Author Archives: oafie

Inside Boeing’s Answer to the Airbus A380… and Racism.

So. Former Telstra Chief Executive Sol Trujillo’s come out today saying that Australia is ‘a racist parochial backlot where people have toes for fingers’* in response to K’Ray’s HILARIANT 1-word reaction to his departure from our golden, sea-girten soils: ‘Adios’.

(What Sol? It’s not OUR FAULT you’re constantly wearing a poncho made of tequila-glazed fajitas and saying ‘Ai-yai-yai!’.)

cactus

 

Fat wogs and skinny wogs aside, I have a feeling racism may be losing its shine; it just isn’t quite the el Dorado we all thought it was in the nineties when I sold everything I owned to buy shares in it and probably retire, gold-plated and tremendously obese, at 35 (fortunately everything I owned in the nineties was a case of $3 dollar Chardonnay from my mum’s cupboard and a pan-flute – so no great loss, but still. I could no longer tour the world with my spicy Celtic covers of classic rock songs like ‘Thunderstruck’, and UB40’s ‘Red, Red, Wine’).

 

It’s reassuring, then, that Boeing’s come up with such a reassuringly reassuring answer to the age-old question of whether or not it really don’t matter if you’re black or white: grey people.

grey people

Cultivated, courteous and infinitely fond of decorative fruit, these gun-metal Gorgons cruise the skies in a happy haze of lounge-music and leather interiors. There are no wars here; no land to fight over; no cousins to sleep with and get involved in a fictionalised-Kings-Cross-Shooting-that-actually-happened over.

It’s all a dream of self-referential post-modern artworks and spiral staircases; the clouds forming mirrors to pingback mighty, mighty dun-coloured glory. Cinerous, isabel, pearl or griseous, whichever way you look at it the future is grey.

grey3     grey4  grey1   grey 1   grey cloud

 

* Quote MAY have been SLIGHTLY amended.

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5 things I wish I didn’t do on Facebook

Ah, Facebook. It’s like that really attractive friend of yours you suspect might be partially retarded.

Sure, she looks great on a dance floor in deliberately-laddered opaques and a boater, but you sometimes wish she didn’t go all glaze-eyed and giggly-in-a-bad-way when you want to talk about something that’s not fashion-related, or, um, anyone for jaeger shots?

She also slept with your boyfriend last year but didn’t really mean to do it and, um, that’s ok, right, we’re cool, you know? I was practically unconscious at the time ROFL…

 That’s right. Come to think of it, you basically HATE her, because she’s always making you:

1. Get excited by quizzes promising to tell you what kind of movie/crush/taxidermied animal you are, only to realise you will never have the answers because you will never forward said quiz on to twelve ‘friends’.

deadmouse-2

2. Check who’s RSVP’d to events you’re planning on attending. Obsessively. As in, ‘Attending’, ‘Maybe Attending’ AND ‘Not Attending’. Even though you know these RSVPs mean little and you regularly select ‘Attending’ when you REALLY mean ‘Probably not going to bother’ or even ‘I’d rather eat my own poached eyeball with chopsticks than go to your pretentious excuse for a (non-)event’.

eyeball

3. Appear constantly in photographs ‘blasted, blind, blithered, blotto, blued’ even though you know your boss and several other professional acquaintances, ex-boyfriends and other undesirables have total access to said photos due to your resolute laziness with privacy settings.

drunk_woman-1

4. Regularly make yourself want to drink salted bleach by checking your ex-boyfriend’s public profile and voyeuristically analysing all evidence of ‘women’; then gaining perverse and ludicrous satisfaction from the scanty evidence of ‘men’ to be found on your own even though you’re well aware that said ex has neither the means nor inclination to perform similar acts of masochistic stalker-sleuthing.

sherlock

5. Check it every five minutes for ‘updates’. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen. You should do some work or write a blog or get a dog or something. Intellectually anaemic, fetid and obsolescent, you should have learned by now that Facebook will do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to relieve your taedium vitae (which is why I’ve decided to consecrate WAY more time to virtuous occupations like reading the thesaurus, clearly, and learning how to spell Latin words like ‘taedium vitae’, ‘via’, and ‘Ricky Martin’). 

ricky martin

Now Masebook, that’s something I’d LIKE to spend time on….

mase

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.

Waste not, want not

Check out the hot priests!

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

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.

Don’t tell heart, my achy, breaky heart… that, gosh darnit, it’s about to be eaten by the swamp-ghoul who’s taken possession of my daughter’s body! Oh Holy Lord! Will the monster’s insatiable thirst for sweet, sweet, blood never be… uh… sated?


– ‘mmm, blood’… Miley Cyrus wants… some more…

So, there’s been loads of stuff in the media lately about this controversial Annie Leibowitz image of fifteen year-old ‘actress’ Miley Cyrus, and I probably don’t need to mention that the fact that Miley’s surname rhymes with Billy-Ray Cyrus’ surname is no coincidence. Because it’s actually the same name and she’s actually his daughter.

Now we doomies have never been ones to shrink back into our coffins; hiding away from the hard issues (and the light). So we’ve called on the uniquely beer-laced insight of our resident country music expert, backyard trailer occupant, and Anna-Nicole Smith look-a-like, Sharlene, to give us her piece on this complex conundrum. The results, I think you’ll agree, are shocking…

….

Over to you, Sharlene…

….

Sharlene, it’s your time to shine…

….

Sharlene?

….

SHARRRRRLEEEEENEEEE!!!!!! Get yo ass out a that trailer n come on up to do that opinion piece like I aksed you to do! I didn’t buy you no six-pack a cold ones for nothing…. SHAAAAAARRRRLEEEENEEEE!

Huh? …What? You think ah’m skinny? Well that’s mighty sweet of you, boyfriend, though it don’t really mean much when it’s comin’ from a giant, and a girl at that! Hahahahahahaha!

Now, where was I? Beertrailermilkbarfishbowlcatbloodymeattincownailshoelace…. I do apologise, it’s just sometimes when I forgit somethin’, if ah just recite whole bunch a words like that, helps me remember ‘n shit.

Ok, okay! I know I’m no Jessica Simpson impersonmonator, but don’t you think we look just the teensiest bit alike? I’ll strip down to a ‘kini and wash yo veh-icle if you give me five dollars! Hahahahahahaha!

Ok I’ll do it for free. (*burps*)

Who put that there?

Anyway, ‘nough sweet-talk for this piece of creamy pie, I sure as hell know better ‘n anyone else ‘bout Billy-Ray Cyrus, or sweet-Billy-butter-me-likey-yo-bee-bee-racy fo short. And I was shocked as the next person when I saw that lil’ Miley up there for the whole world to see, her skinny ass all up in a sheet like a dead girl who’s last dying wish was for her topless to body to be propped upright like she was sittin’ up in bed covered only by a sheet, ‘cept she was dead! Well dosh-garnit, said I. They’ve got them a propped-up-corpse-wisher! I’ll be – that’s acting!

But then the media gets a hold on it and who knows what they gonna say, they’s all on about the sexy children and who knows where this thing’s gon’ run to next?

Now I’m the first to agree, the desexualisation of kids is a real drag! When I was all of five I liked nothing more than to throw on one a mamma’s g-things an jump right up on the pole there, with her. Spinning round, n, round, and everyone cheerin’ and happy… I never felt so, so, so… free.

But people, I think we’re missin the point, here! That… thing, that monster has taken over the poor girl’s body and we got to stop it! Will society do nothing to arrest the muddy… swamp… zombie… PLAGUE that’s evidently sweeping this here humble pie? Huh? HUH? Oh. And when I say pie, I mean, town.

Look at it, just look at it, for just a second. Can you not see those smugly-fed ghoul lips, still rimmed with the blood of all those small, little animals she killed after dragging herself with her scrawny arms out a that cess-pool in hell? Tiny animals, all furry and cute-like. Just goin bout their animal ways, and never suspectin’ they’s about to give this here Miley, Miley… VIRUS a good serving of do-you-want-fries-with-yo-blood!

Do you not see, the body that never takes nourishment, though it devours the flesh, like that part in the movie Rosemary’s Baby where she eats the piece a liver to feed her monster-demon-baby that’s growing inside her, and she don’t know it yet? I mean, golly-gosh, she’s still covered in swamp-juice – that THING didn’t even blow-wave its own hair!!!

Now, I’m not gonna to lie to you, I don’t got no answers. But I’ll pray for you, Billy-Ray, oh, by gosh, I’ll pray. She ain’t gonna get to you, sweet baby Billy. Not if I can help it. You’re in my… achy…breaky… prayers.

I am Sharlene. And this has been my story.

….

Ooook. Thanks, Sharlene, for another gritty piece of investigative reportage.

So, there you have it, people, the horrible truth about what’s become of our sweet little Hannah Montana. Pre-natal victim of Belinda Neal? Or something more sinister, even than that?

Urrrghhhh, it really does give you the creeps, doesn’t it? Sort of makes you want to vomit continuously for hours until you begin to orally expel your own organs, just so you can wrap yourself in a kind of gizzard-nest, miles away from the winter cold, and from night-time terrors like Miley Cyrus.

In any case, you heard it here first at the haus ov duum – always here since three days ago, always at the razor’s edge.

– oafie

City Homicide Episode 15, we salute you

 

Ok, so I am aware that the heading of this post is remarkably similar to the heading of the post I wrote last week about Matthew Gray Gubler, which, I’ll admit, doth not bode well for the sustainability of this amazingly insightful piece of investigatory inter-kibble. But (and you may notice that, true to our nineties-child Clueless-ness, this is our answer to almost everything), whatevs! Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and, well, I just really like myself. What do you want me to do, have an eating disorder???

 

 

 

Hmmm, pretty.

 

Ok, that was below the belt. But at least I have hips from which my belts can hang. (Or perch on, if they’re worn on the waist. Sorry. My propensity for self-qualification is very distracting.) Roflbbqlemonjuicewithcayennepepper!!!

Anyway, I digress from the Homicide homies, those Aussie cops of my waking televisual dreams. The first episode of the second series aired last night, and we at the palais were not disappointed. Channel 7 even engineered the arrest of an axe murderer so they could roll a news ticker across the program in moments of high drama, thereby simultaneously heightening the police reality AND cutting the cords of our disbelief’s suspension!! It was very distracting, but also… thrilling!

Last night’s pep-isode centred upon the fatal knifing of a mother and divorcee-to-be in a Melbourne alley-way at the back of a nightclub. It was more like gritty homicide, judging by the amount of graffiti EVERYWHERE… we’re talking seriously street, y’all! And don’t even get me started on the local colour addition of the bin-rummaging freegan who found the body! ‘The haves throw things out, and we’re the have-no who use them again, yeah?’ Or some such thing. Texture much!

Detective Jennifer (hot blonde Nadine Garner character) was so bemused. On that note, I’d like to draw your attention to this:

 

 

 

 

Hello? Could she be any sassier? I thought only Michelle Obama could rock that shade! (Haha! I just sort of mentioned politics, yo! We’re not the resolute low-bies you took us to be!)

The great thing about this drama is its universal appeal. I mean, to start with, most people have mothers, and think how many chefs and knife-sharpeners use knives, not to mention all the regular people who just like cooking and cutting themselves! So a stabbing mummy murder was well appropriate for getting the homi-ball rolling.

I read a review in SMH yesterday bewailing the show’s cheap sets and non-Underbelly-ness, but to this I say (you guessed it), ‘whatevs!’. It’s just a really well-paced down’n’dirty Aussie cop drama, and I honestly had NO IDEA that that helpful semi-hot junkie was going to turn out to be the other son adopted out at birth who banged his mother before topping her brutally. Come on, people! Do you not see the Greek mythistry of all this? The family concerned were even Greek Australians, with names like ‘Tolos’ and I-can’t-remember-any-of-the-others!

I’m pretty excited to see how this thing with the chief and his secretly tarty, long-haired, possible-affair having wife pans out. Does anyone else hope it all eventuates in a dirty office hook-up with Noni Hazlehust? I’d like to see them investigate one another well and proper.

That’s probably just me. I’ve not mentioned Daniel Macpherson’s nouveau-do and lack of last season’s new millennium jacket, but they really deserve a whole new post. A post called ‘Daniel Macpherson’s nouveau-do and lack of last season’s new millennium jacket’.

 

 – oafie