Monthly Archives: June 2008

Shitstick Fungal vs. Pashmere Barfia

Well, I think this pic sums it up.




Even though blondie on the left appears to be wearing Sophie’s dreaded DRESS OVER PANTS combo, at least they didn’t all get vomited up by some Prom Monster, who had a bit too much vanity at the bonfire party. Plus, sixty million tequila chasers. Chased by more tequila. Leaving only the worms, in a vast echoey white space of BLAH.

At least the lassies at Pash-Barf obviously care about their careers, cos they’re willing to flash some leg, and also they fold their arms occasionally. Oh, and cos they actually live in the city, not in a white cardboard box. I can tell this cos there’s skyscrapers in the background, which means to me: 1. hard penises 2. elevators 3. city.  

The only exciting thing happening over at Shit-Fung, is that, possibly, Nico is pinching their butts (note the notable absence of her hands anywhere in the pic). I like Nico the best so far, even though she breathes heavier than an obese man breathing heavy.

Victory Wood is an embarrassment to Asians the world over. ASIANS HAVE STYLE! And generally not anuses for mouths! 

Meanwhile Brooke Shields (whatevs her name is in the show, whatevs), is, as Sophie already pointed out, clearly a man. Billowing blue shroud over groin area? Dead giveaway! I normally kinda like Brooke but she just ain’t bubblin’ for me this time.

 In conclusion: I miss thee, Pash-Barf. And I’d do the reverse if we ever did. You know, Pash.

 — lalaz












jay-z is dope

Like, duh!

I know!

Anyway, he’s ultra-fly in my books today cos apparently he slam-dunked that Gallagher sucker at Glastonbury, who had the pasty-white-hide to say hip-hop wasn’t welcome – HELLO RACIST! – by doing a cover of Wonderwall. Followed by 99 Problems (and a bitch ain’t one, sorry Noel).


Down with white people and bowl cuts!

Some like City Homicide hot!


Oh my god! Less than twelve hours ’til we take City Homicide to second base! Will City Homicide be a briefs or boxers man? Even a man at all?

Only time will tell…

(But my guess is, probably not. A man, that is.)

Crime times ahead, people!

Hot nerd from that show we can’t remember the name of, we salute you.

Here in the house of doom we pride ourselves on bringing fresh new talent to light; on lifting up the mouldy backyard brick of the world, and allowing its incredibly attractive slaters to scurry free. So today it’s time to give a little bit of ku-doomin-dos to Criminal Minds’ Matthew Gray Gubler, known variously chez nous as ‘Matt’, ‘The Gube’, and ‘Furrowed Gray Forehead Skies’[i].

I first became interested in this hot nerd because he bears an uncanny resemblance to a guy I once slept with, except he’s actually attractive, and almost certainly doesn’t have a testicular piercing (this was a guy who got me back to his house by saying I could sit up all night and smoke in his room – what can I say? I was young, and needed the emphysema).

Our Dr Spencer Reid has a deliciously whiny/sensitive/intelligent voice and is always having Alison Dubois-esque flashbacks[ii] to the time(s?) he was kidnapped and tortured, which totally helps him empathise with the victims of the terrible crimes that this hard-hittingly emotional crime drama, the name of which often escapes me (because despite having all the elements of a flash-trash favourite – gripping storylines, Not-Dan[iii], an uptight female FBI boss who’s always getting up in the team’s grills about playing by the book when everyone knows that out in the field, it don’t work like that, ma’am – this televisual blancmange is no NCIS[iv]) regularly ‘explores’.

Phew! What was I saying? Ah yes, on Dr Reid: the guy’s so smart, he’s pretty much psychic!

Gaze into those vest-wearing, bathtub-sitting, Guby-licious eyes and tell me it ain’t love, people. He used to be a ‘reluctant’ Hilfiger model, for Chrissakes (which, I’ll admit, does make my earlier assertion about discovering him, bug-brick-light-style, a pretty dubious one. Whatevs. That was totally prior to my having googled him.)!

He also writes poems on his myspace page (ok, so it may have been a list. But it was a pretty list containing ‘ghosts’, ‘patience’ and ‘fireflies’). This could explain why, in addition to being a clear god of nineties nostalgia, there’s something of the bard about him; a figurative toe dipped in a freezing-cold Middle English lake, perhaps. Does no one else think he’s a combination of the gay Prince and his lover-who-gets-thrown-out-the-window in that nineties masterpiece of Scottish hagiography, Braveheart[v]?? But in a good way, obviously, not in an ‘ah, the King’s homophobic and now I’m lying in splattered on the ground whilst simultaneously crying in horror over my un-moving corpse’ way. Obviously.

He’s an amazing sketch artist (see and makes mockumentaries – about himself (see Matthew Gray Gubler Unauthorised DocumentaryVolumes 1-6)! What’s more, he totally directed the video clip to that mormon horror anthem of our times, The Killers’ ‘Don’t Shoot Me, Santa!’. And if all that weren’t enough, he’s been to Berlin!

So, Matthew Gray Gubler, the Gray Gube of all our post-adolescent hearts, I’d like to finish this homage with a message à toi: if you’re googling yourself right now, don’t feel ashamed. Scroll down that little bit further, say, fifty pages further. I hope you read this post and know that someone in the land of the white lunchbox loves you, and it is a love not hampered (get it! rofl!) (‘lunchbox’ and ‘hamper’ are totally thematically aligned, you nincompoops) by geometrical boundaries.

Just know that my love’s quotient is the sum of your heart’s Pi-R-Squared.

Or some other such smart thing, relating to maths.


[i]Actually the last one is mostly used by our Native American exchange student, Magaskawee. Incidentally, we call her ‘Pocahontas’ for short, and she sometimes plays Aaliyah in our Great Martyrs of R’n’B festivity serial. I might add that she looks smokin’ in a top hat and cane, and I’m not just saying that because smoke signals are a popular method of communication amongst her people. Dakota, Magaskawee! (Means ‘hello’ in Sioux, you morons.)

[ii] Ok, so she technically has flash-forwards. But guys, really, what’s a little a-temporal narrative interlude between friends, eh? (speaking as someone who’s mighty partial to parenthetical asides, myself. Herself? Anyway.)

[iii] Tell me this guy does not bear an uncanny resemblance to Sydney photographer and dashing possible spy about town, Daniel Boud, and I’ll tell you… you’re wrong, alright? You can’t argue with this evidence:



Eh? EH?

[iv] And I attribute this to their respective female nerds – but more on that one, to come.

[v] I know, I know, Mel Gibson made it and he’s a fucktard, but let’s not let that get in the way of our appreciation of this beautiful love story of insurgency and hairy be-kilted men, ok? Art divorced from origins, etc, etc – and art like that has a highland life of its own. Argh… Yer have the look a yer mother, Wulliam Warllace. (Sorry. I could riff on about Braveheart for literally days. Like that one time, we were watching it really stoned and thought we saw a tank in the background, and everyone was like, how did they not realise that’s a total anachronism? But then we re-wound the VHS and it turned out to be a burning pyre of witches, and then we realised we were actually watching The Crucible! Rofl!)

feck food

I just ate some really disgusting Caramel Cheesecake from Michel’s Patisserie.

It had LEMON RINDS in it! Like, nuclear fluroescent yellow bits of death shrap! IN A CARAMEL CHEESECAKE! It’s like they ran out of “Gooey, gelatinous brown shit” and had to substitute with an old lemon they found in the gutter.

At least it wasn’t human cum, I guess. Which is the story we heard last night, about a woman who contracted mouth herpes from a man who ejaculated over her steak.

Lesson of the story: don’t eat in Burwood.

Oh, and don’t eat Michel’s. Which I think everyone already knew. (But I was in a sugar slump).


I’m an Asian psychic!!!

Ok so I found out this morning that my friend from work gave birth last night to a healthy baby girl. First up: congrats and whoo hooo! Second up: I AM PSYCHIC! Before she left she went round getting people’s hit predictions on when the baby would be born. It was actually due in 2 weeks or so. I picked yesterday after consulting my Japanese diary and seeing the kanjis for “friend” and “pull/cut” on it. Not sure what the combo means in reality but my super-attuned brain deciphered it to mean: my friend is leaving me for a baby (you know, which is pushed and pulled out and the umbilical cord eventually cut). Admittedly I picked “boy” but I’d begun to get fuzzy on this, and dreamt that she brought the baby to the pub and it was wearing a girly red Asian head-wrap.

So I feel like kingshit today.

My services can be hired by the hour, simply call 1800-AZN-PZYKIK.

P.S. I also dreamt recently about schoolboys the night before Sophie got asked out by one. Coinkydinky? I think not!

P.P.S. It wasn’t a rude dream.

Just a morning quickie

To get me started.

Two awesome articles on Sydney Morning Herald this morning deserves everyone’s attention.

1. Nelson Mandela and the Queen have a mutual perve.

2. Mrs Tommy Lee, aka the Yoko Ono of Motley Crue, aka Pammy Anny, is gonna go on Big Brother! And I quote: “The Playboy bunny, actress and serial-marriage offender will appear in two episodes in the Gold Coast compound, a two-hour special on July 9 and a one-hour show on July 10.” Hazaaa! She is apparently touring Australia to promote a chocolate snack. I could go somewhere gross with that, involving Tommy Lee’s massive wang, a cushy doona, and some backdoor action (oh and a little champagne). Too far!

3. Speaking of, my starsign blows.

— lala