Beware The Gingah Ninja

Friday, August 12th, 2011 - there may have been wine

I'm not a ninja. Sometimes I THINK I'm a ninja because I have some black leggings and a long black sweatshirt that I will sport on the treadmill on cool days and usually that would be enough to qualify me in the bad-ass stakes. That and I can do a mean ribcage kick. I think. I haven't actually tried it on a real person, so my abilities in this area could be somewhat in my head at this point. It's entirely possible that instead of the graceful, high-kicking angel of fluid movement I see inside my head, I may look more like Drew Carey attempting ballet after an evening swilling a keg of Amstel Light. But I think there's ninja in me somewhere waiting to get out. So if someone jumps out at you in the street, dressed all in black with sort of pale auburn hair and wearing one of those little eye things they give you on planes to supposedly help you sleep, it's not me in a moment of insanity, okay, it's a NINJA.

It's around now I have to admit that I may have had quite a lot of red coloured wine because it's Friday and it's....well...it's the law, no?

What have I done this week of interest? Well, honestly? Not a lot. Not much at all. I did go to the late showing of "Super 8" the other night and enjoyed it way more than I expected to. It was like someone clocked me over the head with a Rubix Cube and transported me back to the days of E.T. - a movie which incidentally makes me bawl to this day. I mean, (spoilers) THEY PUT E.T. IN A TENT AND POKE HIM WITH THINGS, people! Then when the kids rescue E.T. and finally he gets to go home and he tells Elliot he'll be RIGHT HERE? OMG. Niagara Falls. I'm not ashamed. That's one traumatic movie to put a kid through and even now it kills me.

"Super 8" had its little, "I have something in my eye" moments as well. I mean I didn't cry or anything but my eyes got a little itchy. Sniff. My eyeliner probably....

Also, I may have peed my pantaloons in certain scenes when slightly scary things were happening very loudly and very sporadically and at one point I believe I jumped so violently, I spastically threw a handful of popcorn into some lady's hood (sorry lady, but yay, bright side - free popcorn!) Loud stuff in movies makes me jumpy, what can I say? I'm an anxious person. It's my ninja senses.

On the subject of "Super 8" what's with the Fannings pumping out little pink actresses like a production line? What were the chances of birthing two pretty little blondes with remarkable acting abilities? Mrs. Fanning's vagina must be made of vitamins and hand spun gold. Anyway her kid did a great job. Crying realistically on cue is hard and she nailed it. Me, I'd need incentive. I'd need someone to offer me a deliciously gooey chocolate cake then at the last minute, right before I took a bite, take it away, in order to get that sort of reaction out of me.

Of course there's an equal chance they'd get an entirely different reaction out of me and wind up in the E.R. so you know...make your choices carefully.

Happy weekend, you guys!

Veg Gets Serious Face

Friday, August 5th, 2011 – a what the fuck moment
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m enjoying all this controversy over Vogue Paris’s current issue featuring a ten year old model in sultry make up and sporting designer clothing while posing seductively for the camera. I mean it’s pretty ludicrous. Any normal person can see that. People are outraged! People are fretting. People are defending it. The French have no morals. The American media is full of puritanical prudes. Fight, fight, fight.

Seriously though, I’m a pretty liberal person. There are so many things people object to that I find perfectly reasonable and the American media half the time is too concerned with offending the religious element that they will scoff at almost anything these days, sometimes to the point of making me pull my own hair out and say bad words at the petty mindedness of it all.

But in this case, are the protesting media being unreasonable? Because I don’t think so. I’m not sure what sort of person out there thinks it’s a reasonable thing to do – making up a ten year old to act like a twenty year old and making her pose in a suggestive manner in an adult fashion magazine. Maybe those mothers that dress their four year olds up in tiny dresses and make up and make them shake their tiny booties on stage on “Toddlers and Tiaras”? I don’t know. I do know that that little girl probably saw it as a big game of dress up and has no idea of the impact photos like that might have on the less savoury members of society. We tell people all the time how wrong and sick it is to lust after underage kids yet we go right out and rub it in their faces by presenting them on a platter in a manner that suggests looking sexy at ten years old is okay. Therefore, it’s okay for a ten year old to look sexy but hey! Don’t you think about finding her sexy.

Plus what sort of message does it send to that ten year old girl? That this is how adult women are supposed to behave? Please.

Aren’t little girls already being sexualized way too early? I’m not even going to expect an answer to that, because OF COURSE THEY ARE. Shouldn’t that kid be climbing a tree or making dresses for a Barbie doll? She’s so young that even made up to the nines she doesn’t look remotely like an adult -she looks like a kid in make up, so what is the point they can possibly be making? That it’s okay to find a ten year old desirable? Surely not. That 15 year old models are now too old? I don’t think that’s it. That it’s never too early to get your daughter ready for the adult world? That can’t be it.

Or could it just be that Vogue magazine knew exactly what they were doing when they put a ten year old in their magazine. That they knew it would be provocative and invite publicity. Because really, what’s the bottom line for a magazine? Why, selling issues or promoting itself, of course. And really….job done.

Grab Bag

Monday, July 25th, 2011 - itchy face, in need of caffeine supplementation

Know what's a great way to spend a Sunday night? I'll give you a clue: Imax theatre, 3D glasses, big bag of Starburst, Harry Potter. No? You know I'm right. The movie's dark alright, but the scariest thing about it wasn't Voldemort's increased strength and evil or the death defying 3D visuals or even Neville Longbottom's sweater. No, it was the tiny segment in Snape's past where they made up Alan Rickman to look 15 years younger but winded up with him looking like that Jocelyn Wilderbeast (!) lady who's grown way too fond of the plastic surgery. Creepy.

Anyway, I no longer have to avoid anything relating to this movie or the book because I didn't know how it ended, so yay! I can go back to being nerdy in other ways.

Gosh, how exciting Veg!

On a totally different note, here's something interesting for "LOST" fans who always wanted to know what the Man in Black's actual name was and who enjoy things parodying themselves. 

Come on. "Barry" isn't the name of a fearsome, eternal demon-man who can transform himself into a smoke monster! "Barry" is the name of the dude who comes to fix your roof when you have a leak. Which, I'm thinking, is probably their point.

God, I miss "Lost".

Talking Smack About TV. Or Is It Meth?

Tuesday, July 19, 2011 – brain fog
I haven’t forgotten about Ohio, ok, I haven’t. Don’t you say I have.

Who's as excited as me that “Breaking Bad” is back? Huh? There’s nothing I enjoy more than a stress induced panic attack before bed. Watching the season premiere the other night, in particular that one long, quiet, brutal scene that not only sneaked past the TV censors, but bludgeoned them on its way past the door en route to my nightmares, made me so tense I think I pulled something in my bum from all that anxiety clenching. For real people, my bum’s been achey ever since. It’s Walt’s fault entirely. Actually it’s that goddamn chicken man’s fault. If that guy didn’t creep me out before with his underlying dangerous, deceptively docile, expressionless nature, he sure as fuckety does now. Never cross the chicken man, ladies and genitals. If you saw Sunday’s episode you now know why. That dude is BAD. ASS. A whole horrifying five minute scene and he didn’t say ONE WORD till the end. Fuck. Me.

“Breaking Bad” still has a ways to go to induce the same level of terrifying night terrors and heart palpitations it handed me during seasons 1 and 2 (remember that insane Tuco dude and the old codger with the bell?) but still. Well played AMC for keeping the tension tight as an unmarried Mormon’s vagina. P.S. If you don’t watch “Breaking Bad”, why the fuck not…are you retarded? Rent it immediately. Take a Xanax first though, okay?

P.S. Sorry Mormon ladies. It was a compliment, really!

Also back recently – “True Blood”. Now let’s get this straight right now. “True Blood” is preposterous. It was always preposterous but at least it used to be GOOD preposterous. Juicy. Delicious. Naughty. Fun. The first season of “True Blood” was among the best TV out there. Anyone else think that it’s now a giant parody of itself? I mean I’m not complaining, some men should just BE naked all the time, it’s as simple as that. A law should absolutely exist for that. It’d be a crime to cover some of that up (I’m looking at you Alcide-wolf-man, with your big abdominal muscles jutting out like a xylophone). Incidentally, what was with the gratuitous pube shot the other night? Dude was about half a centimetre away from all hell breaking loose in the pantaloon region. I mean no one wants to see that. Right? No one. I only rewound it to make sure I’d seen it right. That’s my only reason. Yup. On the thirty third rewind I realized, yes, I’d seen it right. AND IT WAS DISGUSTING.

Cough…

And is it just me or has Bill’s accent gotten EVEN FUNNIER? I think so. And Sookie more slapworthy?

And what is the point of Tara, can someone please explain that to me? You can’t. Because there isn’t one.
Yes, I did just write an entry about TV shows. The world is ending.

Throw a Veggie Burger on the Barbie, Veg is Coming To Town!

Thursday, July 14, 2011 – pointless

Oh my God, you guys, I still haven’t won the lottery and moved to some tropical island.  I know this comes as a great shock to no one but myself, but really, I know it’s going to happen.  Of course, it might happen sooner if I bought an actual ticket now and then but I tend to go, “Meh, only losers play the lottery!” instead of, “Only losers go on about what they’ll do when they win the lottery then don’t bother buying a ticket” and then I feel, justifiably, like a bit of an asshole.  

And rather than a tropical island I might just hitch up my (as yet non existent) excellently renovated vintage Airstream and just drive around visiting all of you instead!  Wouldn’t that be nice?  Me showing up on your doorstep, grinning like a retarded Cheshire Cat, calling you “dude” and informing you I’m camping out in your yard in a giant aluminum box for a few days, “HI!”  Think of the fun we’d have as you cook me delicious meals and mix me cocktails and bake me cakes while I regale you with tales of hilarity that I  just made up for attention, then running away in the middle of the night after I throw up on your patio.

Tomorrow’s Friday, I have a hard day ahead at work and a night following it drinking copious amounts of red wine, gin and tonic and talking nonsense like my life depended on it.  A bit like this short but stupid entry. 

Not a lot.  But a bit…

Every Morning I Just Hit The Ground Yawning

Monday, July 11th, 2011 – ouch, blood, bruises, coffee, poaching BNL lyrics, unattractive sweat pants, why oh why?

In a vain attempt to start doing something semi healthy again, exercise wise, I walked home from work this afternoon, full of good intentions and smug cheerfulness. Walking in light summer rain, making my hair frizz out in a MEGA attractive manner, reminiscent of a 1980s’ home perm gone wrong. All pretty undignified, when you get right down to it and I half expected passing cars to toot uproariously as they passed, perhaps yelling some utterly hilarious jibe such as, “Your head looks like pubes!” Maybe they did, I don’t know? However, I was blasting music at the time and preferred to think passing motorists were thinking, “Wow, that chick sure is HEALTHY, walking all this way instead of driving or planting her fat derriere on a bus seat!”

In case you thought me huffing through the streets, hair-a-frizz, cheeks red and puffy and sweat trickling down my back wasn’t undignified enough for a summer afternoon, you’ll enjoy the part where I managed to take a misstep crossing the road in front of a busy store no less, causing my ankle to turn the wrong way under me, making me look like I was attempting to lead a flash mob by publicly executing some exuberant Riverdance, but failing miserably and sending me flying head first onto the road, my fall stopped only by my knee cap meeting concrete with the force of a hundred elephants stampeding through a paddock. Road 1, knee 0.

That poor knee, man. It’s had the worst year in the history of bad knee years.

Talking of stupid looking things (Riverdance, try to keep up), there’s nothing more delicate and dignified than being on all fours in the middle of a road, while a line of cars backs up behind you, your ass swaying in the air pertly, like an inquisitive meerkat, while your knee bleeds merrily through your jeans and you have a confused expression painted on your face that screams, “I have no idea what is happening right now but I am willing it to stop…”.

So I decided to come home, eat some cheese and for christ’s sake, forget today happened and start over tomorrow.

Now you can all tell me something funny and cheer me up, goddamn it.
Oh! Guess what’s coming soon? For real? Mothereffing OHIO, Hookers!

I am the Ultimate Authority on Everything

Thursday, July 7th, 2011 – Can your eyeballs sweat?

Hey, did you know William and Kate are in Canada? Really! You’d never know because the media haven’t mentioned it ONE TIME, they’ve been so under the radar and stealth. OR NOT. Holy shit, I hope they have a nice time and all but honestly, I’m sick to death of hearing about what Kate’s wearing today and how it affects global warming or the price of tomatoes or whatever. Kate’s wearing “slacks” (she’s 75 and into polyester, clearly) therefore, guess what we’ll be seeing in high streets next season? Hopefully they come with cyanide capsules for that critical moment the buyer realizes they’ve been duped by some royal advertising and the shame takes over.

There. Got that off my chest. My cleavage is now unhindered by royal restraints. (what?)

Anyway, it must kind of suck to have the media watching every move you make and not giving a shit about what you’re up to, just what you’re wearing today. Does she ever just want to throw on some old jeans with holes in the knees, yank her greasy hair into a pony tail and wear a t-shirt with a coffee stain on the front? I’d be the worst royal ever. I’d be all, “Get that fucking camera out of my face, unless you want it rammed up your ass. And pass me a Pabst Blue Ribbon, reporter scum!” right before wiping my nose on my sleeve.

Heh. Maybe. Like I’d ever drink that Pabst shit.

I finally got around to some things I’d been meaning to for ages:

1) I saw “Bridesmaids” at last, albeit hesitantly, because, in my opinion, when a comedy gets a lot of hype and praise, it rarely lives up to these dizzying heights when I see it, leaving me confused. But I laughed my ass off because it was indeed that rare commodity in film – a romcom that doesn’t suck and actually has some “com” along with the “rom”. If I were Jennifer Aniston or Kate Hudson right now, I’d be ashamed of myself and my stupid movies because those people have given romcoms and chick flicks the terrible reputation they have now for being the stale, unfunny, unrealistic, fluff that they are. People keep saying “Bridesmaids” is the female “The Hangover” but they’re wrong. “Bridesmaids” is better. Plus it also proved something I’ve been saying since “The IT Crowd” – Chris O’Dowd might be an odd-looking, awkward Irishman but he is a SEXY, odd-looking, awkward Irishman. Oh yes, people laughed at me THEN..
.
2) I finally got me a Wacom drawing tablet so I can now do my fantastically sophisticated illustrations without looking like they were drawn by someone with stage 3 Parkinson’s. No more mouse drawing for me, no Sir. New gadgets kick ass. Plus now, if I’m so inclined, I can scribble really unfunny slogans in my own handwriting, all over celebrity photos, gatecrash a few parties, have hissyfits and call myself Perez Hilton!

Alright, I’m off to get some coffee to wake the hell up and then I’m going to get busy. Note: I typed “busty” at first there, but decided getting busty wasn’t the best use of my time today, sorry. I need to be able to see my feet!

Apologies for the lameocity (I made that up, it’s good no?) of this entry, but there’s a reason for it. I suck.