Florida has a lot to answer for

'Music' that's lower than a hooker's knickers

Me and popular music have had a peaceful truce as of the recent. It can go in the corner and roll around in its own crap as much as it wants, so long as it didn't do it in my corner of the room. It was going well until this man...thing decided to hurl some of his crap my way:




That's right, I'm talking about Flo Rida (geddit, because he's from Florida? LOLLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLLOLOLOLOLOL!).



For the sake of padding out this post with pointless exposition, Flo (or is it pronounced 'FLEEEERRRRRRRRRRRR!'?) released a song recently called Low. Imagine any mainstream r&b/rap song you've heard in the past - seriously, any song; they all sound the same in the end. Now imagine said song being 'performed' by a man living without the burden of a functional knowledge of the English language. And imagine if this man had got a hold of a set of those phonetic flash cards they use to teach young children how to speak. It's something like that. Don't believe me just take a sample of some lyrics:

I ain't never [sic] seen nuthin [sic] that'll make me go,
this crazy all night spendin [sic] my dough
Had a million dollar vibe and a bottle to go
Dem [sic] birthday cakes, they stole the show
So sexual, she was flexible
Professional, drinkin [sic] X [sic] and ooo [sic]

...

Work the pole, I got the bank roll
Imma [sic] say that I prefer them no clothes
I'm into that, I love women exposed
She threw it back at me, I gave her more
Cash ain't a problem, I know where it goes

I'm guessing there's supposed to be some semblance of storyline in this thing. Here goes: Our hero, Flo, is currently at his local exotic dancery (by himself, I'm presuming (maybe all his MySpazz friends lost their invites in the mail)). He's pontificating about the quality of the fair maidens (I don't know why, though. It's a Tuesday arvo, you're not exactly going to get the club's A-team performing) and applauding their performances with alms.

"Shawty [sic] what I gotta [sic] do to get you home
My jeans full of gwap [sic]
And they ready for Shones [sic]
Cadillacs Maybachs [sic] for the sexy grown [sic]
Patrone [sic] on the rocks that'll make you moan"

Our hero's attention has been captured by one fair lady in particular: A damsel who, despite a height deficiency, more than makes up for it with her beauty. He's already begun celebrating her presence, in his pants, and he's ready for...uhm...I'm confused. Shones? Maybachs?

As Winston Churchill once said, "What the f*** is this man saying?"

Whoa
Shawty [sic]
Yea she was worth the money
Lil [sic] mama took my cash,
and I ain't [sic] want it back,
The way she bit that rag,
got her them paper stacks,
Tattoo above her crack,
I had to handle that,

Hmm, so the horny loner finally got the midget hooker he wanted. And he got one who seems to have a fetish for stacks of newspapers. It''s a classic fairy tale ending.



All happy endings aside, I hear kids on the streets and in the clubs shouty-singing the (just as incomprehensible) chorus. And amidst their wailing, they don't realise that THE MAN IS SINGING ABOUT HIRING A PROSTITUTE, and the children don't seem to care. Which may explain why it seems that Wayne Carey just got paid about $180,000 for (allegedly) beating up his partner, and no one bats an eyelid (although Wayne Carey may or may not have allegedly batted his girlfriend's eyelid that night (Antisocial Rant does not condone assault in any way shape or form)).



And the delivery, my goodness the delivery. With his slurred syllables and general disregard of proper pronunciation conventions, he sounds like a drunk caveman halfway during a stroke. One could almost say he's the modern r&b/rap equivalent of nickelback or hinder, only slightly more turned on by Verne Troyer and a daily broadsheet. Slightly.



The whole package is so bad, I'm guessing if Mr. Blonde was playing this song instead of Stuck in the Middle With You, he wouldn't have had to do any work - the officer's ears would've just plopped themselves right off to escape the agony of having to listen to one more second of Flo Rida's inane ramblings.



In short, this is horrible stuff from a man who doesn't at all sound like he's overcompensating for (a lack of) something. Low is devoid of originality, quality and any semblance of goodness, which would explain why it's flying up the charts. I may have edited out certain lyrics, but trust me: You're Not. Missing Out. On. Anything! In fact, you're better out missing out on everything, so that the rest of your days won't be brought down by the knowledge that you have wasted 3:50 on this insipid crap.



Now if you don't mind, I'll be back in my corner, putting on a tarp.

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!