Category Archives: Uncategorized
Sure. Sydney ain’t no Europe. But at the Haus ov Duum, we’ll be bonne chance to have her back.
And don’t worry Oafie, we’ll move to Paris one day.
There we will soak ourselves daily, lying down flat, and frolic in fields with buttercups, and sleep in till 3pm, and have ultra cute babies that never grow old and wear tiny stripy scarves round their necks that flag in the wind as they sail sail sail down paved paths throwing small baguettes into the hands of wizened crones leaning out of dusty windows.
This will be our soundtrack.
Our commune will front up a little something like this.
Buttercups like so.
Our daily diet? Melted butter, of course. (or margarine in a pinch) (hell, why not go the whole hog and say condensed milk).
And the piece de resistance? (see how well I’m gonna fit in in France?). Our tiny babies with satorial aplomb. And they can ride bicycles! And throw baguettes! With those kinda mad skillz, surely they can cook, clean, pluck our eyebrows and earn the cash-o-la.
Plus, they come with their own snow domes! (I can just tell Lucy’s gonna wanna steal this one’s outfit).
So, Oafie, hurry back! Cos we’ll go back to our future some day!
How good is bad art? What could possess someone to painstakingly paint 3 takeaway coffee cups, you may ask? Just for the love of (awful) art.
Here’s another pearler I saw on a van in Stanmore.
I mean, for sure, nothing says clean toilet better than a gleeful dolphin defying space and physics (not to mention his dolphin family, who would be frankly disgusted, sure they’ll SLEEP with humans, but they won’t frolic in their fecal matter) – especially one so artfully rendered. The delightful, fizzy spray of water at his tail just makes me want to open my mouth and swallow. And those thunderous tear drops? More moving than The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride. “Wow” says the dolphin. Wow indeed.
You can see more bad art here: http://www.museumofbadart.org/
Apparently I am the doggy door of the viral world.
In case you can’t read that, Backdoor Lala is a Trojan Horse that allows unauthorised access to a compromised computer. In human terms, I am a large wooden implement that is shelved where the sun don’t shine.
So, in the spirit of comraderie, I will give my fellow doomies Viral Names.
Sophie (happy birthday!) is: Spamallam Oafoffikus (BBQ!) Human terms: She is teflon to imaginary big penises, Nigerians, Surrealist poetry and replica watches.
Lucy is: Soft-in-the-head-Ware Fire-Hill (luv U LOL). Human terms: Soft and cuddly up top, raging tornado of fiery spikes elsewhere (that cannot be mounted).
Wow. I think my brain has been compromised by this backdoor business.
— backdoor lalaz
Spirit whisperer and down-to-earth lady Charmaine Wilson last night scooped the nation’s spookiest tiara, being chosen by the good people of Australia as our most gifted psychic. This was after her rivals, housewife and non-professional psychic Amanda Roussety and spirit speaker and “humble man” Ezio De Angelis both predicted, in a final, chilling test, that she would.
HOW CAN YOU NOT BELIEVE?!
As a precognitive dreamer myself, I know how hard it can be to grapple with “the other side”. Traffics a bitch, you run into all sorts of people you normally avoid on Facebook, the Grim Reaper’s always hogging the Scrabble board, and the constant wind-chime soundtrack can get a bit tiresome.
Still, when you’ve got the gift, you gotta do what you gotta do.
I wish Churchill had listened when I precognitived World War 2.
Not to mention the shock win of the Logan twins, Big Brother 05.
And the great alfalfa crisis of 1931. IF ONLY WE’D INVESTED IN MUSHROOMS!
So, to be taken seriously in the most serious of arenas, a game show hosted by a Daddo, is no mean feat. Congratulations Charmaine. I knew you could do it. I said, I KNEW!
On Friday Lucy went on a work Yay Day. This is a novel concept where one’s work treats one to nice things, other than free internet and a regular wage.
Sophie and I don’t know anything about Yay, working as we do in unglamorous industries, with little cash dollars, even for stationery. But there are all sorts of other Days that we thought of, whilst at work, working hard. You know.
When you get to torture everyone you hate.
Where people who aren’t professoinal experts on things get to talk about those things/have sex with people/sleep.
When everything is bite-sized.
Where everyone gets involved a noisy and confused situation.
See above, Yay Day.
— lalaz & oafie
In high school, I was voted as the person most likely to have a sitcom about their life. This title appeared in our yearbook. Incidentally, i don’t know who voted in this election, nor do i know who set the different categories for the voting. In fact, i suspect, these categories and thus titles were decided by the people who were responsible for and edited the yearbook, who were, I don’t think, my friends. This is something i look back on in my life with regret, i wish i had the foresight then to realise that i would, as a mid twenty something lady, regret not taking part in our year book. I don’t know what i did in my last year of high school, but very few of my memories are within the boundaries of Sydney Girls High. Which is odd, as i always fancied myself as quite a school nerd, as in, i liked school, as in, i don’t think i was that cool at high school, as in, i should have spent loads of time there. Which doesn’t really lend itself to the whole, ‘i can’t remember ever really doing anything at school.’ Which is true. And upsetting. ‘cos i really liked school.
Anyway, I digress.
As I worm my way through this turtle we call life, i am becoming increasingly more aware just how like a sitcom my life is.
I am constantly broke, despite having a high powered, high earning agency job. And despite having some really fancy clothes and accessories. And despite having an awesome apartment in the city, that is dressed with an eclectic array of modern and pre-loved furniture and expensive art. I am constantly in love, despite never having a boyfriend. And these stories of love oft end in stories of despair, or, alternatively stories of funnies. (Note: my definition of love is lame at best, think dante the video shop guy – which is a sitcom in itself, huh? huh?) I have a beautiful, hilariant, frightfully insular (no offence – it’s a good thing when we are actually this good) group of friends, many of whom i’ve known for 15 years. They all work in television, or film, or advertising, or journalism and we all like the odd beverage. We easily get up to and in turn, fix, something funny and morally reprehensible each week, documented by photos and gossip until the next weekend comes around. I have a true love that lives in London, who is undoubtedly the main reason i can never move on with my life in terms of a relationship, which ties in nicely with my life determination to move back to London – the one and only goal I have ever given myself. Bad things happen to me all the time, which are often so bad they are unbelievable and/or funny.
I have nice long hair.
Is this not the prelude to a script of ‘Grace and Friends’? ‘How I Met Will’s Mother’? ‘3 and ½ Newsreaders’?
Seeing all this in print, it really is a funny sitcom, forserious, not for funnies.
And true to all funny sitcoms, it’s not funny at all.
– Special Guest Star Awex