"Australian singer Delta Goodrem, who is on a promotional tour in the US, rang the opening bell [at the New York Stock Exchange]..." (Source: Herald Sun)
At 2:20pm Australian time:
"Growth in the fourth quarter appears to be weaker yet, with an outright contraction quite likely,'' [the Federal Reserve's Janet Yellen] said. “Indeed, the US economy appears to be in a recession" (Source: Herald Sun)
Coincidence? I think not.
I know for a fact that Delta Goodrem is a loyal reader*, so I'll address this to her/you: Why are you stuffing up the stock markets, Delta? Sure, breaking the financial markets, like you did with The Dud's heart, will get you some great publicity for your latest album, but what's wrong with an in-store appearance, or a T-shirt? Heck, you could have even tried sublimDELTA-AVAILABLE FROM ALL GOOD RECORD STORESinal advertising, and we wouldn't have minded.
So Delta, if you're still reading this, please stop ruining the world economy.
*...not necessarily of this blog, but hey; tom-ay-to/tom-ah-to and all that.
Lookie. Important Journal of Scientific Fact! is making a science. Good for you, IJSF!:
Happy herb a wonder drug (mX, 9/10/08, p7)
Herbal extract St John's wort has long been happy alternative for those reluctant to pop pills for depression.
Now, more than just cheerful converts can testify to its mood-lifting powers.
In what has been billed as the most thorough study of the plant, scientists found St John's wort just as effective as Prozac in treating depression.
It also had fewer side effects than many standard drugs used to help those battling the blues.
So far, so meh; nothing worthy of the IJSF! Although that line "...billed as the most thorough study of the plant" makes it sound like some sort of Bruckheimer-esque action flick. How would one get their science on when the labs are being inundated with 'splosions, car chases and really poorly written dialogue?
Experts didn't know how the plant lifted depression, but most believed it would have probably worked by keeping the positive chemical serotonin in the brain for longer.
Wait...so the boffins at Science World Pty Ltd don't actually know how the thing works, so they just made, what is basically, a guess? Screw them, I could do that.
Maybe the drug worked because within every St John wort pill is a magical invisible unicorn that shoots out rainbows, flowers and love hearts out of its horn. Or maybe said boffins woke up one morning to find that a truck of money had arrived at their front lawns, courtesy of [Defamation Dodo does not approve], and they were too busy purchasing epileptic prostitutes and bottles of wine made from the blood of the people who beat them up in high school to do some proper sciencin'.
Or maybe they were ambushed by this stealthy bit of Science!:
A study of nearly 200 Dutch men found those who climaxed too soon during intercourse had a version of a gene that controls the hormone serotonin.
In the men with premature ejaculation, serotonin appeared to be less active between the nerves in the section of the brain that controls ejaculation.
Well of course people taking the St John's wort were happier. They were too busy having hours-long sex marathons to worry about life's troubles. (As an aside: Why are there so many ads out there purporting "Longer lasting SEX"? With our mobile, on-the-go, time-poor lifestyles, do we really want our sex to be such a time waster? In the current economic climate, we need to be more efficient; with our work and with our 'work'. Besides, that terabyte of porn isn't going to masturbate to itself)
This isn't the only important fact in the article. The methodology of measuring the duration of these...experiments is interesting to say the least:
For a month, their female partners were asked to use a stopwatch at home to measure the time until ejaculation each time they had intercourse
Because nothing is hotter than having your sexings timed.
"Coming soon on an adult store near you: Stopwatch Sluts 16: Clocking Cocks"
She said men with primary premature ejaculation tended to be fast reactors generally.
"These men have very quick reflexes.
They may be excellent at playing tennis or computer games, for example."
So that would make:
This the world's shortest porn*, and
...him a dud root. His serve isn't the only thing that's quick...
She said there was good evidence that serotonin was linked ejaculation and that researchers were developing drugs for the condition that prolong this hormone's action.
Currently there is no medication for the condition on the market
That's a lie. There is a drug out there to cure both depression and premature ejaculation. It's called Sally: The Invisible Rainbow Shootin', Daisy-Pushin', Love Heart Toutin' Unicorn...in'. Side effects may include: Puncture wounds, Equine influenza and Half-human, half-horse mutant children. At least they'll be happy little freaks.
That's been some brilliant sciencing from the Important Journal of Scientific Fact! Let's hang it on the fridge.
*The strange thing is, there is a real porn called World of Whorecraft (now called Whorelore). Hit up your local search engine. Though be warned: There may be boobies...
Hear ye! Hear ye! The Important Journal of Scientific Fact! has come once again, bearing the news on how to live a better life than yours!
'Having a baby makes you smart' (MX: 19/3/08; p9)
Research has shown that having a baby can make women as brainy as Einstein.
An American study published this month shown in the first three months after giving birth, "mumnesia" may mean a mum leaves her shopping in the car park and puts her handbag in the fridge.
But in the long term her memory and ability to multi task improves, one of a number of physical benefits researchers say having a baby brings.
"Mumnesia" is short-term, probably due to sleep deprivation and not brain shrinkage, as previously thought.
Australian neuroscientist Allen Snyder said a woman's memory was not reduced during pregnancy, their attention was on caring for their baby.
A woman's brain was like Albert Einstein's: he used to forget where had put his big cheques while he worked out the theory of relativity.
US research on pregnant rats suggests that the hippocampus, the part of the brain responsible for memory, learning and emotion, might grow more neuron connections during pregnancy.
The research also found motherhood gave women more acute sight, reduced stress and a lower risk of cancer.
The study claims there is no physiological reason why women struggle to lose weight gained during pregnancy.
Breast-feeding mums, who burn an extra 2000 kJ a day, have less of an excuse.
Now we've got a bit of an exclusive for you Rant Readers. We've managed to obtain a script of an advertisement for a business which has also read this article. Take a look:
*****
(INT: KITCHEN) Daughter, fresh from school, walks in with a depressed look on her face. Mother: Hey there, sweetheart. Why the sad face? The camera zooms in on Daughter's face. Daughter: I just failed my math test. Mother gasps. A dramatic sting plays as camera zooms in on her face. Mother: Oh no! How will you ever find a cure for cancer now? Darryl Sommers walks in to the kitchen Daryl Sommers: Is this scene familiar? Hi, I'm Darryl Somers, drummer, TV personality and spokesman from Smarter Suitor. And I'm here to talk to you about the latest breakthrough in scientific technology and science that will revolutionise the way we think about intelligence. Daryl Sommers walks out of the kitchen and into...
(INT: SCIENCE LAB) Daryl Sommers grabs a vial of white liquid from a table, lifts it to eye-level and looks thoughtfully into it. Daryl Sommers, still holding the vial at this level, looks into the camera and continues: Daryl Sommers (Cont'd): Important scientific findings has found that having a baby will make you smarter. Which is why we here at Smarter Suitor offers a widerangeoffertilesuitors able to knock up your daughter and knock up her marks. But don't just take my word for it, listen to these satisfied customers:
(INT: LIVING ROOM) Testimonial #1: My daughter was bringing home some terrible grades. We tried beating the dumb out of her, but that only got us a court order. But since we enlisted the help of Smarter Suitor, our lovely little daughter is now a student at Harvard University. Godspeed, Suited Suitor.
(EXT: CARAVAN) Testimonial #2: We thought we had no hope for our little girl, she was barely passing high school. But then we got us the help of the Smarter Suitor folks. Now, our baby daughter's an assistant manager at the local restaurant.
(PHOTO) Of a Smarter Suitor home device Daryl Sommers (V/O): Also available, our Brand New Smarter Suitor Do-It-Yourself Home Kit
(INT: BASEMENT) Testimonial #3: My little daughter was getting Ds in every subject. But then we got the Smarter Suitor DIY Home Kit, and now the only Ds she has is in her boobs. Her round...firm...voluptuous boobs...excuse me a minute Testimonial #3 walks out of the shot Testimonial #3 (O/S): It's school time, daughter. Daddy's gonna pump you full of intelligence!
(INT: OFFICE) Daryl Sommers reads a book. Daryl Sommers has a thoughtful look on his face before closing the book. Daryl Sommers: If you truly love your daughter, visit your nearest Smarter Suitor office where one of our friendly staff will arrange a meeting to make your daughter smarter.
(INT: KITCHEN) The heavily pregnant Daughter, fresh from school, walks in with a happy look on her face. Mother: Hey there, sugar. How did your test go? Daughter: Great! I got an A!! Daughter looks into the camera. Daughter: And I couldn't have done it without Smarter Suitor. As Daryl Sommers walks in and stands next to Daughter: Announcer (V/O):(Speaking quickly) Side effects of Smarter Suitor may include nausea, fatigue, headaches, back pains and syphilis. Daryl Sommers is now standing next to Daughter. Chyron: Smarter Suitor logo Daryl Sommers: Smarter Suitor: Give your daughter a better chance at life. Daryl Sommers, Daughter and Mother wave to the camera
This world is a shit place to live in. No, this blog hasn't taken a turn towards emo-ism (although I clearly haven't evolved from 2006 gags, either), but look at your local newspaper (put down that Herald Sun or Daily Telegraph, they don't count!), and you'll see pages upon pages of violence, poverty and a society that's going arse up. Last weekend, 1000 of Australia's finest all gathered in Canberra to solve some of Australia's problems by 2020. I, of course, was at the top of the invites list, but somehow my invitation got lost in the mail, eaten by my dog and other lame excuses fine I wasn't actually invited but I didn't want to go to their lamefest anyway Shut Up. But the whole thing got me thinking of ways we can make the world a better place to live in.
Sports players have been getting into a lot of trouble recently, with Nick D'arcy breaking some guy's head and Barry Hall playing a quick round of Face, Meet Fist on the field. Now, these activities involve using the hands and arms, right? Having said that, why don't we break their spines? That way, they won't be able to punch anybody out (or kick them either, for that matter). There may be a small, tiny expense in the form of wheelchairs, but think of the benefits: Instead of wasting their talents on the community service circuit or fending off a cellmate named Fisty Bob, they'll be on the field earning us medals and trophies (granted they'd for the Paralympics, but we can just cover that part of the medal with gaffer tape). All we have to worry about now is how many bookshelves we need to buy for our newly found trinkets. And, perhaps, where we can put all of our newly required disabled parking spaces...
The whole Tibet situation is a bit of a mess at the moment, isn't it? Everyone's worrying about the human rights violations going on, and whatnot. Yet China is refusing to budge in its stance. There's only one thing to stop these atrocities making our front pages. We need a new human rights issue to focus our attention on! If we're too busy making signs, shirts and songs about the plight of...the Lithuanians or the like, then we won't have enough newspaper columns to talk about the Tibetans. And newspapers can't talk about Lithuania and Tibet, whilst maintaining the legal quotas on celebrity puff pieces (I think it's 42.25% of total articles). A week later, and *poof*, no more Tibet to worry about. Heck, it worked in solving the Zimbabwe thing, the whole Darfur deal, Cambodia, and all the other solved crises out there.
Next: Public transport. Everyday, I overhear a conversation or read an angry on how crowded the trains are. If we remove the words "crowded", "congested", "packed", "jammed", "LOL" and variants thereof from the vocabulary, then we won't have anyone complaining about this. That and we won't have any loud teenagers screeching "LOL" all around the place like demented harpies or liberal/conservative lobby groups. It's a win-win situation!
Global Warming. Easy: Bring on a Nuclear Winter like they were promising us during the Cold War (although this won't stop the problem of me stealing Futurama jokes).
Finally, World Peace. Although there are several Miss America winners out and about spreading world peace and love like a venereal disease, they just aren't doing the head job. There's still violence, poverty and Alan Jones in the world. There is only one way to bring peace to the people: Kill them all. Think about it: No more people, no more conflict, violence and other bad things. The world will be at peace at last. Sure, there may not be anyone around to appreciate it, but it's WORLD PEACE, DAMMIT!!
All Nobel Peace Prizes can be sent to the usual address, thank you very much.
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.
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:
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.
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"
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
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Another important lesson from the bastion of facts, stats and etc, the IJSF!
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 usualsuspects 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*")
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 MattCorby 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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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 Terroristsbombarding society (instead we had Nuclear Winter, Oil price spikes and the War on EthnicsCommunists). 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 FashionLand 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?
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 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!
