Doomie Definition # 1: Peek-gina-joo

 

Peek-gina-joo: The mystical elision of ‘peek-a-boo’ and ‘vagina’  by a drunk person with an uncanny, shamanistic connection to their own subconscious. Signifies the act of hiding objects in a woman’s wide-set genitals – a fun game the whole family can play.

he’s a knazi!

heil knitler.

i like his limp feet.

-lucy

Is there life on Mars?

Is it just me, or is the Yves Saint Laurent Autumn/Winter 08 range a total homage to Motley Crue’s guitar player, Mick Mars?

Witness.

Faces = match.

Zip-type detail = match.

Penchant for clunky black suit things that threaten to topple over tiny frame = match.

And hey, my detective work even uncovered solid proof that Yves met the Mars himself:

Cruel, I know.

“Give me back my fashion mojo juice! Or else I’ll use my voodoo powers to multiply the guy behind me so that ALL YOU CAN SEE ARE LIP CATERPILLARS!”

– lalaz

things i love today

most days i wake up and hate the world. today i love several things. this is worth noting.

what i love today:

• “You’ll Love Coles… Belgian Chocolate” :

How did they KNOW?!

I’ll tell you how they knew i’d love it: they filled their mix with traces of a little highly addictive substance i like to call COCAINE.

• Papa Pharrell:

aww. pho-real is gon’ be a daddy! maybe he’ll clean up his skeazy ways. how good is the word skeazy? damn good. i don’t usually lurk around celebri-sites, but i happened upon dlisted.com today and this is what they had to say about mr. williams becoming a father:

begin quote:

This is the worst fucking Monday ever. I woke up with a hangover and I didn’t even booze last night, my air conditioning is about to go on strike, my TV is acting wonk, I just ate the last Good Humor   Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar and now I find out that some skank is knocked up with Pharrell Williams’ baby. And that skank is not me. Tuesday can’t come sooner.

Page Six reports that Pharrell knocked up some model-type. I hope the skank gets really fat. I hope she gets fucking obese. I hope she gets cankles in her arms. A friend of Pharrell’s said the whore is really pregnant, “Pharrell is extremely private and won’t release any details.“

This shit isn’t right. Although, I think I just got pregnant from looking at a picture of his sexy weasel face. If I am pregnant, I’m going to hit him up hard for child support. And by “child support,” I mean sexual favors.

end quote.

• Christian Bale as Batman:

Heath Ledger is amazing, awe-inspiring, one of the best performances in years, the perfect predecessor to Jack Nicholson’s Joker… but Christian Bale is AWESOME. He’s perfected the alchemy of Batman: 1 part smooth  billionaire playboy, 1 part stoic bat, 5 parts DREAMY. A colleague and I were just discussing the news that CB has been reported by his Mum and sister as ‘abusing’ them yesterday (details unclear). Said colleague said she thinks CB is a great actor, but he leaves her cold, somehow. I believe he leaves me cold in the best way.

• Christian Bale in general:

I mean, he’s no Gray Gubler ( )

but he is just VERY GOOD.

• The Gube :

he is HILARIOUS!

• Denny Crane getting his groove back, in last night’s episode of Boston Legal.

• Falafel Rolls!!!! :

-lucy

A day of transgressions

What I should drink in the morning: hot water and lemon.

What I drink instead: two instant coffees, which, coincidentally, are past their use by dates.

 

What I should do all morning: work.

What I do instead: read Go Fug Yourself, which has, at least, returned to form of late, and look up bling jewellery I can’t afford, already, even though I only got paid yesterday.

 

What I should do after eating lunch: walk straight upstairs.

What I do instead: stop at the reception, and purchase a Giant Caramello Koala, even though I promised myself last night I would really seriously not eat chocolate today. I say this because my teeth have started to hurt from over-consumption, not because I wish to diet.

 

How I should’ve acted when someone from marketing brought up a changed brief: nice.

How I acted: bitchily, while slamming my fingers onto my calculator, like I’m important or something.

 

How I should feel, after reading my Marie Claire (which I didn’t even have to pay for, cos I have a mum who loves me) in the sun at lunch break: happy.

How I felt: annoyed that someone came and sat next to me, asking questions like where do you live, and for how long and have you been troubled by World Youth Day?

 

How I should feel, after reading about the rape camps in Darfur, and donating a small but hopefully helpful sum to Avaaz, to help with this dire situation: a mixed emotion of sadness, relief, and doing-goodness.

How I end up feeling: annoyed that this donation is apparently not tax deductible.

 

What my reaction should be when I return upstairs to find that noone has messaged my phone or sent me an amusing email or g-chatted to me in my break: nothing, whatever, who needs all of that? At least I’m not incarcerated in an evil place of torture.

What my reaction is: I hate everyone! Why doesn’t anyone love me? Whatever!

 

What I should be doing now: work.

What I am doing: whinging about my day.

 

What I am: a pretty crap human being.

What I should be: a better one.

 

What I am going to do now: eat my Koala.

What I should be doing: ringing a dentist.

 

– lalaz

Waste not, want not

Check out the hot priests!

http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/gallery/0,22056,5032674-5010140-1,00.html

haus ov duum’s guide to spotting a pilgrim

so, you’ve found yourself in sydney during world youth day week. are you a pilgrim?

here are five tell-tale signs you ARE:

1. you’re american. or adelaidean. or mauritian.

2. you’re wearing one of these bad boys:

this particular model is described as a ‘relaxed fit navy washed cap’. which i think is actually the merchandiser’s attempt at humour, as your average pilgrim is neither relaxed nor washed.

3. you are constantly airborne:

4. you are IN MY WAY!

5. you are holding a camera and a map, wearing a backpack and generally looking lost, yet filled with the spirit of christ, or somesuch. i know that sounds like a generic description of a backpacker. here is the difference:

a. a backpacker:

b. a pilgrim:

didn’t quite get that? let’s try another.

a. a backpacker:

b. a pilgrim:

why don’t you try this for yourself on the streets of sydney? take your camera out with you this weekend and capture the pilgrims in your little digital box! help them celebrate this glorious time by flashing your camera in their faces – they’ll love it! just like we LOVE playing host to them.

this has been a public service announcement from the haus ov duum.

Where for art thou, bang?

You know how it feels when it’s nine in the afternoon, and your eyes are the size of the moon?
Yeah, I know that feeling.
One time, I had taken 60 million acid tabs and was spelunking off Mt. Vesuvius. Boy were my eyes big! Whoosh!
Then, another time, I had created cheese out of nought but my imagination and some lint. Except that time, it was more like 8.29 in the afternoon.
Anyway, the most recent freak-fest occurred the sad, soborous day that Panic! At The Disco’s exclamation mark went missing. It mark-o poloed. It panicked itself out of the disco, down the street, and into Chk Chk Chk’s cupboard (just in case).
Why for? You may interrobang that indeed. (for the reference, henceforth, an interrobang is either an intelligent question OR a smart shagfest). (same diff?)
According to Rolling Stone: In news that is sure to be a relief for copy editors worldwide, a rep for Panic! at the Disco has confirmed that the band will hereafter be known as Panic at the Disco.
Hey, I am a copy editor (yep, editor ok) and it does not relieve me whatsoever. Unless by relieve you mean, make pee trickle out in disgust.
Elsewhere, I read that P!@TD committed this rash act of punctuation murder because they were “sick of it”.
Like, how everyone gets sick of cats? Or the way lots of lesbians get sick of being lesbians? I NEED MORE! WHAT DID THE BANG DO TO YOU, Jon Walker, Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie and Spencer Smith? (Although there’s some nice use of alliteration PS you guys).
Luckily, you emo-munchkins do dapper so good, it hurts. Plus, the lead singer has a mouth you just wanna stick things in. Choco-bananas, for instance.

Never have I seen a fly-er photo shoot. Panic GO THERE. I just wanna know, why can’t they take the bang with them? Or at least bang me to make up for it? (that’s rhetorical).
And for the second reference, P!@TD did freaky clown-chic before Brian McFadden was born. Which incidentally, was out of Delta’s vagina. Weird, I know.

In conclusion, I’d like to return to the words I recited last time-slip:
Back to the street where we began (down-town Vegas, whelped by 2-bit whores, props to you all)
Feeling as good as lovers can, you know (I wish I knew!)
Yeah we’re feeling so good (Ghnnghnnhhgnnnggh stop sticking prongy sweets in my mouth ghghnngn!)

Pickin’ up things we shouldn’t read (garden implements, pieces of wool)
It looks like the end of history as we know (that was a quick 40 minutes!)
It’s just the end of the world (so motherfucking put the ! back in okay! God doesn’t like inconsistency in his emos!)

 ** News in. Exclamation point available for hire. Has dabbled with soft-cock-rock, angry grrl pop (you know P!NK? – yeah, that was him), various billboards, and can tap dance. Is prepared to meld with the right question mark for a deeply meaningful interrobang. Contact this blog for further details **

–lalaz

world youth day: stations of the cross

LOLZ! it works on so many levels!

1. stations of the cross (as in jesus stuff).

2. stations = train stations (as in, the places that are going to be fucked by WYD)

3. cross = angry, mad (as in ordinary citizens of sydney during WYD)

i’ll be here all day. i mean week.

-lucy

Adam Thrills Is More Like It, Or, Famous People Are Better Than Everyone Else And I Won’t Hear A Word Spoken Against One Of Them. Amen.

           

Adam ‘I’d like to join NKOTB’ Hills… hott.

            So, despite having preached and gloated with the vehemence of a born-again Christian non-smoker to the proverbial cows and all my colleagues about how, as the sole recipient of the office flu inoculation, I’d be the only person not to get sick all winter and would pretty much be running the world as they coughed up their TB-riddled lungs whilst simultaneously drowning in molten phlegm-lava from the volcanic eruptions which spurted from every orifice, it would appear that I’ve been struck down by the dreaded ‘lurgy’. Why do people say that, anyway? Does it even mean what I think it does? It means, flu, right? Flu, cold, type chest coughy fever dying but not really thingy? Yes? Ok, cool. As you were.

            Incidentally, it turns out the shot I had is for the really bad flu, and not the run-of-the-mill quotidian flu that everyone gets. Great, huh? So if I get exposed to horse flu, avian flu, or the flu-that’s-carried-on-the-fleas-of-pidgeons-and-eats-your-brains-flu*, I’ll be fine! Yay!

 

 

Never one to pass on an opportunity for prime-time martyrdom (with my feverish incandescence lending itself to the overall dramatic effect – I even bloodied my feet and donned a thorny crown – it was totally fierce! Rrrrr… What? I mean in a meek way, duh), I dutifully hauled myself into the ‘ffice yesterday, fully prepared to undertake all duties and generally dispel the rumours of my obsolescence which may have been floating about, like foul miasmas, if miasmas were made of words instead of being the vaporous substances that Early Moderns believed caused diseases to spread. Ha! I said ‘spread’! That’s totally dirty.

I drove into the work car park, a little high from general sickly delirium, and it was really full as it always is on a Thursday, and I’ll now switch to the present tense to heighten the sense of drama of what is essentially an action interlude about driving in a car park:

 

 

 I see a tough park to get into but there’s this guy who’s tail-gating me so I skip it and it all gets quite stressful and I’m going around and around in circles down though the building’s intestines or whatever, and it feels like the guy behind me’s getting closer and closer but it’s probably just the parking-induced performance anxiety I suffer from, which my boyfriend thinks is due to my having learned to drive too late in life. And I’m nearing the dead-end, dead-bottom of the car park, nowhere left to go, when I notice the car behind me’s found himself a nice little reverse-a-spot, one I’d accidentally passed, and it’s just me now, and there’s a commodore up ahead doing a fifty-point turn in order to head back up and try again, dead-end, dead-end! So I quickly turn my Honda around and, surely breaking the lot’s 15km speed limit, head back up to the original spot and park comfortably, the new angle facilitating a hitherto unimagined ease of manoeuvre, thank you very much. Phew!

            Relieved, I got into the lift to go up to my floor and there was this guy standing there, who I didn’t really look at because I was sick and weak and also carrying a huge tray of sushi which was rather heavy.  

 

 

 

            ‘I feel really bad, because I sort of stole your park’, says the man, and I look up and it turns out the driver behind me was Spicks and Specks host and general nice-guy-of-comedy, Adam Hills, and, more than that, he’s pretty hot, which I never would have expected from seeing him on television, but he’s tall and a bit buff and tanned and generally soigné, in the manner of most celebrities. What’s more, I think he’s wearing eyeliner, but I’m not sure, because his intensely friendly eye contact is very distracting, and also because my prior mental image of him is from the cover of Rolling Stone he did recently with the other Spicks and Specks peeps, in which he’s wearing heavy-yet-ironic glam-rock eye makeup.

            ‘That’s ok’, I say. ‘I didn’t even notice.’

We laugh.

‘It’s really kill or be killed in this car park.’

‘Yes’.

            We reach the ground floor and the lift doors open.

            ‘After you’, says Adam Hills, all warmth and smiling politesse.

            ‘Oh, I’m going up.’

 

            And then he limped out of the elevator, and, my life.

 

 

 

He may have stolen my car park, but let’s face it, I’d taken way too much pseudoephydrine to really mind, or actually notice. And the glow I felt was payment enough for a whole parking station of purloined parks.

 

Or maybe that was just the fever. (*sighs*)

 

 

 - oafie

             

 

 

 

* I heard about that one where all good lessons take place – outside the Multi-Purpose Hall in at lunchtime in Year 7. Ah, the Multi-Purpose Hall. Let’s now take a moment to appreciate its utilitarian poetry.