My eyes have been soiled.

I can't NOT blog about this. There I was in Topham Mall in the city just walking past, and this dude in white lycra shorts was walking around, apparently lost or something. At first I thought I saw the outline of a dick in his shorts, but the material must have been wet or something and... yeah. It wasn't just a bulge, it was all completely on display, and even more disturbingly it was splayed and looked like he needed to rearrange things a bit. I wonder if he realised? I thought about being kind by telling him that his dick was entirely visible, because I suspect it's the kind of thing that I would want to know about if I were dumb enough to wear tight, white lycra bicycle shorts. But then I noticed that he didn't have a bike with him, which had me thinking about the possibility that the wardrobe malfunction wasn't accidental, and that he just gets off on showing off his junk to the world. YUCK.

His dick looked circumcised, too. DOUBLE YUCK. Apologies to the circumcised folk out there. It's not your fault your parents are sick, genital-mutilating freaks.

ANYWAY.

Time for another haircut, I think.

More expert paintshop artwork.

Almost as shocking as the general aura of Emo Fag Just Returned From The STD Clinic that this photo radiates is the little curled flick thingy on the right, which by the way was not on purpose.

Good for you, California. You are now higher up on my list of places I'd like to visit when I'm less immature and stupid with money (well... less stupid in general).

I was fairly surprised to read amid the news about Ellen DeGeneres planning to get married that Portia De Rossi is actually Australian. I didn't know that, which is weird. Usually if any famous person has ever lived in or set foot on this continent, or if they have ever eaten Vegemite or been mauled or shat on by a koala, or if they have ever had a baby with Heath Ledger is clutched affectionately to Australia's ample bosom. We even have the wantons to claim Russell Crowe as our own. We're like a possessive Italian mother who just doesn't want to think of her children moving away from home, and who tells ALL the ladies at craft about every single one of her kids' accomplishments.

It must be the lesbian factor that we aren't quite as fond of her as we are of Naomi, Nicole and... the rest. I simply refuse to believe that I could be ignorant of her Australian-ness without some sort of homophobic conspiracy at play, given how pathetically encyclopaedic my knowledge of Australian pop culture is. Thanks, Sam, you cunt.

Meanwhile, don't you think that DeGeneres is just about the most unfortunate name a lesbian woman could possibly have, given that it rhymes with 'degenerate'? Anyhoo, I quite like Ellen, her show, and especially her goofy dancing. Every day she gets to live the lesbian dream: dance in a room full of squealing women just gagging for her attention. I really respect that about her, I think we can all learn something from her in that regard. Ahem.

In related news, Shirley Phelps-Roper, she of the Phelps clan based in the delightfully progressive township of Topeka, Kansas, is reportedly euphoric at the news of the Supreme Court's overturning of California's constitutional ban on gay marriage. She and her long-time life partner, Ann Coulter, are planning a trip to California to consecrate their love in front of family, friends and the media. A statement from Ms Coulter herself confirmed these reports, and she went on to say that she was already moist with anticipation.

This is how many times a day I purge.

File under: lame celebrity sightings.

I saw my least favourite Australian Idol of all time today! No, not Kate "Have You Called Jenny Yet?" DeRaugo, but Damien Leith. He is the most perplexing of all Australian Idol winners, in my opinion. I thought Jess Mauboy should have won that year, but I never really kicked up much of a stink about it because I missed the final due to schoolies. That was fun, especially the time one of my friends reversed his car into a fence, got out, surveyed the damage, and then drove away. He was sober, mind you.

But yeah. Damien Leith was walking around in these tight black pants and this lame-o shirt that I think I might have seen at Myer or Roger David or somewhere. I didn't get a close-up view of his teeth to see how fake his new set of chompers look, darn.

Hm, my star sightings always tend to be a bit lame. I saw the Veronicas a little while ago, also by chance (ie. I wasn't at a concert or anything, that wouldn't count, and as if I'd be seen dead at a Veronica's concert. Thirteen year old emos as far as the eye can see, probably) and I was trying to figure out which one was Lisa so that I could pay her out for dating a big Christian virgin softcock like Dean Geyer. What's the point of having a hot boyfriend if he's too repressed pure to want to plug your vadge?

Good news everyone, I worked out how to use the staple thingy on the photocopier! I can officially put 'incredibly slow learner' on my resume now.

Hm, it occurred to me earlier that I bitch about my work on here an awful lot. It's probably boring, I know. But everything else is even more boring. And if you get me started on my stupid family then I'll have to bring out the egg timer to stop myself or else I'll end up bitching and moaning in a self-perpetuating loop that just gets angrier and more spittle-flecked.* Creepy Thin Man is STILL in my mother's house, and I heard that my mother will be coming into a pretty hefty windfall pretty soon, but I shan't be dwelling on the connection between these two things.

But OH EM GEE, it's so annoying not being able to drive into the driveway without it being blocked by this god-awful POS four wheel drive, or to walk around my own house without feeling uncomfortable in this person's presence. I don't use the shower there anymore because I have all these newfound phobias. I don't casually pick a glass or a piece of cutlery from the cupboard without thoroughly rinsing it with hot water before using it. I am becoming OSD, and it's only in that environment. I don't live there permanently, I have my own place sort of (long story), but I get the ickiest vibes from this person, and (without naming names) just about everyone else I've spoken to agrees with me.

I was watching some DVDs last night on the computer, because my DVD player apparently was bought at Ye Olde Shoppe Of Crappy Merchandise. I went to get a banana, a cup of coffee, a bowl of ice cream and some water from the kitchen, and on my way back I realised with a shudder that I was being fully glared at from the living room. What a fucking liberty!

But seriously, it's depressing.

What else is new? Nothing is new. Everything is old and stupid and out to get me. Boo.

*And in this blog we obey the laws of thermodynamics.

Shawty got low.

You know, with the title/subtitle combination of my blog, one would be forgiven for thinking that this is some weird kiddie porn masturbatory blog, where, like, fourteen year old emo kids send in photos of them molesting their sisters' dolls. The words "bent", "wookie", "beat" and "kids" all add up to sound really sinister. Luckily I'm above that kind of toilet humour.

I had that induction tour thingamajig this morning. So I put on my apple bottom jeans and my boots with the fur and went along, and it was very boring as I'd seen the place roughly two hundred times before. I don't actually give a shit how they used to make a newspaper back in the seventies (the 1770s), but I guess it was important to my performing my office skank duties that I should know these things. Then, to kill the three hours before my shift was to start, I went for a wander down Rundle Mall, but nothing pretty availed itself of me. Boo. I need: new shoes, new pants, new jeans, new sweater top thingies (what do Australians call them?), maybe a jacket or two. Although the latter is a bit of a gamble, since I usually look vaguely demented in them. I need a trip to one of those loser Asian countries where I can exploit the poor workers there for the decent clothes, because I found sweet fuck all.

I did find a rather nice green top the other day, and only afterwards did I realise why I thought it was so fetching. It was because Tony from Skins wore the exact same thing in the last episode of the first series (the one he got run over by a bus in). Is this really how shallow I am that I'm subconsciously copying the styles of fictional characters on TV? Whatever, I'm choosing to believe that I have excellent taste regardless.

Then I wandered over to the library to check out my favourite blogs and maybe bash a post out myself. I could have used a work computer, but you know. Blogging at work is one of those grey areas that I'm not too sure about. But I'm always seeing people on Facebook, which always sends my eyeballs a-rolling. Facebook losers are the biggest losers ever, I feel sorry for you thinking you're more sophisticated than your younger cousins, the Myspace retards. Tsk, when will people learn.

Did you know that Amber Petty was a bridesmaid at Princess Mary's wedding? She has a radio show AND a regular column in the 'Tiser, but I didn't know that until a few days ago. If I were involved in Princess Mary's wedding in any capacity, you wouldn't be able to shut me up about it. Maybe she talks about it on her radio show - I wouldn't know, I don't listen to morning radio.

Anyhow, this post is sort of to make up for how crap the last one was. Incidentally, those who participated in the comment discussion about Step Up 2 made me pretty happy though. What a stupid, stupid movie.

Smellya later.

Yuck, work coffee is foul.

Memes are like chlamydia

... you're bound to get infected with it eventually.

EDITORIAL NOTE: I don't have chlamydia.

Yay, a meme. It's been a while since the last one, actually. Thanks Femikneesm! Your name is amusing AND hard to pronounce!

Five things about me. Please ignore a point if you've heard any of this before.

1. Really short people make me a bit uncomfortable. Not in the way that a racist might be uncomfortable around black people, I mean that it makes me feel super-gangly. Short people have a lower centre of gravity, I have reasoned, and seem to be a lot better balanced. I'm pretty tall, over six foot, and a lot of the time I wish I was a little bit shorter. Not so short that I'd have a weird complex where I'd need to assert my masculinity all the time, but just short enough that I don't obsess over how rake-thin I am, as I would be better proportioned. As an aside, I generally like my suitors to be slightly taller than me, so naturally this preference drastically cuts down the share of the market that I'm interested in, in addition to all my other herculean feats of perfection. That's... normal, right?

2. I secretly want my brother's girlfriend to get pregnant, so that I can have a little niece or nephew. I don't get people who have little cousins or nieces or nephews or infant siblings who don't really like them, or want to have anything to do with them. I don't reckon I'd be that put off by a dirty nappy after a while, either. I mean, baby shit is pretty disgusting, but there are many things that are grosser than changing a nappy, I reckon. Nah, babies are cute. Except when you're at the shops and one latches onto your leg, and you look down and the kid is horrified to see that the stranger he's holding isn't his dad.

3. I've already decided upon the pseudonym I'm going to write under when I get my novel published. Actually, it would need to be written before it got that far. But seriously, I'm not as retarded as I might seem on this blog, so don't write me off as a loser. Someone once described me as a mediocre, derivative hack, and surprisingly I didn't really take it that personally, scouts honour. I've always reasoned that, in order to be a decent writer, you need to first write lots and lots of utter shit, so I'm getting that out of the way now. But yeah, I'm quite taken with my nom de plume. Enamoured, if you will.

4. Some of the gayer songs on my music playlist include:

Believe, by Cher.
Boys of Summer, by Ataris.
Get This Party Started, the Shirley Bassey cover. (Which, just mildly, rules).
I Need A Hero, the Jennifer Saunders cover from Shrek 2.
Because of You, by Kelly Clarkson.
Valerie, by Amy Winehouse.
Everytime, by Britney Spears. (Also Stronger and Gimme More).
I'll Kill Her, by Soko.
Fidelity, by Regina Spektor.
Gardenia, by Mandy Moore.
Somebody To Love, by Queen.
Big Girl (You Are Beautiful!), by Mika.
Can't Touch It, by Ricki-Lee Coulter.
Push It, by Salt'n'Pepa.
Listen, by Beyonce Knowles, from the Dreamgirls soundtrack (awesome movie, by the way).

I am aware that I have the worst taste in music ever. To my credit though, I don't have any songs by Kylie Minogue, Bette Midler or Whitney Houston.

UPDATE: I do have a lot of Delta Goodrem though. But that doesn't count, since I also happen to think she's HOT, which makes it less gay.

I was born... to tryyyy!!

5. My first kiss was really awkward, and really anti-climactic. I was fourteen, at some friend's party, and it was more of an embarrassed peck, really. She and I didn't really like each other, but we pretended that we were 'going out' because it seemed like something to do. Every time I think about it I cringe, and yet writing about it hasn't reduced the cringeworthiness of the event. Meh.


Now! Right. Tagging. How about Ozfemme, Nerd Girl and Miss E.

Only cool people work in HR, dig.

Bwah, this amused me endlessly, so I thought I'd share it.

For several months I've gotten emails from the HR department at my office (what the fuck is "human resources" about anyway? Are there fields of people being chopped down, pulped and trucked off to factories?) telling me that, as part of my "induction", I need to do a company tour of the print centre, where I go pretty much every day as part of my usual work routine anyway. I could have gotten it done earlier, but, you know, it's much more fun to play hard to get with these people. Give 'em a flash of titty and/or leg before you let them stick their hand down your pants. Anyway, well, I finally got around to sending them an email telling them when I can be fucked showing up, and I get an automated response with an attachment telling me the time, date, transport, etc. "A valid driver's licence is required if you choose to drive" - no shit sherlock.

Then - and this made me laugh - there was a little questionnaire at the bottom, to be filled in upon the completion of the tour, with questions ranging from "what was the most interesting thing about the print centre?" to "any suggestions to improve the tour?" Ah, HR. You always know how to take an adult thing like having a job and turn it into a year two school excursion project. But that's just how they roll, I guess. I'm going to show up and be the kid who always had to mess around, tease the frazzled teacher, break some valuables, ask inappropriate questions ("any popped eyeballs?") and get lost in a crowd. Because that's just how *I* roll.

PS. Whee! Big Brother ensnares me with its neon claws, again. Be sure to read, y'all!

Woo woo, it's the shitty mood express.

Sorry K-Rudd, I award you no points for this latest effort. Is it any surprise that literally all of the nation's Sunday papers were emblazoned with a picture of Cate Blanchett swanning about, cradling the latest thing to fall out of her snatch? Answer: No. Why? Because it's a boring, dull-as-dishwater story that needed to be perked up with a celebrity. In the year 2020, my bet is that nobody will even remember this vacuous and stupid "ideas-fest", as it is nauseatingly described in the media. To be sure, it is exceeded in vacuousness and stupidity only by Brendan Nelson's "listening tour". Weak.

Ahem, and meanwhile, nothing of interest is happening on the personal front. I did rearrange my "computer area" yesterday, which is of some consequence to me. Well, I dragged the desk about two metres over to where it had originally been, if you can call that a rearrangement. That was before my stupid mother decided that the best place for the computer was right in front of the window, effectively washing out my face in the old webcam (how will I perform online strip shows for seedy old poofs if I don't look my absolute best?!) and thus depriving me of that nice cosy feeling I had when I was happily ensconced in the corner of the room. Well! You should have seen the fallout from that little manoeuvre. I got a whole steaming pile of 'tude from her, as well as from the utter dropkick now living in my mum's house -- formerly my house. I made short work of brutally murdering him with a pair of pliars and messily sawing the limbs into pieces small enough to fit into garbage bags, before disposing of all evidence.

Then I did something that I would actually regret. I swapped my Sunday shift from the 2-8pm shift (easiest peasiest Japanesiest six hours of work evah) to the much earlier one (8am-2pm) so that the silly cow in my office who rang me up yesterday afternoon could sleep off the effects of a rowdy Saturday night. Um, memo to self: grow a pair, mkay? My problem is that I'm too moral for my own good. I have always believed, as a result of years of school- and family-fed propaganda, that doing nice things for other people will come back around at me, and similar things will happen to me. Like donuts. And the possibility of more donuts to come. But no. That's bullshit, as it were. The shoving-down-elevator-shaft method is always the best one.

Rhetorical question: How harshly would you judge an eighteen year old who paid money to have his beloved childhood trampoline fixed up?

(Trabopoline!)

B-b-b-Barack-a makes me b-b-bounce!

Even though I kind of lean toward Hillary for this year's (mega-exhausting, but also mega-exhilarating) presidential campaign, I've noticed that the media is counter-intuitively biased totally against Barack Obama. I think generally that he's a good candidate, yet for whatever reason he seems to cop so much more than Clinton or McCain. And what he does cop is infinitely more rubbishy and stupid than what the others have had to deal with. Here's my take on some of the total non-issues that have annoyingly cropped up over the duration of the campaign thus far:

NON ISSUE: Barack Obama states the total obvious about America's redneck population. "They cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations." This is controversial... why? And it makes him an elitist... WHY? American rednecks, get over yourself. Ooh, what's that? You've got guns, and can shoot me? Real mature, Bradley.

And 'elitist' is so not a bad thing to be. I'm an elitist, and proud.

NON ISSUE: Barack Obama attends a church where the reverend says something retarded occasionally. Uh, does it perhaps register in the tiny minds of people who actually give a shit about this stuff that maybe his church-going is more about the sense of community and solidarity with the people in the pews, not necessarily the person at the altar? This is a good example of the media (curse that Jew-controlled, fag-loving liberal media!) applying one standard to one candidate, and another standard to pretty much everyone else. People like Pat Robertson, who John McCain once described as an agent of intolerance, say retarded shit ALL THE TIME, and yet presidential candidates lap up his endorsement (and that of the other countless religious tools in the US), and nobody gives a shit. Why is this any different? Shut up, American media.

And the dumbest one of all....

NON ISSUE: Barack Obama IS A NIGGER TERRORIST!!! JUST LOOK AT HOW BLACK HE IS ARAB HIS NAME IS!

Not even worth the bother. See above.

(PS -- wow, I'm becoming quite the topical blogger! Next week on BMW: Jacob bitches about the US sub-prime mortgage crisis.)