Sod Karma.Here comes Truckma.

I have just realised how much the world has changed since i was a scruffy teenager. Take the demise of Heath Ledger. Thousands of celebrity/gossip internet sites are now using his name tag to drive web traffic to their sites. He is barely cold and the name rapists are posting misinformed speculations about his so called druggy/suicidal demise. These sites( that shall go unamed for fear of attracting more readers too them) - are also heading their alerts with puns in exceptionally poor taste. When I was a laddie we had respect for the dead. Oh how out of date i am! These sites also goad celebrities and feed off them by criticizing them relentlessly. This drives a terrible whirlpool of interest in the uninteresting. They say it's all in good humour - that the jokes about being fat, being photographed with a period running through your pants, the jibes about attempted suicides, the snide reportage about drug deaths are all acceptable because, they say. these people are public property. Well, call me old fashioned but jokes about dead people who ain't buried yet certainly are not in good humour. It is wrong! Mark my words the people that write this stuff won't get bad Karma, they'll be hit by bad Truckma which is twice as big and travels twice as fast. Either that or a clone of Bjork's maniacal stalker will rise from the dead and take on these men who hide in their blogosphere. I have a funny feeling the internet space is going to get a little more claustrophobic for some of these celebrity assassins. At least I hope so.They will have brought it on themselves as they are becoming celebrities themselves. Look at Perez Hilton. He dyes his hair weekly and promotes himself as a personality relentlessly, without actually doing anything except celeb-sucking. Who's to say a 'Mark Chapman' of the future won't see him as his Lennon. Live by the celebrity sword and you might find yourself stabbed by it. Note; Heath Ledger is not tagged on this blog.

The Karaoke Nazi.

I went to Karaoke yesterday. You know the drill. A hot fetid room overpacked with too many people sweating out alcohol and screaming their heads off. I felt a little bit off colour so wasn't really in the mood. Especially when one of our crowd jumped on the table and knocked out one of the ceiling tiles, which made two pints of built up air-conditioning fluid flood the floor. 'Legionnaires Disease here I come,' I mused. But all this aside what made it totally unbearable was the Karaoke Nazi. A new breed of Karaoke killer. She is a lovely girl, but she super glued her hand to the remote programmer. No one else got a look in. This was not a normal 'sit in front of the TV' type of remote dominatrix. This was out of control. No one could get her to release her vice like grip. She chose all the songs for everyone. If you wanted a song and she didn't like that song it was game over. That song was taken outside and shot in the head in the back alley. And unfortunately she liked all the songs i didn't. On my journey home i couldn't get kylies, 'Can't get you out of my head,' out of my goddam head. I think that the boys at Guantanamo Bay are doing it wrong. If they want to torture someone just employ a Karaoke nazi. That'll extort every piece of information they need out of the beardy bad boys.

Mr Nipples

I have a great friend. I call him Mr Nipples. The reason I call him that is simple. He thinks he has weird puffy nipples and is determined to have surgery to rectify his unfortunate teat problem. But there is a problem with his problem. There is nothing wrong with his nipples. They are pefectly normal. He hasn't got man boobs or even man bumps. A baby pig would not squeal for his teat. His male breast is more armour breast plate than female boobie. Yet he is pursuing a plastic surgeon. But in his search for this imaginary scapel swiped cure he is geographically looking in the wrong place. He needs to head north, away from the pink flesh and into the grey matter. If he gets his mind right and realises the truth, that his nipples are correct in every way, then he won't be so willing to psychologically fall on a sword daily as he looks in the mirror, let alone fall on a scapel to physically remove his non-existent puffy nipples. I think maybe calling him Mr Normal Nipples might help him along his way.

The Blondi

I live in Bondi, Australia and I Mr Darwin can lay claim to having identified a new species. A species that through the years of evolution has become a supreme being on the beaches and streets of this strange town. She is called a Blondi. She is tall and long legged. She normally is blond haired [often dyed] but can come in a variety of colours and styles. She does not work at all and all food, drink and designer bags are bought and brought to her greedy table by her bald, paunchy, middle aged mate [ note:mate as in Animal Kingdom mate .i.e. who is shagging them. Not mate as in who you go shopping with]. She's evolved to believe all she ever has to do is apply make-up, drive her mate's porsche and purr over cappuccinos, chatterring with her fellow Bondi Blondis. Her skin is perpetually super-tanned. A result of endless hours cooking like kebab meat, legs spread, in the sizzle of the sun. She regularly covers itself in multi- coloured Kaftans or wiggles on the beach in itsy-bitsy, yellow, polka dot, half-a-bikinis. She has no idea about anything but doesn't profess to care. 'Isn't Hillary a new shade of lipstick Darlink.' She has no use in society except to provide for a lower species on her own self-made social scale - the beauty therapist, a creature that is paid to remove the Blondi's own scales. The Blondi preens and postures non-stop. She often exhibits a strange runny nose while out at nighttime socialising with other members of her tribe. But she ages quickly. If not married off it by her early thirties the Blondi becomes irritable and visually disintegrates at an increasing rate of knots. Her skin wrinkles and curls. Her lips start thinning and take on a permanent sneer more often than not with a dangling cigarette attached. Her clothes stay young, while her body flesh hangs and flops. She is at its best for only five summers before the sun starts to take its toll. She has no career to fall back on. The Blondi's friends desert her unless they too are still single.Then they trawl the bars in packs looking for increasingly younger meat. But suffering increasing failures in her relentless pursuit of a new rich mate, the ageing Blondi eventually ends up with an even fatter mate. A male who owns a restaurant, dresses in black turtle necks, that don't hide his turtle shell stomach, drives a faster penis and improves the Viagra share price fortnightly. Unfortunately nature is cruel to Blondi's and her mates always leave her for a much younger Blondi.
'The Survival of those that look as fit as a butcher's dog' is a theory that does apply to the countless Blondi's who roam the soft sands of Bondi beach, but thankfully it only lasts until Mother Nature gives her super tanned daughters a strong slap on the wrist to remind them of their true age.

Friend Stealers.

I have become a victim of the ancient art of friend stealing. A couple whom I have known for years have started gazumping my friends. Like two pirahnas they have gobbled up my nearest and dearest. It starts with you introducting the couples to each other. The next thing you know your friends are hosting a dinner party for your other friends and you're not invited. You are cast asunder from their fine cusine, red wine and late night laughter. Then you see them in a bar hanging out together as you skulk past hoping that you haven't been noticed. You feel violated and sick. You toss and turn at night. But you don't say a word. Afterall you would never do that to them. It is an unwritten rule, a code of honour, 'Thou shalt not covert your best friends' friends'. 'Thou shalt not (definitely not!) break bread without the friends that introduced you being there!' But you are doomed. It is Catch 2+2 and you are the rassbery in the bunch of cherries.You are stuck in purgatory, unable to say anything without looking petty and jealous.You feel guilty for your feelings. Maybe you are being over-reactionary. Maybe you should chew on a huge chill pill. And then the horror really hits home. Your best friend calls you and mistakenly addresses you by your other friend's name, apologizes and puts down the phone. It's official, you've been replaced. You're jokes don't sound as funny to them anymore, your witicisms aren't quite so pithy, your yarns are woollier than they once were. It is time to get back on your horse, friend-gun slung by your side and trot once more onto the great friend plains. But there don't seem to be as many potentials out on the grasslands as there once were. The soil is barren, the prey scattered, yet you soldier on with weary bones and old bullets. You are desperate to hunt down some new friend meat. For otherwise you will starve and suffer a slow agonizing death from your lack of dinner-party invitations.