Jennifer Hawkins: Feminist Icon and Super Hot Model Chick

So Jennifer Hawkins has appeared undressed and un-airbrushed in a Marie Claire shoot on behalf of the Butterfly Foundation and to promote positive body image to women. I see. Brave girl, huh? That lingerie-modelling, swimwear parading, supermodel-face-of-Myer, Miss Universe, she’s a brave girl. Is she serious? The image of the J-Haw that is bashed across our heads on a daily basis as the paragon of the all Aussie chick is enough to have most teenage girls shoving three fingers down their throat after a meal of steamed carrots, let alone a spread that demonstrates that even without computer manipulation she still is in possession of one of the world’s great bodies.

The message here is supposed to be what, exactly? That all women can look like Hawkins? That Hawkins, without computers, looks like all women? Great news if you’re a size 24 bushpig with splayed feet and ‘hair issues’ – you’re in with a good shot to be the face of a department store earning gazillions! Because, after all, she’s one of you.

It’s inconceivable that Hawkins is not aware of how much better she looks than most of the planet. Even on her most unslept, unwaxed, suicidally hungover, rogue pimpled, period-bloated day she is still hotter than 99.9% of people who have ever lived, let alone the fat-ankled, chafe-thighed, brain dread consumer drones who flood through the doors of Myer when DFO have run out of XXXL three-quarter pants and track suit tops.

Marie Claire, like most of the ‘female’ magazines that profess to be drivers of positivity for women, has again shown that it exists in a bubble and pursues no higher calling than moving magazine units. Which is all fine, if it didn’t stand on a botox box and shout to the world what a job it does of making women feel great about themselves. It has only ever been a matter of time before Australians tire of the ubiquity of the J-Haw brand. These things are only ever just a minor slip-up away. Perhaps that time is now. And that’s perhaps something women can feel good about.

Seagal. Are They Serious ‘Man of the Year’.

Steven Seagal. Is he serious?

Something I Saw in the Street

Look at this idiot. Is he serious? I mean really; what kind of a dick buys a Capri???

 

Steven Seagal Takes it to the Streets

Sometimes I pretend I’m Hans Solo. I climb into a brown vest, throw a fur coat over a hat stand and call it ‘Chewy’, and try to drive my loungeroom chair at whatever the current parsec speed limit of the galaxy is. Granted, it’s not the best way to meet chicks, but it’s probably no less successful than any other method I have to date employed.

But here’s the thing – I know that it’s all just make believe. Much like Luke Skywalker, I wanna be Hans, but it ain’t gunna happen. For one thing, the Alderon Flight College was destroyed by the Empire a long, long time ago. I mean, c’mon.

No such easy distinction for Steven Seagal. Tibetan lama, Mississippi Delta blues man, global energy drink mogul, American Indian; you name it, he’s laid claim to being it. But his latest incarnation beggers even the warped belief he has brought bear upon the latter half of his “career”.

Turns out that Stevie-boy is, in fact, a police officer working the dangerous night beat, and has been for many years. At least, that what the trailer to his new TV show asks us to swallow. Cue: Steven Seagal – Lawman. Is he serious? Try to imagine being your average, law abiding crack dealer, just minding your own business and shifting units on a corner of South Central, armed or unarmed, it’s not important, and suddenly Steven Seagal appears – not to discuss Tibetan Budddhism or Goji Berry juice, but to arrest your ass. Autograph? Or resist arrest? Not that easy a choice.

Anyway, no words can say what the unholy sight of the mightily overweight Seagal giving chase to a crim can. Behold the flabby arm of the law:

The Week’s Top 5

Victoria Beckham: The world’s ultimate WAG has revealed that her feet are so deformed from excessive high heel use she’ll need re-constructive surgery to get them back to a normal shape. This has, naturally, been decried by womens’ groups as an example of the appalling lengths girls will go to simply to look good for men. Are they serious? Posh should be applauded for proving that, in spite of a crippling deformity, any girl with an endless amount of designer clothes, a carefully managed eating disorder, and a quality set of fake cans, can get any man she desires. You go, girl!

Bin Hidin’ for 8 Years: A report out of the US Senate has suggested that the government and military missed their chance to capture Osama bin Laden. Are they serious? Coz, like, most of have noticed he’s still pumping out enough movies each year to rival the Police Academy series. (BTW, you gotta see Bin Laden Terror Academy 6: Boys in the Jihood. It’s gold.)

Dubai Collapse: Surprised? Are you serious? Not a year ago they were installing cooling devices beneath their beaches so the sand wouldn’t be quite so hot on the feet of the tourists. Well, it probably is hard to acclimatize after an all day downhill ski session on an artificial mountain top. You know those mornings where you wake up with a shattering hangover, no money in your wallet, a fire hydrant in your bedroom, and your best mate’s mother under your sheets? Yeah, that’s Dubai right now.

Tiger Woods: Is he seriously going out with that story? Are we expected to believe he has just gone from the world’s best driver to the world’s worst? (What? That gag was there and I stand by it).

Junk Mail: Have had a ‘no junk mail’ sign on my front gate for some time. Still it comes. Like the rising tides of climate change there appears no way to halt it’s steady, implacable surge. Are they serious? Enough! The guy in the flat beneath agrees, and has taken to collecting each piece of advertising material, enveloping it, and sending it back to the business owner who’s name is on it, along with a some swear words and God knows how many exclamation marks. That’s step #1. Under step #2 I am required to leave all the week’s junk in the letter box to accumulate so that he can taker a photo of it in all it’s over-flowing, junk mail glory, to be dispatched with a disgruntled note to our local councilor. Is he serious?? I don’t even know whose side I’m on anymore but i’m pretty certain I’m having one of those ‘kill em all let god sort em out’ moments other middle aged men so frequently default to. I highly recommend it. It’s liberating.

Below: Victoria Beckham takes up residence in northern China where hideously shaped feet are a source of pride; Tiger celebrates a successful reverse park; and my nieghbour makes his way to City Hall.

Boobies. There are Boobies!!!! – It’s Sexpo Time

Sexpo. Are they serious? Once again the major exhibition spaces of the country are to be turned into giant replicas of locked bathroom doors behind which teenage boys hide with their magazine stash. Who is running the cultural agendas of our various cities these days? Beavis and Butthead? Come one, come all, so to speak.

Do people who attend these circuses believe that, simply by being there, they are somehow masters of the sexual arts in the same way that guys who claim to be Barry White fans hope to convey that they are aficionados of seduction? As though simply walking past stand after greasy stand of dildos, porn dvds and nurses outfits suddenly imbues them with ability to satisfy their partner beyond all measure. A prude, you say? Possibly. Maybe there really is something deeply sexually fulfilling for the girlfriend who gets to meet her bloke’s favourite porn star that I’m missing.

The organizers should bear no ill will for this. In case you missed it, people have been fascinated with other people having sex for the past 10,000 years or so. And that’s just Hugh Hefner. I would say part of it’s allure, however, has been it’s privacy, it’s guarded secrets, the sheer s amount of work, talk and money that it takes just to get the slightest sniff of it. But that’s me. I am one of the non-attendees who is not “in touch with their sexuality”.

But i reckon i know a thing or two. Certainly more that the good hetro boys who are about to jump on and ‘Ride the Gerbil” with their mates (you might want to look it up, lads. Start with Pet Shop Boys and work your way backwards. Literally). But maybe I’m missing the “lifestyle” part of this who shebang. (Yes – She Bang). You know – lube and vibrating eggs and amateur striptease and the Sexpo Dancers. That’s right: lifestyle.

Probably this all makes me a stiff, though in exactly the wrong way. And possible I wouldn’t even know it was on had i not accidentally happened upon it by misspelling my Google search for a certain Master Chef entrant. And almost definitely if I had the vaguest idea of what to do with three-quarters of the stuff they sold at this fling I’d understand the appeal. Very likely. But when it’s all over, pity the cleaners who draw the short straw for the male toilets.

Note: That picture is Prickasso, so named because he can paint with his penis which, it has to be said, is pretty awesome.

The Big Hand’s on the What….?

 By now most of the world will have passed their squinting eyes across images of a mystery couple having sex very publicly in a clock tower in Sydney. The pair, naked, in the throes of passion, have made global headlines. I guess they’re feeling pretty pleased with themselves. Why wouldn’t they be? The press has given the unknown bloke a lifetime of free high-fives from anyone he meets, and the faceless girl will have her own FM brekky show by week’s end. Such is the global news.

Are they serious? It’s no secret that for some time this blog has beeen a staunch supporter and of outdoor, public, news-worthy, clock tower carnality. Be for the sake of site traffic, self promotion, or good old fashioned hands-on research, I have lost count of the amount of times I have engaged – both with company and alone – in public sex.  (Note: I have, in fact, not lost count. All is extensively documented on excel spread sheets.) And yet, where are my headlines? Where is this blog’s 15 minutes? Where is the author’s ‘does anyone know this person/man/arse’ moment? Not happening, that’s where.

Maybe it’s all about location. Adds a certain drama. It must be acknowledged that I have no intention of ever having sex anywhere near a clock, certainly not one of that size. They’re the first thing I hide. Well, them and my drivers licence. Don’t need that. And I’m quite scared of hieghts. And I often find it hard to meet women. Well, when I say hard, I mean impossible. And I seriously need a wax.

But beyond my restrictions, nothing is surer than that this act will spark a proflieration of copy-cat public sex events, all captured on mobile phones, all published on the web. It’s more or less the last remaining thing that ain’t in the public arena. What I’m getting at is that anyone planning such an act should immediately alert this blog via pictures, a list of interests, clothing size and weight, mobile number, contact details for a good waxer, and suggested range of locations. You know where to find me.

Meanwhile, dispense with your watch and get used to craning your head upwards towards clock towers – my tip is it’s gunna get pretty busy up there.

For Whom the Nobel Tolls

So, like, are they serious in their intentions to hand over the Nobel Peace Prize to Barack Obama in the coming days? Do you think that permeating the great establishment in Oslo is the feeling one gets on the way back to one’s hotel room having just picked up a Thai girl in a Bangkok bar? That sort of “now, did I really think this through properly, or was I just keen to impress my mates” kind of a sensation. (Clearly, this is anecdotal. Not a single reliable witness has ever been found who can verify i ever left that Bangkok bar with that ‘person’). Seems to me that the Nobel folk may have just acted a little to swiftly in handing over the prize to Mr. Popular.

Look, I love the guy as much as anyone else on planet earth. Love him. I think he should grow an afro, but i love him. (I know what you’re thinking, but i’m on the record as stating that I also believed that Jimmy Carter, Yasser Arafat and Stalin should have grown afros. My position on Mao was ambiguous. You know, the bald thing). But unless I’m wrong (like i may or may not have been in Thailand), don’t you actually have to do something that creates some degree of peace to be an even moderately credible recipient of this prize? Or have I got that wrong? Do you simply need to think about it? To talk about how awesome it would be. Tell people wouldn’t it be swell if…. And so on.

Why do I get the feeling that at any moment during the ceremony Kanye West is going to appear on stage and rip the thing out of his hands and declare Beyonce more deserving? Maybe she is. I love Beyonce. Love her. I think she should grow an afro, but I love her.

Anyway, it’s all looking like a bunch of crusty Scandinavians really just wanna get their photo taken with the great man in the special Nobel sauna they’re had built for the occasion. (note to self: begin immediate construction of Are They Serious Award Sauna and start nominating nightclub dancers from Bangkok). Meanwhile drones continue to inflict catastrophic civilian death counts in Pakistan; occupation is maintained in Afghanistan and Iraq; Iranian assets are frozen; and the suggestion that US troops be removed from Japan is flatly rejected. Should be the best acceptance speech since Michael Moore was the Oscar for Fahrenheit 9/11. (Correct, Michael, get an afro).

Blue Bagging

Bubble Bubble, Toil and Come Up with the World’s Worst Logo – so it goes at the mighty Carlton Blues who have this week unleashed the new “creative” for their club membership drive. Are they serious? Based on – or, if you like, stolen from – wrestling’s WWE, “Can You Smell What The Blues Are Cooking” seems to be a blend of  soup cooking without sleeves, cheap North Korean animation, and an almost complete absence of punctuation.

Witness Witch-King and captain Chris Judd dropping eye of newt in the unholy brew of his club’s cauldren, where the broken wing of a magpie and the fuselage of a bomber plane boil.  Behold his two-tone coven lurking at the back and concieving of rasing the undead, administering potions, and, possibly, kicking goals. Stirring, so to speak

But have the Blues even given a moment’s consideration to the broader healthy eating implications? Are the black and white birds fatty? Is there any risidual peanut matter to be found in the jets they’re cooking? What is the GI count on a Docker? These are the just some of the things that have been over-looked.

Regardless of the ingredients, there is little question on the taste. Bad. But what joy for opposition fans lies ahead when this is served up in the 2010 season. Yum.

 

 

Catching up on the Gossip

I’ve just endured my first (and final) episode of Gossip Girl. Guess what: it’s not a documentary about Beth Ditto. Who knew? This show makes about as much sense to me as the panty liner ads that running in every commercial break. From what I can gather about this show, there is a society of dis-functionally affluent super models disguised as kids , living in the rarefied upper echelons of Park Avenue and negotiating their way through the mirky waters of infidelity. And, from what I can gather, it’s tough work.

Are they serious? Most of the chicks are crying coz they’re all either geting dicked by the same bloke, or not getting dicked by the same bloke while said bloke tells his various “bros” that they are the most important people in their lives and then someone found the time to light 8000 candles beneath whose dappled light some other upstart college boy can dick one of those chicks from earlier in this sentence (if you recall) all he while churning through with blind impunity the trust funds bequeathed to them and which will, eventually, be used merely as a safety set once the real revenue starts rolling in from the various sex tapes one of the previously undicked chicks (refer to easrlier part of sentence) will be unexpectedly the star of. And round it went for an hour or so.

I still have no idea what ws going on other than there ain’t a bloke in it who doesn’t need his face punched in and a chick who doesn’t need to get away frm these clowns, stop relying on her looks and recently perfected blow job talents and get  job.

Now quite obviously I would sell my mother to a Noth Korean hard labour camp for the chance to serve drinks at one of these kids’ parties in the slight chance of picking up one of these blow job trust fund rich girls. But since negotiations are, typically of North Korea, currently stalled, I seriously don’t want to watch them going about their millionaire kid tough life business. Seems reasonable.

Also – is one of he chicks in the show acually the gossip girl of the title? If so, which one? Thanks in advance. Also, the episode was followed by another series about teenage vampires which, as far as I can tell, is only slightly behind ‘rich kid’ as a lifestyle choice. The kids are alright.