Donna’s out of jail, and Jim’s back on the liquor. Oh Nitflux, let me count the ways.
A little known, must see movie.
I spent glorious yesterday at the beach, the water was warm, the sun was out, and I was bedecked in my patented cabana beach wear, which consists of black, black, black, and also my stunning pink flamingos shorts.
I had the utter misfortune to have to venture into Wollongong central, the worlds greatest failure of a shopping centre. As I was ascending the escalator a young couple were standing ahead of me. I followed their line of site, and they were looking at my much commented on, and beloved shorts.
She leaned into her boyfriend, and I heard her say, ‘Don’t laugh’.
DON’T LAUGH!!??, how dare you, you suburban little TART!!.
I gave her and her piss ant boyfriend, who looked like he’d been strained through a homeless persons threadbare sock, the slow once up and down. What I discovered on her were clothes that wouldn’t have totaled more than ten dollars in cost, as well as legs with spider web veins, and the most gut wrenchingly repugnant, flat, splayed feet in non Haviana thongs!.
The boyfriend was wearing cargo pants, BELOW THE KNEE!!. Before you get excited, no I didn’t throw them over the side of the escalator, I was actually rendered speechless that an urbane couple, bedecked in ‘Cotton On’, would dare give ME shade on fashion!!?? (I’m so Au currant with the lingo).
Don’t get above yourself Wollongong*, just because you have a pop up cafe in a shipping container does not elevate you above the fact, you’re still a grubby little city, in the shittiest state in Australia.
*Of course I don’t mean North Wollongong, which is only filled with stylish people of class, poise and decorum (as long as interlopers from Campbelltown keep going to city beach instead).
How can I have reached fifty one years of age, and only just discovered Madge Allsop’s maiden name was Marjorie Kiri McWhirter. My own hubris terrifies me, I must remember there is always so much more to learn in life.
Don’t worry, it’s only bile, stomach acid and blood, I’m sure it’ll wash out.
You know who shits me these days?, bitter old check out ladies.
I think they know their days are numbered, their time of power is waning. No more will they take a set against you, waiting until they get to an inappropriate item, then foist it aloft yelling, “Price check on Home brand Lube!!”.
Today i was asked,
‘Do you want your Disney collectors cards?’,
Yes please, my little nephews collect them.
‘Here’s three’,
Aren’t I supposed to get one for every twenty dollars spent?,
‘That’s all I have’,
Can you get some more?,
‘No’.
Then came the stare down, my patented ‘Riiiiiiiiiiiiight’, and the delightful discomfort of the people waiting in line behind me.
She was treating me like a dealer wielding power over a junkie. I gathered up my creme fraiche and hissed, ‘Self service!!’.
Your days of crushing loaves of bread will soon be over honey.
A few months ago a guy at Woolies in Wollongong started scanning my stuff,
“How’s your day sir!?”,
With the weight of my reality i responded,
Mate, it’s 7.00pm on a Saturday night, I’m shopping alone, and have soup for one in my trolley, how do you think my fucking night is going??.
His eyes lit up . .
“Thank you, THANK YOU!, I have to ask everyone that question!, the only thing people ever say is, ‘Fine’. THANK YOU for telling me the truth!”.
The gay boy check out chicks love me too. I always present my items for scanning, first in order of cleaning products, then bottled goods, then cold/frozen groceries, and lastly bread, in its own bag, ‘Of course sir’.
I always get a knowing nod from them.
I’m so glad this is the final season of Downton Abbey. Sloppy, tired writing seems to be the order of the day for the final series.
The characters have become monstrously tiresome. I find myself spending 90% of the episode willing Lady Mary, Anna and Cora to fall down a well,
or for Mrs Patmore to poison everyone with her cooking, ‘Tooh-dehhhh we’re cooking vole penis in a nice jellied sauce of endocrine gland fluid,
with fresh, steamed garden vegetables’.
I won’t* tell you what I was willing to happen whilst watching Carson marry Mrs Hughes.
*But I can give a hint . .
It involved one of Mr Carson’s unwashed socks, the wedding cake, Mr Bates walking stick, and Lady Mary’s prize winning pig.
So, I’ve spent the past couple of weeks looking online at apartments in Melbourne, for now just canvasing options for the future (work uncertainty etc).
I can’t believe how awful, and unprofessional some of the real estate advertising is. You would think the agents would go to some effort, to make the places they’re selling look at least habitable, and less like crime scenes.
How hard is it to cover a bed, thus hiding the piss stained body outline.
Oh man, when i was ten years old i was SO hot for Big Jim, i can’t even begin to tell you.
Just look at him, tho he had a plastinated body, his arms were supple rubber. I have a vague
memory of drawing a tattoo on Jim’s arm, even then i was projecting an admiration of rough trade.
By far Big Jim was the hottest action figure ever. I can see the allure of GI Joe, especially the one
i had, which sported a real beard, but Big Jim rocked my world, and ignited a fascination in me for red scooped, satin shorts, which lasts with me to this very day.
Like Jim and his hand drawn tattoo, i decided one day that GI Joe
needed a make over, and so i got out a razor blade and shaved him, which, let me say, was far better in theory than practice.
My Saturday nights have been reduced to watching hot guys on YouTube light up their farts.
That almost sounds like it’s a bad thing.
Be still my filthy, lascivious, beating heart. One of my favorite movies ever is ’54’. After years of waiting, the directors cut has finally surfaced. This is the movie pretty much as the director intended it to be, before the neuters at Miramax and Disney got to it, and hacked the gay out of it. So far it’s only available on Blu Ray from Germany, but i have a copy winging it’s way to me now. I can’t wait to see this.
