Mum

by Jeb on February 19, 2009

Everyone’s got those lovey-dovey couples’ nicknames for each other… honeypie. Sweetie. Erotically charged buttock-boil. (Okay, maybe we’re not all married to Dani Filth).

What I truly relish is those nicknames ascending into highly abusive condemnations, which somehow still remain endearing. Yelling “NOOB!” at each other over the last few years has somehow organically blossomed into the more modern insult of “NOOBZONITRON!” Sadly, when I hear this, my initial interpretation is that Adam is exclaiming surprise at the release of a new Bejeweled-esque puzzle game.

Then there’s the old favourite insult – bellowing “YOU DILDO!” at each other. This, too, has transgressively erupted into the mathematical denigration of “YOU STUPID GODDAMN DILDODECAHEDRON” as an insult under our roof. It only just occurred to me this evening that we’re essentially calling each other one of these:

dodecahedron

Well, all I have to say is – it’s certainly giving ME an acute angle, ladies!

After all these insults, there’s only been one place left for us to go: insulting each other in French. The problem is that our French vocabulary extends as far as Warrick Capper’s groin’s grasp of humility. This often leads to insult matches along the lines of:

Me: You BAGUETTE!
Adam: You stupid… er… CROISSANT!
Me: Why, you, you… HOMOSEXUELLE!

Ever since we noticed “homosexuelle” in the captions for an SBS movie a few years ago, we’ve been unable to stop pronouncing it with the pomp of a formal introduction by English royalty, desperately trying to excuse themselves from a dinner with the French prime minister.

There is one king-hitter that always ends the French insulting matches, and it was only recently learnt from a dual-language set of instructions supplied with a universal remote control we purchased. There’s no way to swiftly end a round of slurs on one’s character by vomiting up:

Adam: You, sir, are a TELECOMMANDE.

Which simply happens to be French for “remote control”, but sounds like so much more. The only possible retort is that you’ve telecommanded your verbal jousting partner’s mum.

In the meantime, WHY THE FUCK AM I STILL WATCHING LOST. Did you actually catch this week’s synopsis?

“This week, Jack eats an unsatisfactory sandwich – and what will happen to the island when Sayid’s cheque bounces at the supermarket?”

Okay, perhaps not, but sheesh. Pick it up! Suppose it’s still not as bad as Prison Break’s writers seemingly discovering the delights of hallucinogens while penning the latest series. At this point, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid if Michael Schofield had to rescue his brother from a capsule on the moon in next week’s episode.

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The World Wide Jeb Guide to Soundwave 2009… and Related Dessert Treats

by Jeb on February 16, 2009

The entire spectrum of every American emo band EVER barging into Australia simultaneously can only mean one thing. No, it’s not a sudden outbreak of perplexed xenophobia from Bruce Ruxton (although a collective of emo bands’ ghostly and sudden appearance in the country will no doubt provoke this). No, nothing like that – the Soundwave festival is here again!

Famous for being the summer festival in which you can actually win a complimentary meat tray if you somehow manage to identify an Australian act, it’s actually not all that bad as far as festivals go. There’s a number of my favourite hard rock bands playing, so I thought I’d list my pick of the bunch. Then, just in case you’re not so interested in heavy music, I will equate each of my recommended bands to an equivalent dessert treat.

Innerpartysystem

innerpartysystemImagine if Lady Gaga was held against her will by Damon Albarn in a loft built entirely from crystal, in a regrettable real estate transaction made at his self-indulgent worst. In an artistic rage, he bellows that she can only be released once she’s composed a song for the next Gorillaz album that will reach the top 20. After months of failing to impress Damon and beginning to consume her own waste for nourishment, she injects amphetamines then eventually composes a wildly random series of repetitive samples. In weary frustration, Damon spits out some vague lyrics about partying so they can finally get the fucking job done and Lady Gaga can be released into the wild. The result is Innerpartysystem.

Recommended taster: Last Night in Brooklyn
Dessert equivalent: Ice cream cake laced with ketamine.

[click to continue…]

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The Truth About Xavier Rudd

by Jeb on February 11, 2009

It’s interesting to see how Xavier Rudd has grown in popularity over the years. Deliriously independent, socially conscious, so goddamn acoustic he makes Jack Johnson seem like Kerry King by comparison; everyone certainly seems to have warmed to him and his ways.

All of which is utterly alien to me, because XAVIER RUDD USED TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME EVERY DAY AT THE SCHOOL BUS STOP.

Yes, although Mr Rudd is only one year older than me, that’s worlds apart when you’re a puny year nine student. We both lived in the same street growing up, so caught the bus from the same stop every day. Xavier’s daily greeting to me was not the Aboriginal-inspired and touching tradition you’d expect – it was usually a basketball to the face, which I never saw coming due to my partial blindness. This only added to the apparent comic effect.

All of this adds up to why I have immense difficulty reconciling the beauty of his songs with the bullying maniac which tormented me in my childhood. You may be hearing him breathlessly croon “Let Me Be” as an unviolated piece of audio beauty – all I can hear are my own similar pleads 15 years ago to “let me be” while he rammed tanbark in my mouth then gave me an atomic wedgie, punctuating everything with a filthy fart in my general direction.

Now, kids can be bloody awful creatures, and I’m almost certain he’s nothing like that anymore. But who are we to know? The next Xavier Rudd album could reveal him for the bloodthirsty fearmonger he actually is. Besides, anyone who looks like a human Katamari Damacy that’s freshly rolled through an Allen’s Music store is certainly not to be trusted.

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Missing in A*ction

by Jeb on February 10, 2009

Writing about Ian Turpie yesterday got me reminiscing about other game shows… specifically, older childrens’ game shows.

It cannot be denied that James Sherry of A*mazing fame was ahead of his time. In 1994, there was a sense of inevitability that the future would involve fucking gigantic keyboards we’d need to navigate around at high speed – and only one man could commandeer such a tool, Mr James Sherry! C’mon, don’t deny that this particular program felt like it had been catapulted from 2030 for your gaping wonderment after school.

Yet where is Mr Sherry now? Considering the last we saw of him squawking at a TV camera was when his career was at an all-time high, I can only assume that he has created some elaborate blanket of reality around him where A*mazing has not only been cancelled, but that he’s immersed himself in an intricate living environment based around the show itself.

Is it so unlikely to think that Mr Sherry rises from bed nowadays, then glumly gallops around his house searching for hidden keys he’d scattered around the place the prior evening? Wistfully mashing his iMac’s tiny keyboard with his feet in an attempt to solve a simple word puzzle? Disenchantedly tapping away at the shitty fly-swatting game from Mario Paint? Angrily awarding himself a 60-pack of Textas while his undeserving school wins a fucking computer without putting any elbow grease in? All this in the continued unaccepting anger that his ahead-of-its-time childrens’ game show was cancelled over a decade ago?

James Sherry, please show your face and let us know you’re safe. Free yourself from your, er, maze of imprisonment!

Actually, you know what would REALLY be awesome: Ian Turpie, with a brandy in one hand, hosting a children’s gameshow. HOW CAN THAT POSSIBLY GO WRONG.

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The Dyson is Right

by Jeb on February 9, 2009

Over the weekend, we happened to pass a store in South Melbourne with the gut-bustingly enthusiastic name: READY, STEADY, VACUUM!

The store cracked me up because it sounds like a gameshow gagging to be hosted by Ian Turpie. Presumably, the premise wouldn’t be too dissimilar from the sadly-retired Supermarket Sweep, but retooled for a more sensitive economic age.

As stool-looseningly exciting as READY, STEADY, VACUUM! sounds; the final round in this particular show would probably not consist of a manic supermarket dash, but rather dustbusting some freshly vomited hairballs in exchange for food tokens or the like. Nothing that ascends to the apex of true Turpie gameshow glory.

No, nothing could really beat the golden days of Supermarket Sweep – particularly the final round: a giddy, wide-eyed contestant who appears to have been injected with ketamine; seemingly warned that Satan is hiding in the freezer section; and convinced that The Great Evil can only be warded off with bulk packages of Huggies. Come back Turps, the FlyBuys cardholders of Australia need you.

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