My heart can’t go on.

19 Oct

It’s a Titanic reference.

This is appropriate for a few reasons. First, because pairing videos of dramatic events with music from the movie is a bit of a craze at the moment, which should prove that I’m up to speed with current events. Second, because the last time I managed to put my svelte (read: puny) forelimbs to the keyboard I wrote about Clive Palmer’s attempt to build a replica. Long story short, the boat sank (not literally, well, ok the REAL one did, the movie didn’t, Clive’s boat just been abandoned), and I’ve been watching television.

I’ve lamented in the past about the frustrations of finding modern, cosmopolitan and well-read Tyrannosaurus Sexies. This, regrettably, has caused me to seek romantic satisfaction by, um, other means. That’s right, I am a Bachelor/ette viewer. I tried to find out whether there was an appropriate label to identify myself as such (you know, like “Gleek” or “Father Tedophile”), alas google just says “tragic loser”. Nevermind.

I won’t get caught up in the detail of the current series, but I have heard that people are tuning out. I can’t blame them, either. Between the last season of The Bachelor, the current season of The Bachelorette, and the US presidential election, my regal heart can’t take any more schadenfreude-seeking.

I doubt viewers, outside of those familiar with the contestants, watch these shows because they are interested in the outcome. I suspect the reason is to derive pleasure from others’ misery from the safety of our living rooms. I see a similar thing happening with the current election in the US. Most of the coverage has avoided policy like a stegosaurus avoids a jumping castle, in the same way that footage on The Bachelor/ette avoids anything approaching a normal conversation between two people. No, we want to watch tears, tonsil hockey, gaffes, and nasty people getting their comeuppance.

So it’s been four years and that’s where are. Titanic II never got the chance to hit an iceberg, and the campaign to elect the most powerful person in the world is a rough analogy of a reality tv show, but with less sex (despite Donald’s playboy ways).

 

T

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The nutty professor

27 Feb

I just read this, and it would appear to me that “Professor” Clive Palmer has lost the plot. My disrespect to his honorary title from Bond University is deep, although if you can find a more appropriate professor for Bond University, I’d be impressed. Much like Bond, Mr Palmer likes the IDEA of being prestigious and reputable, but at the end of the day, is more about the money and appears to view the Gold Coast as the zenith of Western Civilisation.

In a shallow attempt to pander to the prehistoric masses, he erected dinosaurs on his golf course. I don’t feel the need to explain WHY this was not received well (robotic dinosaurs on a “prestigious” golf course. Come on.), but I dare say that Clive has managed to top this abomination.

It would appear that, sometime in the last 15 years, Mr Palmer developed a deep appreciation for the R.M.S Titanic, the oppulent ocean liner that famously sunk on her maiden voyage, taking 1500 people with her. And when I say R.M.S Titanic, I really mean the James Cameron movie. He has now commissioned a shipyard in China to build him an exact replica (every square foot) of the original (apparently the movie was based on an actual boat), which he plans to launch in 2016 (the 19th anniversary of the movies maiden screening).

Puny human guests will be dressed in period clothes (movie costumes, I guess) and, as one might imagine from a billionaire, the ship’s strict class segregation will be in full effect. Although, Mr Palmer asserts that he will be in steerage because he “likes irish stew and potatoes” (a fan of food, Clive?), and looks forward to banging the drum and swinging around and around (man, being poor is great!). Though it pains me to admit, the archaic lizard in me does appreciate the absence of telephone and television (presumably replaced with pokie machines). This entire farce poses the question: How tacky can one man get?

I for one can’t wait for Mr Palmer’s next venture, and I can’t help but speculate at what it might be:

  • Placing putt-putt obstacles on all the greens at his golf course
  • Recreating the Second World War so he can experience the glory of battle (nevermind all the death)
  • Ping pong shows (you know the ones) and cheerleaders at Bond graduation ceremonies
  • Fricken’ lasers on the moon
  • Gangnam Style Transformers doing the Harlem Shake at the Australian Open
  • Building a death star at Uluru

I guess there’s no accounting for taste

T


Two things that make me mad(den brothers)

21 Feb

Who the fuck invited the Madden brothers to Australia? Who thought they had their finger on the pulse when they believed that these two douchebags would help sell their product? How many times people drove through that KFC drive through without batting an eye? I must admit, I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw those over-tattooed and over-exposed “rockers” working at a fast-food restaurant.

 

Apparently there is a petition to Joel and the other one to return to the United States. I haven’t signed it because, as a Rex, it is below me to meddle in the affairs of Tarentos (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarento), and it also comes across as a wee bit racist (not to mention that it just won’t work: if 29,000 signatures couldn’t get The Doctor of JJJ, no amount of signatures could get these lame-o-sauruses to fuck off to the puddle of talentless shit and piss they congealed from). However, if you should feel the need to show your support for music and sensible advertising, then I’m sure you’ll be able to find it (you Gen Y god/goddess).

 

My objection to KFC/Vodaphone’s campaign doesn’t stop with two never-was-beens that last surfaced on the airwaves back when I was eating mashed up diplodocus out of a jar using a spoon with a plane for a handle. No. My strongest objection is that the portrayal of Australians (by Australians, apparently) misses the mark by so far.

As a dinosaur, I love cricket. As such, I have been to many matches, across all forms of the game. Not once have I shouted “Howzat”. That’s what the players shout. As a supporter, I KNOW that the opposing batsman is out, and, as a student of Australian culture, verbalise the appropriate response: “Got him yes piss-off you’re out!” followed by a profession of undying love towards the bowler, and the invitation for coitus. Don’t even get me started on wearing a bucket on my head. The watermelon the head is much more familiar, although KFC can’t really be promoting fried chicken and watermelon…

There is a worrying trend in Australian advertising to saturate our television screens with immensely irritating ads ad nauseam. Perhaps these marketing prodigies think that being viral is the measure of advertising, and that it can be manufactured. In a perfect world (which existed, by the way, about 66 million years ago…) no ad would be repeated within a 30-minute period (a 66 million year period would be better, actually). Notable exceptions would be that colgate ad with the cute blonde, the Australian Unity ads with Zoe (still waiting for my Blog Writers Christmas Party invite…), and that Youi insurance ad that plays Howlin’ For You.

So boycott KFC or something. Save Australia: Eat a Madden brother instead.

 

The perils of flying pt2

18 Feb

As a modern tyrannosaur, I am no stranger to air travel. Avid readers will note that I am particularly sensitive during flight, given the lack of suitable seating options for the generously proportioned rex.

 

While I find flying a less than comfortable affair, I do make concessions for parents with young children (similarly, I am also quite tolerant of L-plate drivers). We were all young rexes once upon a time, and it seems quite unreasonable to expect younglings to conduct themselves in an adult manner when their ears are popping and their nappies are full of digested cerapods.

 

So when I heard the news today that a puny human (his first two names are Joe Rickey – you can’t make this stuff up!) in the US slapped a baby for crying (racially vilified the little thing too, just for good measure), I was taken aback. Rather than dive into a rage about why this is wrong (if it’s not blatantly obvious, you should probably stop reading), I thought I’d take a more positive bent, and look at something society can do to curb such, well, fucked behaviour.


The genius of my idea knows no bounds. It is simplicity itself and would be excruciatingly easy to implement. You see, despite living in a supposedly egalitarian society (we don’t by the way), when we step onto a plane we enter into a strict class environment. Even on a quick jump from, say, Sydney to Canberra, passengers are segregated into business or economy class. All I propose is adding another class: “No class”.

 

Ticket prices would not differ from economy, and allocation of passengers into “No class” would be done by an erudite referee (preferably someone with oversized canines and a penchant for order).  Any objections would be met with swift and bloody reprisal. The skulls of objectors would then be placed on the horns of ceremonial triceratops at the gate to serve as a warning to other passengers.

 

Now I know that segregation is a touchy subject, but as I watch Invictus, I am reminded of a simple honest truth: In the end, segregation leads to winning rugby teams, and with the impending Lions tour, I think we can safely say that “No class” can’t come soon enough!

 

T

The perils of flying

24 Oct

My legs are 3.5m long, so you can imagine that air travel poses some unique challenges to a Rex. Given my considerable size and lethality, you would think that anyone sitting in front of me on a plane would refrain from putting their seat back. You would be wrong.

This occurred to me recently and I was not impressed (nor were the cabin crew and my fellow passengers when the intestines, fecal matter and bile of this disgusting cretin were flung throughout the cabin…). The miscreant, who also happened to be wearing sunglasses indoors, pushed his seat back into my person without any consideration of my own comfort. It’s hard to imagine, with my hot breath and saliva dripping over him like a shower (sounds a bit 50 shades of grey, doesn’t it. 50 feet of grey death?), but it’s almost as if he didn’t know I was there (this must be that rush that velociraptors are always going on about). Suffice it to say, dear readers, that I dutifully informed him of my presence all to soon.

So the next time that you happen to have the king of all dinosaurs sitting behind you flicking through a magazine on a plane, might I suggest you don’t rest your seat back into his groin. You might think you’re going to be comfortable, but oh boy, you’re about to get real uncomfortable real soon, if you get my drift (and my 30cm teeth embedded in your basal ganglia).

 

T

Beggars being choosers

24 Oct

I’ve started noticing something lately. In days gone by, when a donation collector would stumble into my mouth, I used to spend hours spitting out shiny tokens. Lately, however, this has not been the case. Instead, I find paper cuts on my gums courtesy of empty sign-up forms.

 

Some charity organisations now forbid their volunteers from accepting cash donations (i.e. the only ones they actually get), for fear that said volunteer may pocket the coin for their own sinister purposes (because people who volunteer for these jobs are, by and large, cunts). Nowadays, should you find yourself face to face with some buffoon in a koala suit, they will reject your golden tokens, and request that instead you sign up to make an electronic payment, thus requiring the donatee to exert far more effort than is really necessary.

 

Presumably, people who lack the ruthlessness to devour a donation collector whole, put their coins back in their pockets, about face, and march off muttering something about beggars being choosers. The outcome for the charity is the same though: no money.

 

It would seem then, that instead of losing a small amount of money to the odd societal skidmark that goes out of their way to exploit these charities, they prefer to neuter themselves by making donation a massive hassle (not in the GRAND scheme of things, I’ll admit, but compared to throwing pocket change into a bucket, it’s another ballgame completely).

 

What does this mean at the end of the day? Well, I won’t be able to get a secondary high from eating koalas (extinct), contract facial tumors from devouring Tasmanian Devils (extinct), or fill myself on third world children (extinct). So it would seem that the greatest friend to these needy causes, is actually it’s greatest threat. Food for thought.

“I think I speak for all dim-witted imbeciles when i say…”: A critique of shock jock jerkery

2 Oct

Apparently to be on radio all you need is a mouth big enough to fit both feet in. This fucking fat tracksuit-wearing dickhead has demonstrated this to great effect on several occasions recently. Take your pick of the worst offence:

  • Responding “right…is that the only experience you’ve had” to an upset girl who announced she was raped as a 12 year-old
  • Claiming that the daughter of a Jewish Polish WW2 resistance fighter could have lost lots of weight if she was in a concentration camp
  • Claiming that he would hunt down a female journalist, who he also claimed was small-chested
  • Apologising for the above comments graciously, before effectively saying “she started it”
  • Becoming the heavy-weight champion of nowhere by throwing his substantial weight into an altercation that had already occurred. 

Now it seems that the this fuck l’orange has some company in the naughty corner, courtesy of an old stager. Alan Jones has a history of abusing his gold microphone (note, this is a sure sign of two things: 1. You are a big-headed wanker; and 2. You are the lowest form of radio-journalist). Jones’ rap-sheet is as long as it is undistinguished. He’s particularly discriminatory of Aboriginals (as opposed to “average Australians”), and has never shied away from an opportunity to colour make generalisations about people solely based on their ethnicity. Another faux pas was the naming of a juvenile who was, at the time, a witness in a murder trial.

The latest jewel in this prick’s thorny crown refer to some statements he made about Julia Gillard’s recently departed father. Such an event has an unusual effect on the usual parliamentary proceedings, as even hardened opposing backbenchers put down their swords to acknowledge the significant loss that occurs when a parent dies. Indeed, such decorum would be expected in just about every corner of life in Australia. However, Jones scurries around on the fringes of decency, and thus took the opportunity of Ms Gillard’s grief to lay the lowest of blows. His comments that her father “died of shame to think that his daughter lied every time she stood for parliament” represent the muddiest of stains on the soiled underwear that is Alan Jones’ legacy.

Julia Gillard was right to ignore his calls. While we tyrannosaurs consider ourselves the bastions of decorum, even I am quick to acknowledge that there are limits to when someone has to let bygones be bygones. I implore the rest of the country to follow Juwliya’s lead and turn our back on the scurrilous shock jocks of the world with raised eyebrows.

I realise the irony of hijacking my own public forum to project my heated and cantankerous ire, however, there are three differences between myself and these pathetic provocateurs:

  1. My opinions are based in something called “the truth (see also: fact)”
  2. I am not being paid
  3. I have no golden microphone
  4. I have 30cm teeth to testify that my bite is worse than my bark

In closing, I offer this to Mr. Sandilands:

You don’t drive a Rolls Royce, you pleb. You get DRIVEN in one. If you can’t afford a driver, you can’t afford a Rolls.
T