The Magic of Mo-vember

This post is best viewed on Mo-zilla Firefox. No, that isn't a lame pun. Firefox is just better than Internet Explorer. And don't even try viewing this on Facebook, or any form of book. Or face.

And so we have reached the end of what has been an amazing season of moustache growing. Hello, I'm Dunk Shetland, and this...is the Movember Molympics.



That was the Moustachioed Symphony Orchestra with the official anthem to tonight's proceedings.

Well what an amazing month it has been. Men all over Australia, and the world, have grown moustaches for charity (although any moustache growth out of Australia would be sheer coincidence, and not for charity). In fact, if you laid all the mo hair grown over this month end to end, you would have a very dirty floor to clean. ROFLCOPTOR. (do it again. properly, this time) ...hair grown over this month end to end, you'd have enough hair to end world hunger in Uganda.

We here at the Movember Molympics have been inundated with thousands of entries from all over Australia. They've all been marvellous, and there's been a few shit ones as well. But we're not here to celebrate shit this month. Incidentally, tune in later this month for our Faeces-cember celebrations. But tonight, we'll be celebrating the best of the best of the best moustaches. And we'll be awarding the best mo of the month of the year with The Grand Prize. Stay tuned to this page folks, because it's gonna get hairy.

Before we show this year's finalists, I should note that I haven't been shown any of the entries, so my reactions tonight will be very real and very ad-libbed.
Clunky exposition aside, we've got a phone call. Hello, you're on the air.


Hi. I was wunderin if I coold, like, enter the comp?

Umm, I think you're at the wrong contest. This is Mo-vember here, not Ho-vember (oh...). Grow a moustache (oh yes...) then you can enter (oh my god, harder...). And please stop having that sex over the phone - I can hear you groaning. There are children watching this. And for the love of God, can't this writer think of anything slightly more relevant?! (TAB: Inspiration)

*ahem*

Anyway, onward and forward to our first contestant. Shannon is from Richmond. Shannon works at oil-rig worker as an petty-cash officer and canteen assistant. Shannon's hobbies include dynamite fishing, flexing muscles and decoupage. Pretty impressive for an eight year-old. Shannon also insists that Shannon is never referred to in the third person, and that we always use Shannon's name when referring to Shannon. Ladies and gentlemen, here Shannon is, Shannon from Chadstone:


Right, we're going to have to disqualify Shannon's entry. The rules specifically mention that nobody, other than the Movember contestant, is allowed in the entry photo. It's a shame, too, because that was a pretty awesome mo Shannon's got there.


Anyway, on to our next contestant: Nick is from Melbourne. He is currently completing his masters in philosophy. His id is a light hue of blood orange. He can speak fluent Wingdings, is so post-modern that he's old-skool, and can spot the phallic reference in any movie in existence. He also believes that contests are a stain on society, and that people shouldn't attempt to compete against each other in any arena, as any prize, material or immaterial, is rendered futile by the inevitability of death and the decomposition of the body and the apparent-soul, as well the impending destruction of the End of the World when the Sun expands, which will vaporise every trace of human existence. That is why he has sent us this picture of an infant poking, Facebook style, a kitten, which is being stabbed in what appears to be its Broca's Area with...a USB stick.

Quickly escaping from that, it's time to update the progress of our international mo-grower, Daniel from Paris, Texas. Let me remind you that that region has got very few people able to grow moustaches, and that moustache hair is highly sought after, with a good handlebar mo going for about 75c a kilo. Daniel states that he likes Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain. He has also says that he's based his life entirely on the lyrics of Escape (The Pina Colada Song), and plans to make his wife change her name to Rupert Holmes. Comforting. Last time we checked, he had grown a porn-tache so great, we couldn't show it on TV. It is, however, available from your local sex shop.
Anyway, let's see how that's mo's developing:


Ugh, that's...*throws up*
It appears that Daniel has had his moustache ripped from his face by the locals...and he also seems to have fallen in some kind of Fountain Of Youth, until pre-pubescence by the look of things.


We'll go to a commercial break to give you, the audience, time to clean up.



Welcome back to the Molympics. We've got a few more contestant to present before we announce the winner.

Maybe it will be Chad from Epping. He says he's been growing his mo for about three years now, and has featured on the cover of The MOnthly three times in a row. Incidentally, his father, Stanley, is the editor of The MOnthly. Mark also asks if I could say hello to his posse, the Rat-tailed Wankers. Well Mark, I'm glad you asked, because I won't, you nepotist arsehole. However, I will show your photo, as the producer is forcing me to.


That's a pretty impressive Mo-nobrow, but we're looking for the best moustache. Try again next time when the local charity decides to replace Movember with Movember.


Our final entry comes from Greg Matthews, former test cricketer and current cricket commentator. Here's the entry from the tied-test hero himself:


That one's for the cricket nerds out there. Yeah, yeah.


And we've got another phone call here. Hello?



Hi. I totally gots a mousetashe now. LOL!

'I HAVE a moustache, now'. 'HAVE'. And besides, we only accept moustaches made of hair, not milk.


But it ain't milk. That's so fattening. No, this mostash is made of seme-

And we've lost contact with our caller. For those of you not viewing the programme with the Subtext(tm) feature turned on, we've cut the connection. This programme is family entertainment, we can't have talk of adult behaviour like semen, deepthroating, bukake parties, swingers parties, the Liberal party or penetrative docking here (TAB: Don't search that last phrase up on Google, lest your head spin in disgust/lose your virginity. Same with the one before it)


And now, after all this padding of airtime because my producer told me to, it's finally that time of the night, where we announce the winner of The Movember Molympics. They will walk away, or more accurately, receive at their house from a courier, the Grand Prize:

*rummages in pockets*

This Kinder-Surprise toy!


And the winner is:



*drumroll please*





Paula from...somewhere near...places. And what a great mo she's got. Like a horse from a sixties TV show (of course, of course) being allowed its last words before being sent to the glue factory, we'll let this horse/image speak for itself.




Congratulations to our winner, and to all the people out there who did their part for Movember. The Gods are certainly smiling down on you tonight. We'll leave you tonight with a picture of my handlebars:



Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen!





Some housekeeping: Remember, kids and litigious types, this is intended to be a piece of satire. The people described in the text are not real and have no relation to the people/objects pictured. The pictures' source can be accessed by clicking on the picture. And the fourth-last to second-last images are clearly altered with Microsoft Paint. Play nice, now.

Endorse Your Fruit (aka. A Satirical Spoof Bukake Party)

Pick up lines not to use at your local election night party:
"Hey baby, you wanna see my opinion poll? It's a foot-long, and it's only at 54%, oh yeah"
"I'm throwing a threesome with me and Antony Green. You want in?"
"I say, your mammaries are making the blood swell into my pelvic region. May I insert my phallus into your orifice, perchance?"
"Check out my Pork Barrel, mama!"

Disclaimer: If you're here expecting hard-hitting political analysis, don't. Just don't.

One more day, ladies and gentlemen. ONE MORE FREAKING DAY until it's upon us. Oh yes, I've been eagerly awaiting that One Day In November for a good year or so now, and it's almost finally here. If you're expecting me to lead into something completely unrelated to the election (eg. Post-Thanksgiving, Turkey's Teacher's Day, The Day After November 23!), prepare to be bitterly disappointed, because, yes, I'm talking about Election 07: Australia Edition (as opposed to Election 08: Pakistani Edition).

Amidst the 'Rudd Is My Sexy Sexy Man Studd Bud' badges and 'Liberal: The Political Party That Won't Eat Your Babies And Conscript Your Parents Into Working At The Underground Mines And Plunge Our Economy Into The Commie Red Kevin Rudd Suxxorz On Teh Bal1z0rz' banana stickers (rolls straight of the tongue, doesn't it?), there hasn't been much else going on.

Sure Tony Abbot said a swear on live TV (his rebuttal), and sure Mr and Mrs John Winston Howard came out of the closet in support of each other (here's a photo from their wedding night). But where's the passion, the heart, the mud slinging that would put Tuesday nights at Scores to shame? It's elections like these where I begin to really miss the classic put downs and insults from The Great One himself, Paul Keating (reminiscing).
Overall, it's been a boring campaign. Barren, if you will (though at the same time, that allegation came from The Hefferhorn, he who said that priests should be allowed to have sex because they "wake up with a horn at four in the morning", so it hasn't been completely without horrific mental pictures - speaking of which).

So, like any other bored child (not the best segue from talking about horny priests), I went to my laptop and looked up some porn (again with the morally murky segues). After I got bored, I decided to research me some satirical videos.
A foreword: This was done earlier this month, until otherworldly commitments began to take over. So unless someone is prepared to sponsor this space (because not unlike the Labor party, I'm selling out. Yeah!), you'll have to be content with slightly stale, yet still edible if you use it in a blueberry pie, other people's political satire in video form (cos I certainly can't think of anything relevant, witty, et al. by myself ).

First off, a primer for those of you unfamiliar with this MyFaceTubular election:



And a how to for political campaigning:



Speaking of furry animals:



If children's pop ain't your flava...bling...hŏs...nī'jər...some other stereotypical gangster phrase which will make me sound even more white?



A debate on Newstopia, probably the funniest show on Aussie TV at the moment (though they don't have much competition at the moment, do they?)



Another Micallef gem. Scarily still relevant despite it being done back in 2000:



More ovary-exploding Howard shenanigans (Warning: May induce heavy vomiting/pregnancy):



Not everyone is impressed by the way Howard uses his walk (that he's a woman's man, no time to talk)
(Language warning: English):



Though you can never have enough Howard bashing, we might as well take a break with some Rudd lovin':



Continuing with the ethnic theme:



Time for a breather. Here's some more Micallef funny:



Here's the obligatory Chaser clip that every political clip show must have, by law:



Okay, I got bored and looked up porn:



And as we approach the climax of this election (smooth transition, I know), we remember the past, and hope we don't make the same mistakes as we've made the past several times:



Despite what Mr. Newspoll and his bastard son Galaxy poll have to say, Camp Liberal still have an ace or two up their sleeve:



And like every other variety show, best-of montage, and barely read blog, let's end with a musical number. Here's Dan Kelly and the Alpha Males with Drunk On Election Night.
(Contains naughty words, though done oh so sweetly):

It isn't comedic, I know. But it's fitting. Let's hope it isn't telling of tomorrow night.


Come tomorrow, there'll be a change in the wind. If Liberal wins, there'll be overcast times, with the economy most likely plateuing if not hitting recession land due to inflationary pressures, barely anything material being done to battle climate change, and the health system still being in shambles; or if Labor wins, there'll be overcast times, with the economy most likely plateuing if not hitting recession land due to inflationary pressures, barely anything material being done to battle climate change, and the health system still being in shambles, what with their me too-ism MO.

One last quote to lave with you from the boys at Boxcutters: "Australia has a very clear choice on Saturday, and we've got a real chance to do something here, and I'd hate for Australia to wake up on Sunday morning and realise they had done the wrong thing. So I'm urging everyone to think about...your actions, and for the love of God, do not watch Mel and Kochie's election night crapathon"; "It's gotta be Antony Green and the ABC Team"



I'm excited about Election07! Are you?



Bonus content:
Another Chaser clip (slightly out of sync)
Why democracy is flawed
Endorse Your Fruit (the inspiration for this post's title)
Reasons You Will Hate Me (she who originally thought of the first half of the third pick-up line)
I can't believe it's not copyright infringement

The IJSF on: Health

Good health, bad taste.

More relevant reportage from the Important Journal of Scientific Fact! (Vol. 11 Oct 07):

9/11 meant lighter bubs

A trend towards low birth-weight babies born in and around New York in the months after 9/11 has been blamed on stress caused by the attacks.

The journal Human Reproduction reported a two-thirds increase in the risk of giving birst to a slightly underweight baby in the week after 9/11.

The University of California at Berkeley researchers found it was higher even months after.

The community has been loud in its desire for a solution to childhood obesity; and the IJSF! have delivered yet again with this important, potentially life-saving, medical finding.

One prominent weight loss corporation has already launched a new advertising campaign:
Are you worried that your future children will grow up morbidly obese? Well now there's a solution! Head down to your local Al-Qaeda branch or Young Liberals meeting, and ask them to ensue some fear into your community. Soon you'll be seeing images like this and this, giving your newborn a head start in life.

Think it's too good to be true? It isn't! Just ask this satisfied customer.

Not her: After my parents put me on the program, I haven't had any obesity issues. Thank you, weight-loss program! You've saved my life and public image!!

This program seems to work somewhat successfully. I have seen someone go from this to this to this after only 4 years on the program.


----------


In unrelated news, a new weight loss device has been discovered which will allow users to lose 20lb instantly. Schematics can be found below




Pay by credit card and get a free set of Steak Knives™. Perfect for instant weight loss on the go!


Another important lesson from the bastion of facts, stats and etc, the IJSF!

Idle Thoughts: Final 9

Unplugged and untalented.

After skipping last week's festival of the whiny disco balls due to otherworldly commitments, I tuned into last night's episode of Idol with the lowest of expectations based on Episode Two - which, like the movie of the same moniker, was so awful and cheesy I spent the next few days huddled in the corner of my room in the foetal position repeatedly muttering "Ken Bruce has gone mad".

It may have been because of the aforementioned low expectations, but the kids this week weren't eye-gougingly bad like in the semis and the Paper-Scissors- episode (no rock - geddit?!). I'm guessing it's the no-expense-spared production values and band, which would make Elton John sound like some camp karaoke performance, or former Mousketeers sound like they are well past their prime (a tangential aside). Given their own instruments, they could actually pull of a decent note. At some points, I was even liking the performances. I was shocked. What was this strange sensation I was feeling? Thankfully, that odd lapse in common sense was diffused by the usual suspects delivering their man-meat trays of mediocrity (speaking of which), although I still had to shower myself for about eleventy hours afterwards to clean off that stench of shame.

(transition)

If there's only one lesson I can extrapolate from this episode if Idol, it is Don't Do Drugs, Kids that Mark Holden is in love with Daniel Mifsud, and could possibly want to conceive his babies. The camera angles didn't cover it too well, but if you looked carefully at the judges desk, you could see that Mark's end was actually slightly elevated at the climax of Daniel's performance. I'll let your sordid imaginations fill in the appropriate gaps (like Mark wants to fill Daniel's gaps, perhaps?).

In other words, Daniel's comatose performance was not worthy of a touchdown. I'm assuming that these things are supposed to only reserved for the most top shelf of Idol performances (though saying that is essentially like comparing a can of VB to a can of XXXX* - either way, it's still crap in a can). However, the two handed out this season (to Matt Corby last episode and Daniel this ep) make it seem like all you need to do to get one of these things is to get Mark Holden hot and excited. Maybe that's what a touchdown is - is it the official recognition that Mark wants to touch them down in the pants?

Even though these touchdowns aren't exactly going to be highlighted on an Idol contestant's resume when they end up applying for a gig at the local Maccas, the unfortunate reality in the touchdown is that the kids that get them will always be voted though for several rounds, no matter how undeserving of the label it is. It's essentially a golden ticket to the next few rounds - at the cost of more deserving contestants whose talents consist more than having some chesthair, a scarf, and the ability to make Mark Holden want to park his car into their cock garage.
For example...





* XXXX: It's like having sex in a canoe - Fucking close to water


Edit (1/10/07): "The love from Holden that dare not speak its name." The omniscient voice over reveals a bit of truth in the elimination episode package, per chance? (Holden: "Package? Whose package?! Daniel's package?!!1! *changes pants*")

Idle Thoughts: The first seven minutes of Semi Finals 3 and 4

Dicko: "Perform last"

First off, a comment of Lana Krost. I wrote in the last edition that her performance was shocking, but that she'd get through to the next round purely on the TB/HTM vote. And guess what? She did. BOW DOWN TO MY POWERS OF guesstimation PSYCHIC AWESOME!!!
(Incidentally, Lana is reported in the Blue Collar Rag as being "Half-American and half-Vietnamese but born in Australia." I'm surprised she hasn't been adopted by Angelina Jolie in her quest to collect a child from every race on Earth, possibly to form some sort of unholy United Colours of Benntton army. But I digress...)
Speaking of undeserving hacks, Marty Simpson was one of the kids from the other group of boys (the good one) who got through. Other than a pair of eyebrows to stun, he had nothing going for him in his performance, which was a boring as bricks version of an already boring as bricks song, (Over My Head) (who, on a side note, only seem to release the one song over and over again but with a different name).

I know I've just joined the Idol merry-go-round, but has it always been like this? Has it always been the case that there is, apart from one worthy contestant, one undeserving contestant who goes through every semi-final? This year, there has been Matt Corby as well as the aformentioned Lana and Marty who have gone through to the finals despite a lack of entertaining singing abilities.
I have two schools of thought concerning this business. Firstly, voters are shallow people who will vote purely based on looks. Both Matt and Marty (I guess...) have The Dean Geyer Effect going for them (which is symptomised by the immediate ovulation of every female in the room; and in some cases, men). As for Lana, she would've got through based on both the fingers of the TBs voting for the young one (a la Lisa Mitchell and [insert your own example here]) and the hands of the Horny-Teen-Males (ie. The Hand-To-Gland Rule).
The other theory is that if you perform last, you'll get through. That logic has appeared in this year's semis as regularly as bowel movements. All those who sung last, Jacob, Lana and Agro, have gone through. I reckon voters are easily distracted, who vote for their favourite, and...um...the last person.

Here's hoping the final round can break this rule.






HOW IS THIS BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE?!

Idle Thoughts: Semi Final 2

Expect the expected

The second Idol semi-final has come and gone. My thoughts: The girls did decently, much better than the boys of the Semi Final the First; though that's kind of like saying you'd rather eat a piece of cake than a piece of crap- a godawfully homogenised, cliched and generally undeserving of 15 minutes of Idol fame (except for the odd WEIGHT CRISIS article in the local gossip rag) piece of crap. At least I could differentiate between the girls without having to refer to their costumes.

This sentiment, however, leaves me with little material to play with. I can't completely trash the girls voices, as that would make me a bit of a hypocrite; even worse, an Idol hypocrite - one of the lowliest labels possible.
And I can't pick on their costumes, as they didn't have the nafftastic conformity of the Night of the Scarves. That, and I'll probably be accused of being sexist. Even worse, I'll be on par with Kyle 'S&M Throat Fetish' Sandilands, who did go down that hazy path in commenting on Tarisai's pants, laying on several blatant subtextual hints of weight issues, something I'm sure Kyle will be familiar with (i.e. HE'S FAT!). Now there's an Idol hypocrite for you.
But I'll do my best. Prepare to be disappointed.

Speaking of nothing to do with winners, the aformentioned Tarisai was voted into the next round, as well as 17 year old Lana. Tarisai's inclusion was a no brainer - even if some viewers didn't like her, her voice, which was so loud that I think that the producers needn't bother giving her a mic, would have still echoed in viewers' ears as they blindly poked at their mobile phones. However, I'm not sure if she's aoing to appeal to the main voting demographics like some of the other contestants.
And that's where Lana comes in. Being the precocious 17 year old, there was no surprise in her getting through, despite a performance which was almost as weak as a Starbucks 'coffee' or an insult from Kyle the Cock. Performing Stacy Ann Ferguson's Big Girls Don't Cry didn't do her any favours in my eyes (but Ferguson's lack of talent is for another day). But clearly, she's fancied by both major voting blocs: the TBs ("OMG SHES A QTIE!!1!!") and the Horny-Teen-Males ("*thwap* *thwap* *thwap*")
What irked me the most about her inclusion is that it further pushes the fact that Idol is basically all about image. Yes, I know it's Idol, we're talking about. I know that singing is the least important aspect of this singing contest. But the whole image thing was pushed by all the judges, who each said in one form or another 'Awww. You're so adorable. I just want to gobble you up' etc.
On that note, Kyle revealed again what a twat he is, by saying to Lana that her performance should have been "sexier." This is a 17 year old girl we're talking about here. Yet Kyle wants this underaged contestant to be "sexier." You just have to question his motives. However legal eagles, I'm not going to specifically mention any ideas of inappropriate behaviour which may or may not end happily. I'm just saying the last thing we need is another Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera in her 'Dirrty' days hogging up the charts, let alone one from the factory of Idol.

*remembers Xtina's Dirrty phase*

*throws up*

It's a shame Cheray didn't get through. Her performance was respectable. Her particular stylings, however, would mainly appeal to an older demographic, and we all know older Idol voters don't actually exist; they're just like the Sandman or the Tooth Fairy (though last time I checked, the Easter Bunny was just about to be elected as CEO of a major Legal Firm, I won't remind you which one, as I'm sure you all know of this very common fact)


This is turning out to be a very typical series of Idol, and I can already tell that by the end of the series, I'll be shaking my fist at the TV when they pick the least desering winner. Despite that, I'll still tune in to the next two semi-finals with my 'Surprised' face on just in case someone at The Ministy of Truth Network Ten is watching me back via the telescreen*.



*Yes, I have been reading 1984, thank you for asking.

Idle Thoughts: Semi Final 1

Kyle (paraphrased):"All I can do is reiterate what Dicko and Marcia have said..."

Too true words from Kyle. Apart from one comment, all he did was copycat what the previous judges said, barely a scent of originality in sight. No wonder the producers put him on the right side of the table. I'm guessing it was for the best - if Kyle had to create more than one original thought per episode, he might strain something.

To the contestants, and I didn't like any of them. There was barely anything to differentiate from the lot, apart from what wacky costumes they wore, and even in that aspect, most of them adorned themselves in some form of silly neckwear. Husny, in particular, ended up looking like the result of a sordid one night stand between Prince, Flava Flav and Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.
Whilst I'm here, I reckon Matt will make it far into the finals. He may not necessarily have the charisma, and I can't shake the feeling that he'd end up a Karaoke Princess, but he can hit the notes, but most importantly, the girls will think he's hot. That'll get the TBs flailing their fingers at their mobile phones and donating their 55c to the 'Corby Is Hot He Must Win LOL' fund. It's the Dean Geyer Effect all over again.
Vocally, they all even sounded the same. In one form or another, they all had that nasal R&B tone Guy Sebastian ran with in the first series. I'm guessing this blandness is the reason why these Idol kids (or at least the producers who dressed them) decided to give them all their distinctive costumes and neck trinkets, to give the viewers a way to remember them, cos we certainly aren't gonna recognise them by their original voices.
I should mention at this point that my tastes in male singers tend to have a voice that wouldn't even make it past the cattle calls (too much awsomeness for the Idol machine, maybe?). But last year's winner Damien Leith proved that Idol voters do actually respect a good crisp voice and songsmith, as opposed to some vocalist melismating their way through a butchered version of whatever song is popular at the moment.

And now an ordered list of like:
Jacob (Best by default. He didn't sound like some R&B cliché like the others - he sounded like a Rock Ballad cliché)
Carl (must...not...make...Village..People...joke...*head explodes*)
Matt (Stopping by Idol studios with a vanilla performance on his way to a Middle-Eastern Leaders themed dress-up party)
Junior (He sung Pink's Dear Mr. President without any political malice. Memories of punk rocker Lee Harding's version of Holiday come flooding back - I NEED AN EXORCIST AND A PLUNGER, NOW!!!!)
Daniel (He looked like he had just jumped out of a Lacoste catalogue. Wanker)
Husny ((from his profile)"Music is, like, is a big tool..." You're a big tool, Husny!)

Here's hoping tomorrow's batch of girls have some talent to them. We don't want a repeat of that train wreck from a few years ago.

A community message from the IJSF!

'We need 100ccs of stat, STAT!'

An important message from The Important Journal of Scientific Fact! (Vol. 21/8/2007):

"New research shows women who fume, but stay mute, during spats are four times as likely to die than women who give in to a screaming match"

That's right, ladies. If you yell at your partner, you are four times less likely to die than if you stay silent. This means that potentially, yelling during an argument with your partner CAN MAKE YOU IMMORTAL!!
Remember, it's not domestic violence, it's self-defence to save your own life.
Another meaningful statistic from The Important Journal of Scientific Fact!, the source of all quality scientific research findings.

As you were.

Attack of the D&G

"You know who wears sunglasses indoors? Blind people and assholes" - Larry David

The other day, the new logo for the London 2012 Olympics was unveiled (and yes, I know that actually happened months ago, making that sentence about as topical as haemorrhoid cream. But I needed a decent segue, dammit!). For those of you just joining us click here for the logo; but if you like a worded description, basically it’s a retina piercing bright fluoro-pink, sharp edged ‘2012’ arranged in two rows. One could also think of it as a broken swastika. This guy (a design, not art, student) calls it bad design. One can also accurately accuse this logo of being so ugly it gives everyone it touches seizures and cancer of the retinas.

The thing that sticks out about this logo, though, is how 1980s it looks. That bright fluoro and jagged edged motif hasn’t been seen in public since its well deserved execution back when the 90s was introduced to a wide-eyed, bouffant-haired, shoulder-padded population.
The makers of this logo have used the Art Student defence (if you explain something abstractly enough, it’s just got to be right) and said that the logo depicts a modern day London. The sad thing about this comment is that it is completely true. We, as a society, have devolved back to that horrific era of cringe-worthy 80s fashion. Be scared, ladies and menfolk, be very scared.

I remember back when everyone dismissed the 80s as a decade of bad fashion and an overabundance of daggy. If you dare wore something remotely fluoro, or wore sunglasses under a roof, you would be subject to several beatings and name callings. Then one day, the legitimately cool kids at school began wearing hints of this sort of thing, occasionally wearing a pair of op-shop 80s sunglasses, but in a purely ironic isn’t-this-lame way. Then that trend spread to the supposedly cool kids, who saw this as teh coolzor!, incorporating this stuff into their wardrobe and seal-clubbing uniforms. Eventually, celebrities got a hint of this from their PR hounds, and thus began the plague. Fast forward a couple of years, and now everyone is donning the 80s fashion, but in a legitimate this-is-serious-mum kind of way, blinded by supposedly popular culture.

If you think I’m wrong, just pop down to your local seal-clubbery or business faculty in your local university to see this phenomenon in action: A mass of eye-piercing fluoro t-shirts and hoodies brighter than a whole club full of Wanker Boys, scraggy bouffant hairstyles higher than the Tower of Babel (referring to the size of the wearer’s ego, maybe?), and the bug-eyed people wearing face-sized sunglasses – so many freaking face-glasses!

This combination has pretty much become the official uniform of teenagers everywhere. Take a walk around the city and you’ll see at least a third of male teenagers wearing near-identical copies of the following:

• Bouffant, scraggly hair with blonde tips;
  
• A fluoro coloured t-shirt with words like “Shiny Disco Ball” or “I’m a Walking Dance Cliché” in a large, jagged font plastered on the front;
  
• A hoodie with logos and icons synonymously of the 80s (in fluoro, of course);
  
• Jeans that are either so tight you’ll be worried (sorta) that one wrong move will castrate the wearer, or so loose they hang down to the knees;
  
• A belt so large one wouldn’t be too far off in mistaking it as a codpiece/sock-down-the-trousers; white sneakers with some name brand shouting its presence;
  
• And last and most definitely least, the face-sized sunglasses, most likely tinted so that it acts as an impromptu mirror for every other fashion sheep to check that their hair is still perfectly coiffed.

Which brings us to the face-glasses thing, the centrepiece of this fashion rehash. Popularised by such outstanding model citizens as Paris Beckham (I’ll be surprised if the latter ever takes off her face-glasses) and Misha Barton, the face-glasses have taken off in popularity over the past year of so.
The look behind the face-glasses (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!) is supposedly intended to make the face itself look smaller and thus more petite and cute. I’m guessing that whenever people put on a pair of the things, they reckon they look like this:

However, they’re more likely to look like the following:

Everywhere I go, I see a handful of people wearing these face-glasses. What’s worrying is that many of these sightings are of folks who wear these sunglasses indoors; and for males, there is no escaping the fact that they look like an absolute arsehat doing this. Once, I saw a guy – typical wanker boy – who was in a shop wearing his tinted glasses like the cool chic guy he isn’t, whilst LOOKING AT OTHER TINTED FACE GLASSES!!
Most of these sunglasses have some fancy-pants brand adorning them, like Dolce and Gabbana or something like that. Now here’s a conspiracy theory for you: The abbreviation of Dolce & Gabbana is D&G (the letters and punctuation mark that adorns everything the brand touches). Notice how that ampersand looks kind of like the letter A:

D&G ----> DAG!!!

What’s even more horrific than this conspiracy of the Dag staring at us in the face (or not, it’s so hard to tell where people are looking considering their D&Ggy face-glasses seem to be permanently attached to their heads), is that this 80s trend is spreading it’s influence on so many other aspects of society.
Nearly every popular musical release steals samples from that decade. Rihanna’s SOS, for example, is basically a karaoke version of Soft Cell’s Tainted Love, just with the lyrics changed; kind of like that comedic device where the words of a popular song is altered to get a laugh, just without the funny, soul and irony.
Nearly every second blockbuster film is a poor adaptation of an 80s invention. And we can’t mention movies without mentioning Napoleon Dynamite, the film that every uni student was quoting non-stop at one point and claiming it as TEH GREATEST FLIM EVA!!2!1!!11!!@! despite it being at best a half-decent film, which is pretty much is a cinematic homage to that decade. And, of course, that ungodly decade was the inspiration for the London 2012 logo.

Maybe I’m getting a little it ahead of myself. Perhaps this whole thing could be an attempt by the children of that era (ie. Born in the 1980s) to recapture a period of time when thing were simpler, where we didn’t have Global Warming, Oil shortages and the War on Ethnics Terrorists bombarding society (instead we had Nuclear Winter, Oil price spikes and the War on Ethnics Communists). It could also be these kids trying to experience the decade in which they were born in, but were too young to experience the…naïve pleasures spawned from that era.
Perhaps, and at this point of the blog I must label this following sentence and paragraph LIES cos the fashion big wigs all read and love this blog and get all of their ideas off of this hereby space (a comment I again must label LIES) and I like my arse the way it is at the moment: unlitigated and firm, like mutton. Where was I? Ah yes. Perhaps, this could just be a campaign by Dolce & Gabbana and other fashion companies to clear out warehouses full of surplus face-glasses and fluoro 80s clothing*.

The only hope I can see in this whole debacle is that fashion, like the folk that follow it almost sheepishly, is an easily distracted creature. For some reason, it stumbled upon some mothballed boxes of bad 80s clothing and accessories, and decided to call that The Modern Fashion. Now that 80s fashion is truly entrenched in society, it will hopefully be a short time before the fashion beast tires of the 80s, and moves on to another decade to be ‘inspired’ by. Here’s hoping that Mr. Versace or Ms. Target bump into a crate of clothes from the 1890s, cos who here doesn’t want to dress up like a grizzly old gold prospector or a character from a Jane Austen novel?

At the moment, though, we’re still dressing and living in the past, with wanker boys and permatan bimbos continuing to dictate market forces and how society runs in general. This Attack of the D&G has made some forget that the uniform they wear so adamantly now as a fashion statement was not so long ago, and will soon be, considered horrifically daggy and naff. I personally can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of so many business students when they realise that the 80s clothes that they have spent hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on has become naff once again. In the meantime, we’ll just wait for the boffins at Fashion Land to unleash a chicken onto their archived wardrobes to pick out the Next Big Thing in fashion, and simultaneously hope that something decent comes out of the Eightiesfication of society – A Captain Planet movie, perhaps?

* LIES!**

** or is it...***


*** YES IT'S LIES****


**** or not...*****


***** YES, YES IT IS!!!

Someone, make it stop! It's hurting me!

Warning: The following may contain naughty words, and more arm-flailing and spittle-flicking than a nickelback cover band or an Andrew Bolt column.

Someone up there (in ManagerLand) must hate me. The other day at work, we got the chance to finally listen to a real CD as opposed to those provided by our workplace: Year old compilation CDs crammed with more ham than the local abattoir. We (i.e. everyone else but me) chose some generic dance compilation: DoofDoof, or Ruining Good Songs By Adding A Dance Beat #42, or something like that. Overriding democratic decision, like the Big Dubya and Iraq, one of the managers chose a CD which I’m thinking they assumed that the kids would be into.

Ladies and Menfolk, the hour-or-so which followed was horrific stuff. For you see, I was forced to listen to hinder *spits*. Btw, that isn’t an unintentional grammatical error you witness. A band (and I use that term extremely reluctantly, in lieu of the term I would prefer to refer to them as: Ear molesterers) like hinder don’t deserve capitalisation (dun, Dun, DUN)

I had originally heard their first single on the radio whilst on my rare excursions to commercial radio. At first I thought, “Oh boy, another nickelback song. Prepare the gas masks to mask the stench of crap music, people”. Research (and some gushing friends) eventually discovered that this was another band. A real band. Not some bad joke; not a nickelback cover band off Australia’s Got (no) Talent to be laughed/heckled/thrown tomatoes at. A legitimate band with visions of narcissistic grandeur (A quote from an interview: "We run on booze and hairspray" Can you say: ‘Wanker’?) (an aside: A disturbing find on their MySpazz page). I wrote them off as a one hit wonder, mainly to keep me sleeping at night knowing that my ears would be assaulted nevermore, and that my eyes would be forever free of their arm-flailing shenanigans.

Then the album came out. Immediately, it looked horrific. Click here for the cover, but basically, it’s a pair of boobs. Not the boobs belonging to a band member (I would be surprised if their interactions with women diverted from Penthouse Stories and “So, how do you like your eggs in the morning? Fertilised?”). I could imagine the typical story of a hinder user: Horny teenage male goes to a record shop. They see the album cover. They immediately think “OMG B0OB1ES!” They immediately purchase the album in this phallus-centric frenzy (jokes for psych/Freud nerds), go home and rip the CD onto their non-specific brand MP3 player whilst their CD player gathers dust. They play the CD expecting music from said boobies. They are disappointed, wondering why the shop assistant put a nickelback CD in place of the boobies.
Basically, I tried to avoid the CD and anything associated with this cheap, possibly STD infected music. It would only make me angry. But then at work, the CD began to play.

That album was the musical equivalent of bowel cancer. It was horrible stuff. Not a trace of originality in the air(waves) whatsoever; just a shitload of hate. It pretty much crossed off a big chunk of the Bad Rock Clichés list:

• More ego than the average Wanker: Check
• All-American guitar solo: Check-Check-One-Two
• More wailing than a Japanese boat off our shores: Oh, yes!
• Gratuitous swearing in order to make the band look ‘OMG ARENT I UBER KEWL!!!!1!!’: O RLY?! YA SRSLY!!!!2@!!
• Lead ‘singer’ ‘sings’ in unintelligible drawl to hide the fact that they can’t put together a decent song: O mais, oui!

That last point I'll need to emphasise with a few choice lyrics: "If it's not perfect I'll perfect it till my heart explodes"; "The break up is worth the make up sex you're givin me/Lets hash it out"; "Let's go home and get stoned/Cause the sex is so much better when you're mad". Set your eyebrows to stunned. Btw, those nuggets of not-gold were all from the first song on the album. And it goes with such respectful lyrics as: "She said she's sorry/With one finger/I said fuck that", and "She said she loved the taste of my oh oh oh." hinder: The official soundtrack to your local Women's Rights meeting.
It's so bad, my crotch hurts. And yes, they wrote their own lyrics. Make of that as you will.

I got the impression that the origins of hinder went something like this:

Record company bigwig #1: “Our sales are dropping. Quickly, we need a band that sounds like nickelback”
Record company bigwig #2: “Well, I did see some buskers at the front of the building covering some nickelback songs”
Record company bigwig #1: “Prepare the contracts and get them up here, now!”

Now, I’ve got a reputation of level-headed opinion writing (click here for one of many examples), and I’ll try to do my best with this aural torture device band. Here we go:

...

Um...

...

They cou- nah…

...

I can only think of one decent thing to say about them. The album seems to portray the project as being, well, very well organised. Listening, I could tell that the guitars and drums were tuned, the microphones were working, the producer was sitting on his chair, the mixing board was flashing lights, the coffee pot was boiling, and the fax machine was on.

Apart from that, I can’t say a good thing about the Ear Molesterers without hating myself afterwards, making me want to play the Emo Violin. This kind of rehashed, microwaved unoriginality is one of the many things wrong with the current music industry. Despite the swelling amount of good music out there (Sarah Blasko, Gotye, Belle and Sebastian, Ray, etc), people still flock around crap like this, partly because commercial radio stations continue to spread the news, like the Hitlers of old, that crap like this is "TEH (sic) AWESOME BUY THE ALBUM AND CHECK OUT OUR BLACKTHUNDERS!!" I could also blame the major record companies, but some people would call what I would potentially type, Defamation.

But I digress. After the CD had dealt it’s final kick to the crotch, I was left scarred for the rest of the night. Immediately after that Hour Of Power-pelvis-thrusting-and-ego-flopping-onto-the-table, respite came in the form of the latest Red Hot Chili Peppers CD. For the first couple of tracks, I was hating the experience, sick of rock music after that Hour Of etc, and I was hating myself for it. Luckily, that story had a happy ending (not that kind, more like that kind), as I soon got into the swing of the good music once again. But I couldn’t erase the scars and stains left by that one crowded hour.

That was from one hour of the nickelback cover band, and I am a rampant flag-flyer for rock music. Imagine the impact of those who purchased the album and are listening to it constantly. Only a large level of brainwashing can cure those poor souls of such horrific assault.

If hell had elevator music for the way down, I reckon this would be it. It’s unoriginal, it hurts my head when I listen to it, and it’s just about every shade of suck possible. Basically, the album violated me. Rough. I’ll jump off my high horse soon, but not after this parting comment: Please, hinder. For the love of all things sacred, please go to your neighbour and borrow a cup or two of talent; and maybe a bottle of originality. Please. And if you could pass that message to nickelback whilst you're copying being 'inspired' by them, that would be shiny.

Addendum: After Goggle searching for some links and research related to hinder *spits*, my Internet died, requiring a reset of the computer. Coincidence, I think NOT!

An ode to those who touch themselves in public at night time

Doof-doof-doof-doof-etc

Little wanker boy
Livin’ in suburbia
His perfectly coiffed hair
Makes him feel holier

Little wanker boy
Lookin’ for some birds
He can’t call them women
The insecure little turd

Little wanker boy
Puttin’ on his top
Pink and pretty and macho
‘Specially with collar popped

Little wanker boy
Puttin’ on his fumes
We call it cologne
He calls it ‘perfume’

Little wanker boy
Wearin’ mirrored glasses
Without anyone knowing
He’s checkin’ out some asses

Little wanker boy
Shufflin’ around the town
Lookin’ ever so fashionable
Wearin’ his pants half down

Little wanker boy
Arrivin’ at the club
Thinks he’s the fo-shiz
He’s looking much the dud

Little wanker boy
Finally gets inside
He goes to the floor
Struts imaginary pride

Little wanker boy
Shakin’ it real hard
Insert a pelvic thrust
Lookin’ like a retard

Little wanker boy
Tries another line
“Oi, wanna root?”
“Get lost, you little swine”

Little wanker boy
Chasin’ up some tail
Forgive them if they run
‘Cos it’s slimy like a snail

Little wanker boy
Circlin’ ‘round some gals
Doesn’t penetrate the group
He frauds success to pals

Little wanker boy
Fails for another night
Drunk on half a bottle
He tries to start a fight

Little wanker boy
Stumblin’ on the highway
His head in the gutter
He purges the night away

Little wanker boy
Back to his yuppie land
He goes into his room
And gives himself a hand
…shandy, that is

Thanks to Brian and Daniel for contributions

Live from the Q. L. D.

Fear of flying
Here I am in Mermaid Beach, Queensland, stuck here one hour behind the rest of the world. I’ve just flown here on one of those discount airlines, and to be honest…it was a disappointment.
I don’t really know what to expect. Maybe I was expecting 50s style flying reincarnated, where everyone held flying in such high esteem. Everyone wore suits and fancy cocktail dresses. Everyone would be laughing, talking, and just be generally happy. The alcohol was flowing and nearly everyone smoked (well, maybe that last bit was best left in the 50s).
The actual experience was…boring to say the least. Walking on to the plane, it reminded me of walking into a department store, a frugal one I must add. The air smelt like it had been circulating in that small, contained space for longer than you and I have. There was even some really tawdry pop music playing over the PA; you know, the really tacky 80s and 90s pop music whose rights can be bought for about $2.99/lb down in the bargain bin at your local major record company.
What I found most disappointing, though, was the lack of atmosphere in the air (the metaphorical type, not the scientific type – jokes for nerds). Everything was just eerily quiet. Everyone was keeping to themselves. There wasn’t a “So, what brings you to town” conversation, none of the “What’s your name?” talk, and not even a polite smile as you sit next to the person you’re gonna be quasi-intimately close to for the next several hours (let me assure you, I didn’t expect to join any mile high clubs like this one – I still haven’t even joined the four-feet high club yet).
I was expecting a majestic experience several thousand feet in the air (why can’t I talk in metrics today?), soaring high above the clouds, getting ever so closer to God (or who/whatever you believe in). Instead, all I got was a glorified, several hundred dollar train ride.

There airport was also a bitter disappointment. It’s too damn humid up here, so instead of typing, I’ll just post some pics.

Boring, isn’t it? Just like the ride itself. Worst rollercoaster ever.




There isn’t much in terms of entertainment up here in Coolongatta Airport. Here we see the current feature exhibit “Great Moments in Conveyor Belts”. It’s one of the more popular exhibits.

Not so popular, though, is this “Objects that shouldn’t be shoved up your arse” window.

More exciting adventures to come tomorrow (or whenever)

Edit (3/5/06): Nothing interesting happened. So instead, here's something I found.

The rituals of the drunk

A perspective from the morning after
Whilst talking to some friends about drinking the other day (cos that's what all the kids talk about, apparently), I was posed the question, "So, what kind of drunk are you?"
Ah, the ultimate judge of character. From that one night (or day, depending on your Man Points), the casual observer will completely know the ins and outs of you, even if you have no idea what's what at that particular moment, depending on what kind of drunk you are. I was thrown by this question. Previous to this moment, I had never been completely munted. Yes, I've had the occasional drink (prior to my coming of age, I'd never sought out drinks. that involved too much effort), but not to the point of head-to-gutter contact. I didn't know what kind of drunk I was.
At this point, I should clarify the Official Categories of Drunk (amended 2004). From what I can remember of this charter, the categories of drunk include: Happy ("Woo, beer!"), Hyperactive ("beerbeerbeeberbeerberrbeer..."etc.), Angry (*punchy**hurty*), Handsy ("Iluvyabudyyyy"*grope*), Dancer/Dancing Queen ([rhythm not found]); Depressed (*unhappy*), and Sleazy ("Oi! WannaRoot?"). If I'm forgetting anything, add the other categories to the comments.
I was confused. If I don't know what kind of drunk I am, I know nothing of myself (apparently). So to notch up some miles along the path of self-enlightenment, I joined a few people I knew and went out for a night of drinking to the point of self-abuse (not the happy-ending self abuse, I must point out). I am pleased to announce that I am a Big Boy now! I'm not gonna go into too many details, as frequent viewers will already know of the juicy details.

"What kind of drunk are you?" There's that question again. Though after going through that night, replaying my surroundings and my behaviour over and over again, this question is kind of inaccurate. It isn't like you immediately become a completely different person, or a caricature that can be lumped into a few categories (human complexities are fun(!)).
Rather, I found that people still remain themselves when they become somewhat schickered; just more extreme versions of themselves. Examples are go: Not a fan of dance music when sober, you'll despise the stuff when smashed; That girl/guy you kinda have an interest for will become your One True Love after a few several glasses; All your opinions will become The Law if you're dancing the drunken shuffle. And so on, and so forth. It's like watching someone through a magnifying glass: Their characteristics and behaviour are demonstrated with broad strokes, rather than fine brushes.
So in a way, you could be thrown into the Categories of Drunk, but this is merely an easier way to describe a person and their normal behaviour. A happy drunk will usually be a steady person with nothing to worry about. The angry and depressed drunk will usually have a few small, niggling issues that they have to deal with. The sleazy drunk will in real life be a fucking wanker who needs to grow up already and lose that fucking ego. Etcetera.

What's just as fun, I found, is the morning after, when the Sensible You wakes up and hears about the crazy times Drunk You got up to the previous night. And let me tell you, Sensible You, like the average mother, won't like any of the stuff Drunk You did. What did you do? You told the other children what? Why did you punch that guy? What did I tell you about flopping your wang out in public? After this scolding, Sensible You will just go ahead and punish the hell out of Drunk You. The other Yous watch on, curious as to what the maternal is doing. She's still raging on, however, and she'll swing her rage towards these nosy Yous. Punishments will be handed out left, right and centre, leaving everyone with a headache, as well as that sick felling of guilt.
After this lesson in authority, you're left with Sensible You's words lingering in your head (as well as the aftertaste of sick in your mouth), replaying the previous night to the soundtrack of those words. Much of the time, you wince as to what you did the previous night. But in some cases, you are, for the lack of a better word, proud of what you got up to, what Drunk You did what Rational You couldn't have done in normal life. It depends really. The really fun bit, though, comes afterwards, when you act on what went on that night. Do you re-introduce yourself to those friendly people you met last night? How do you handle those personal secrets people handed over to you? Do you chase up that new phone number in your collection?

Agoraphobia: Fear of (My)Space

...be my friend?
Ladies, gentlemen and etc. I am a changed man. I have played the part of the sheep and joined the many, many folk and jumped on the latest Internet fad. That's right, I've got me a MySpace account. Please don't hate me

Why, I hear you (i.e. myself) ask? Considering the potential risks I put to myself by parading my ego on such a site, what with all the MySpace fights (just like a normal fight, but a lot nerdier) and impostor accounts and whatnot. But I've taken several hits for this blog (note to self: insert hits here in future), so for you, loyal readers, I'm willing to take another one. That, and I was peer pressured into getting one.

Three months into creating my Area of Narcissism Mk 2, I'm still dumbfounded as to that particular factor that makes it so addictive for the children, like MSN Messenger did back in the day. Or crack. There have been a few things that have caught my eye, though.

For one, there does seem to be a morbid obsession concerning friend counts. At the moment, I have a total of 23 friends. Yet I see accounts which have friends ranging into the thousands. There's even this one guy who has 149,079,780 friends. He must be a super cool person if so many people are friends with him. Even I'm one of his friends, and I can't even recall meeting him. He's just that awesome, I presume. Some narks reckon though that he is automatically added as a friend when you create your account. But those people just can't handle the AwesomeSauce that is Tom.
It isn't only people with lots of friends that garner lots of attention. There was a curious project that I tripped upon one day in my miscellaneous Internet adventures (yes, I managed to force myself off MySpace for more than five seconds): The SportsRacer Holiday MySpace Adoption Program. It was a call to arms on The Show With Ze Frank for viewers to nominate people with very few MySpace friends for a mass adoption. Wanna know how that ended up? (*this is a spoiler alert. do not panic. look away calmly if you do not want to know the results. avert your eyes if you treasure your innocence. this is a spoiler alert. you have been warned*) The adoptees were freaked out (*that was a spoiler alert. return to your normal lives, or however normal it can be*)
Which raises the question? Why the hooha over how many friends you have? Sure it may provide a platform to meet old people you may have lost contact with or, for more advanced players, to even meet new people. Though I willing to assume that for many MySpace users, the friends count is there to brag to your other friends how many friends you have. I can imagine the schoolyard (cat)fights now:
Kid A: Hey, someone wants to add me as their friend. That brings the count up to 50,000. Hooray! Hey Kid B, I've just got me 50,000 friends.
Kid B: Only 50,000. You're such a loser. I've got 435,678 friends. Much better than your piece of shit.
Kid A: Oh yeah. Well on my old MySpace account, I had 1,543,435 friends.
Kid B: Nuh uh, assface.
Kid A: Uh huh, turdburgler.
Me: Settle down kids. Sure you may have lots of "friends" (to self: i'm guessing it's the razor sharp wit that attracts them), but how many of these so called friends do you actually know and keep in constant contact with?
(beat)
Kid B: I was in contact with your mum, last night.
Me: Why you litt - (Censored. there may be actual people reading this. i can't expose them to gratuitous violence, unless they request it...)
(Cleaning self up)
My point is, it isn't the number of friends that count, it's the time and effort that you spend with people that determines whether they are your true friends or not. That and year 8 and 9 kids can bee annoying little shits at times (but we all knew that already, didn't we?)

There's also seems to be this mentality of getting your MySpace space, throwing shit, faeces and more shit onto it, and basically seeing what sticks (case in point - not recommended for people with slow computers, epilepsy or eyes). You know who I blame for all this, MTV. Damn them with their R&B video clips and their varying degrees of celebrity. Also, damn them for turning the word "pimp" into a verb and popularising the thing. Thanks to them, it's suddenly hip* to go medieval on one's MySpace page, hurling whatever music, movies, images of people onto their pages.
In some cases, it's alright. It lets you know what the person is all about. But in other cases, it's the equivalent of the middle-aged businessman or car geek buying and p-word-ing a really big sports car, overcompensating for something. I'll leave that something up to you reader folk. Comment on that, if you will.


Despite this, there's got to be some perverse delights to be gotten from MySpace other than by pleasuring yourself (in a G-rated above-the-pants way, of course**) by viewing your own profile and watching the profile views part grow.
Well, there is the opportunity to post on your friend's comments page. However, this would probably result in a conversation via the comments page, for all the public to see. It'll like eavesdropping, except you only get to hear one side of the conversation. So many comments that can be taken out of context.
I'm still waiting for the day I see a really exciting comments page conversation. I've already mentioned the organised fights. Bring on the one-sided stalking, relationship starts, relationship ends and marriage proposals, I say. In fact, here's a game to play. Get a one-sided conversation (a least 5-comments long) and make up the other side of it. an example will be provided as soon as I can be bothered.

Well, I'm past that three month anniversary of the New Me: The pimped-up, friend laden, publicly exposed me. Here's to another few months of MySpace before me and my short attention span get inevitably get over MySpa - Ooh, look at the bright orange colours! Hehehehe! LOL!!!! RMAO!!!!!!1!!

More MySpace analysis to come.
P.S. Sorry if I seem to be really cynical and jaded of the experience. I'm just feeling a little lonely right now. After all, I only have 23 friends, according to MySpace...

Some other MySpace pages:
The stereotypical TB***
(imagine something worthy of EPIC LULZ here)


*By using that word, I have now officially lost all hope of ever being considered legitimately cool and popular (that's misleading. that statement assumes I ever had a chance of being popular and cool in the first place)

**Unless it's on Tuesday nights, in which case, the safety word this time is Triangle

***That's Teeny-Bopper btw, not Tuberculosis