Monthly Archives: November 2009

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.


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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.

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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.

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For Whom the Nobel Tolls

obama_afroSo, 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).

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