Menses: The society for smart people and stuff.

I was reading Dikkii's Diatribe and noticed that his latest entry was a boast or lament about the reading level of his blog, as scored by this website.

Dikkii's blog is full of reasonably long and well thought-out pieces about matters of some import. This one seems to talk about women up-on-blocks a lot.

His blog was rated 'undergraduate'. Ours was rated 'genius'. Dikkii, it's time to increase the amount of airtime you commit to uterine effluvia. Period.

This negro means "success" to many small business with no ad budget

We need to show diversity and appeal to the fun loving crowd who are our demographic but how can we do it with almost no budget?

THANK YOU ISTOCK STOCK IMAGE OF AN UNTHREATENING NEGRO WHO LOOKS WELL SPOKEN.

He's black, but not TOO black. I would let him live in my neighborhood.

Minimum Wage, Maxiumum Damage- the trials and tribulations of a part-time janitor

As a janitor, I am given access to 24 floors of women's restrooms and that means I can get my rubber-gloved hands on at least a pound of expelled uterine matter a night.

History is replete with individuals who made gold from other people's trash and my mind is churning with ideas on how to capitalize on the dirty tampons and pads of hundreds of women.

Craig's List here I come. I bet they laughed at Vanderbilt when he imported the first Asian hooker.

Menses mean money, baby.

At least referring to it as "The Curse" had some dignity

I don't like to talk about my own personal bodily functions, especially when they are female-specific. To be honest, I'm downright squeamish about it. Unfortunately, the subject matter at hand outs me as someone who has to deal with being "up on blocks" for a few days a month. Even worse, I have to admit to buying Libra Invisible BodyFit Pads. Now, I really don't want to get into the hows and whys of my choice of feminine protection, I will simply say that most women would rather buy some extra insurance than risk having that "Carrie" moment we all know and dread.

Now that I have awkwardly explained why I am in possession of sanitary napkins, let's examine why they are blog-worthy:

Oh, look how cute and stylish. How very Paul Smith! Ok, whatever. Now to peel off the backing and stick the pad to your knickers.

Um...What. The. Fuck. I'm shedding uterine lining here, people, not taking a coffee and Metamucil assisted morning constitutional. Thanks for the reading material on the back of my crotch-pad, but it's not exactly a cereal box, now is it? Also, to the wiseass who decided to call these maxi-pad factoids "Odd Spots", while I normally applaud such irreverence, I'm going to withhold my kudos this time. Sometimes a little shame is a good thing.

Is this bad?

Every time in my life when a vegan or vegetarian chick has swallowed after taking the act to its logical conclusion, I feel the same way I used to when I would surreptitiously throw small pieces of ham onto the pizzas of attractive vegetarian or vegan women.

Like a god.

Why are you telling me about your heroin addiction?

Like all nerds, I harbored an ongoing lust for anything with tits and a second glance for me. She was ridiculously hot in a Gaul-ish kind of way and was, of course, out of my league. Chance encounters on campus and an odd connection between an old man in a Dunkin Donuts and her mother were all I had to fuel my tiny hope that one day that we’d make a connection and that awesome body would ride me like a Harley on a bad piece of road. I couldn’t even remember her name the day I ran into her while walking out of the Cherry Hill Mall. I just remembered that she dated some drummer and dug musicians. One of the first things she said to me was that she finally kicked heroin but her boyfriend was still using.

My incredulity at her sudden admission of a heroin addiction was complete. My mouth ran by itself. She showed me her trackless arms with an enthusiasm I had never seen in an ex-junkie and she proudly proclaimed she had never fucked a drug dealer in exchange for his wares. She even rolled up her jacket instead of taking it off. How do you stick a gold star on that and where do you hang it on your refrigerator?

My mouth kept on running, obnoxiously asking probing questions, my mind locked away saying, “HOLY SHIT” over and over again.

Somehow I disengaged and walked away but fuck man, seriously?

Coming soon: Indentured Servitude for the Nintendo DS

BE IT KNOWN! Penelope Cruz a PORN STAR?

Artist depiction of Penelope Cruz on the set

The WIKIPEDIA defines PORN STAR as "A pornographic actor/actress or a porn star is somebody who appears in pornographic films or photographs, live sex shows or peep shows. Many actors and actresses may appear nude in films (usually filmed in explicit sexual genres). Most genres have specialists who achieve most of their recognition in a specific niche market such as bondage or strap-on sex."

Apparently, superstar actress Penelope Cruz WILL BE PLAYING ONE in her next project.

"Penelope and Monica Cruz, July 2007 (Carlos Alvarez, Getty Images)

Penelope Cruz will play a porn star alongside her sister Monica in her next screen role.

The pair have agreed to star in a video to accompany their rock star brother Eduardo's new album 'Cosas Que Contar'.

Cruz says, "We're going to be playing porn stars.""

THERE you HAVE it. From she herself. How EXCITING for her to be playing an actress in an industry that is run primarily by males for males with an emphasis on the comodifying grotesque ideas of beauty.

I find your argument sophisticated, and will change my opinion forthwith.

I think that nuclear energy is a potential solution to our energy problems, especially when carbon emission are taken into account. 

You think that nukes are bad, mmmkay? My opinion is backed up with a lot of reading and looking into what scientists of many stripes have said on the issue.

Yours is backed up by an inflatable pachyderm, being powered by a pollution-spewing two-stroke generator.

Thanks for your loss-leading contribution to the marketplace of ideas. I'll be sure to look out for your next solution to our problems.

Modern life is rubbish - re-evaluated

This post contains no laughs. Feel free to ignore it.

Blur's second album came out at around the peak of my love affair with music. I spent so much of my meagre income on music in that year that at one stage I had to eat nothing but baked potatoes for a month because I had about 28 bucks left to my name. Everything else was spent on music. No lie.

I had previously loved Blur's first album Leisure and had introduced as many people to it as I could. I requested tracks from it at indie dance clubs, and then stared at my feet and shuffled when they came on. I bought copies of magazines with promo pictures of the band in them. I took seriously an article in the NME that said they were the next Jesus and Mary Chain. I drank the Kool-Aid.

Then Modern Life is Rubbish was released, and I absolutely hated it. Noisy, ponderous and self-important, I thought. Not good to dance to, I thought. No hypercolour artwork, I thought. I listened to it at friends' houses a couple of times, and then promptly decided it was shit and never listened to it again until around 2001.

It was only then that I realised that this is one of those rare things - an actually good album. It sounds as good today in 2007 as it did when I gave it another chance in 2001. And as good as it did in 1993 when I was too foolish to recognise it. 

What prompted me to write this? Well I recently went through all the music in my collection and realised that in my travels I have lost this LP somewhere. All of a sudden I had a massive craving to listen to the album track Villa Rosie, a song simultaneously maudlin and uplifting. And I realised at that point just how good this album is - I was jonesing to hear track 11 on a 14-year-old record.

That is a good sign. So, give it a listen. I rebought it on iTunes and am loving every second of it.

That Automan font is awesome.

The typeface that they use in the credits in the YouTube thing below is kick-arse. It reminds me of Airwolf. Which reminds me of Jan-Michael Vincent. Which reminds me that I am going to write a piece about people who must have slept with someone important's wife or husband because how come they never get any work these days?

The writer's strike is a golden opportunity.

I want to see classic 80's one-season tv shows remade from the original scripts.

First up? AUTOMAN.

That show would rule the streets if made with modern technology. I mean, for a start it can't be any worse than, say, Virtuosity.

I wish I was a picture editor for an online newspaper

Heather Mills is a reasonably attractive woman, and also I assume she goes off like a cat in a box. I mean Sir Paul is wealthy. He could have had his pick of a lot of women. Even, I assume, a lot of amputees, if that's his things. But he chose old crazy Heather. I assume it's because she's kinda hot, kinda odd, and reminds him a little of that other bird he used to bone lots and lots. And that she is kinky. I remember reading that when she lost her leg, she got her then boyfriend to stoink her in the hospital, in a somewhat Cronenbergesque manner.

Anyhoo, the reason I bring this up is because of this pic on my local newspaper.

Ok, Mills is crazy. She wants us to drink rat's milk (which as we all know is called Malk). 

But is there any chance that out of the dozens of pics that AP had for this event that they might have been able to choose one that doesn't make her look like a mong baby?

Of course there were better pics. This leads me to the happy conclusion that being a pictorial editor at an online newspaper is just one long game of 'let's make people we don't like look ugly'. This is one of my favourite sports, and so now I want that job.

When did we all get together and vote on this 'right'?

I don't know if you can read that little caption there, but according to the organisers of Miss Landmine Angola 2008, everyone has the right to be beautiful. 

Sounds nice, doesn't it? 

Unfortunately it's hogshit. I wish it were true though, because rights infer responsibilities. And if you have the right to be beautiful, then you have a responsibility to be not ugly, and that is something I can get behind.

This is going to be something of a problem though because I am not generally aroused by chicks who have been dismembered (though I would pay good money to see some watersport porn featuring Heather Millcartney). 

So where does that leave me? Am I denying some woman named Eileen the right to be beautiful if I find her repulsive? I am not saying that this will keep me awake at night, but it might give me some strange dreams.

I guess what I am saying is ugly people are ugly people and that is true even if you step on a landmine. Unless that landmine is actually a keg of beer, in which case you might get more attractive.

Robin Williams: Magical negro

I don't think it's a secret that I have something of an obsession with Robin Williams. He's been part of my cultural landscape since his bit on Happy Days where he was Gazoo to Richie Cunningham's Fred Flintstone. 

I recently described the manic dwarf in a letter to the editor of The Age as 'comedy's equivalent of Rod Stewart -- a raging fire sadly harnessed only to warm old turds.' But I have noticed another pattern to his career. I have noticed that he plays a lot of roles that would otherwise go to Morgan Freeman.

That's right. Robin Williams is the white Magical Negro.  In fact he's the Magical Negro you have when you don't want to cast a black guy in your film at all.

Don't believe me? Look at the trailer for August Rush and listen to the blithering nonsense that he's spouting in it. Put him in overalls and on death row and he could be played by Michael Clark Duncan. Look at Dead Poet's Society and tell me that isn't just To Sir, With Love, set in a rich kids school where you kill yourself because daddy didn't see your stirring rendition of 'Mister Tumnus as a young rump-stumper'. Also, with no black people. 

It's long been my opinion that Morgan Freeman must have business cards with 'Have gravitas, will peddle' on them. Well I hope Morgan has plenty of cash in the bank , because when central casting realises Williams can play God, Freeman is fucked.

Coda: I have been thinking about this a lot and have realised that in What Dreams May Come, he plays up against an ACTUAL Magical Negro in the form of Cuba Gooding Junior as God. I may have to rewatch this technicolor shitstorm just to get a handle on what happens when matter and antimatter collide.

The Origins of Bai Ling

Ok, so yesterday I stumbled across this blog which catapulted me into a frenzy of nostalgia for the fashion of my tween years. The purple fashion prose used in The Babysitters Club books has set many a young girl on the road to becoming a fashion-obsessed woman who rates her daily happiness by the perfection of her outfit. (I happily admit to belonging to this camp, even though my affliction manifests itself in the more OCD manner of simply needing to aquire more clothes, never mind putting them together in any stylish way. I blame Barbie and the unattainable vastness of her wardrobe.)

Anyway, after devouring every blog post on "what claudia wore", I had an epiphany. Let me illustrate it in images for you:

Claudia Kishi:

Ok, so the illustrators never did Claudia justice on the covers. I'll give you a description straight from the book, in the fashion icon's own words:

"At the moment I'm wearing lavender plaid cuffed pants with suspenders over a green shirt with buttons down the front, a matching lavender beret (and not just because I'm at my easel), and fleece-lined, high-top sneakers which I must admit are uncomfortably hot, but they look great. Also, I've got on earrings shaped like Christmas tree lights that actually blink on and off. I'm not sure why I chose to wear them, since it's nowhere near Christmas, but I love jewelry, like to make my own sometimes, and have pierced ears."

...and that one is tame! Now, on to my epiphany:

Now, if you are not suitably impressed by my "Bai Ling is Claudia Kishi all grown up" theory, let me just inform you that I emailed the ladies who write my favorite blog -Heather and Jessica at gofugyourself.com - to tell them of the fantastic connection my champagne addled brain managed to make. They replied that I had blown their minds. I am currently trying to exercise some restraint and not go into an orgy of gushing fangirl-dom and numerous emails that may border on harassment. Lucky for them I live in Australia now. If I was still home in San Diego, I'd be driving up the 405 freeway right now with matching BFF t-shirts, a roll of duct tape and all my back issues of US Weekly.

Minimum Wage, Maxiumum Damage- the trials and tribulations of a part-time janitor

I work part-time as a night janitor for a large company in my city. It's a hilarious adventure in race relations that I'll go into at a later date but for all you white collars out there, if you think your desk hasn't been fucked on then you are sorely mistaken. Personally, I take great pride in having taken a dump in the private bathrooms of the CEO, vice-CEO and IT guy. Additionally, I have touched my sack to the artwork on many walls. Think about that the next time you walk past an expensive piece of artwork in the lobby or hallway of a large piercing symbol of capitalism. At one point, someone could have been giggling maniacally while ball dragging it.

I prefer to do it while the painting is on the floor during renovations. It's more degrading to the artist and his art. You aren't violating the painting while it sits majestically where it can be appreciated and worshiped. Finding the painting off to the side, where it has been shunted because functionality has to be addressed and pretty images have no place in an electrical wiring diagram is the kind of sex that you have with nasty girls with father issues that you know is going to lead to all kinds of drama but goddamn SHE BUCKS HER HIPS LIKE A COTTON CANDY MACHINE. In this case, it's an inanimate object and you're touching your balls to the canvas but nonetheless it is exhilarating. Like signing or pissing in a Duchamp, you are part of the art's history.

Tonight's lesson: unmarried Muslim women want dick just like unmarried non-Muslim women. It has taken my co-worker all of one date with the new girl to have her making out with him and grabbing his dick through his jeans. I have already made him promise me he'll have her wear the burka when he smashes it from behind.

You read it, now you can't unread it.

Together at last!

Here, enjoy this coffee, but please chew some gum straight away because we wouldn't want you to smell like you just had a coffee!

Have a nice day!

I have begun a new work out routine

From SomethingAwful.com

"EVERY MORNING I WAKE UP AND OPEN PALM SLAM A VHS INTO THE SLOT. IT'S CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK AND RIGHT THEN AND THERE I START DOING THE MOVES ALONGSIDE WITH THE MAIN CHARACTER, RIDDICK. I DO EVERY MOVE AND I DO EVERY MOVE HARD. MAKIN WHOOSHING SOUNDS WHEN I SLAM DOWN SOME NECRO BASTARDS OR EVEN WHEN I MESS UP TECHNIQUE. NOT MANY CAN SAY THEY ESCAPED THE GALAXYS MOST DANGEROUS PRISON. I CAN. I SAY IT AND I SAY IT OUTLOUD EVERYDAY TO PEOPLE IN MY COLLEGE CLASS AND ALL THEY DO IS PROVE PEOPLE IN COLLEGE CLASS CAN STILL BE IMMATURE JEKRS. AND IVE LEARNED ALL THE LINES AND IVE LEARNED HOW TO MAKE MYSELF AND MY APARTMENT LESS LONELY BY SHOUTING EM ALL. 2 HOURS INCLUDING WIND DOWN EVERY MORNIng"

I AM THE FIRST PERSON TO EVER MAKE THIS JOKE ABOUT HER WORK

Not Work Safe

In a sense, yes. My art has been commended as being strongly vaginal which bothers some men. The word itself makes some men uncomfortable. Vagina.