Archive | April, 2011

Where farts and life meet.

I might’ve mentioned my obsession with movies before (once or twice). It’s a requited love shared with my siblings and when we were kids, we made our own.

Our classics include Santa In The Hands of a Clock (the tale of a psychotic Santa who travelled through time to murder Robin Hood and Snow White) and Claws (about a Santa with razor claws who knocked off kids, naughty or nice). I don’t know what Jake and the Fat Man did to piss us off, but I was soon typecast in the role. I recall standing at the side of a three-lane highway filming a scene in full lights and wardrobe.

Cut to: a boy standing with a massive VHS camera perched on his shoulder like a rocket launcher; aimed at a girl in a cheap (and nas-ty) Santa suit, getting hassled-honked by passing motorists.

We reached our pinnacle with the horror, The Fatal Farter. Opening credits rolled to the song, Good Vibrations and faded in on … me. A hitchhiker (wearing a wig like the armpit of a trucker) who becomes trapped in the Farter’s mini … a squeaky paf the last sound I hear before my tragic demise.

I saw The Beach Boys at the Opera House last year (and boozed with the roadies and Boys til 4am); and whilst seeing geriatrics perform iconic songs had its own joo-joo pleasure, I confess that when they got to this song, my excitement was due to the farter of times past.

I was slap happy in my own private party, whilst the hip replacements bopped in their seats. (It’s also somewhat shameful to note that my knowledge of Brian Wilson comes from the Barenaked Ladies’ song of the same name) (learn to deal, Bri baby).

The same is true of most of my travels; if it relates back to a movie, my undies are alive with the sound of music. My first time in San Fran, I ate at the diner from So I Married An Axe Murderer and searched the streets to find where the car chase in The Rock took place. I’m standing in Alcatraz and all I could think was, this is where Cage and Connery stood!

I got the jones for the hotel from Mel Brooks’, High Anxiety. I stepped into those iconic elevators and tried to guess the floor where Mel’s room had been shot, imagining that I stood where Madeline Kahn had when she’d made me an instant fan.

I’ve been Mission Impossible in Prague, The Italian Job in Venice and Working Girl in New York. The world through wuc-coloured glasses.

You want crotch with that?

I love Sydney rain. The rain drops are fatter than a Cheshire cat and more prolific than trunk shots in a Tarantino movie. You get soaked in five seconds flat, and umbrellas are as useful as a toupee in high wind. It’s as if the earth opens up and meets the sky, almost primal.

To be inside my little flat is like being bear-hugged by a gruff uncle at a family wedding (hair protruding from his ears and nose like Miracle Grow).

But this is where wax lyrical ends and my morning disposition begins, which is akin to that of Betty White’s toward Lindsay Lohan (some might call it resentful). I awoke in the cosiest bed imaginable – pillows piled high like marshmallows, sleep blanketing me like the son of Michael Jackson, the snooze button a strange and mystical symbol of hope.

But reality soon yanked me out of bed, like a kid from the womb, bitched slapped upside the head to improve circulation. It’s just not natural, to be awake before 11am. I’d rather stab my eyeball with a solider specifically fashioned for the re-enactment of the Civil War on a model of Petersburg, Virginia (built to scale).

This morning, the rain poured like JC was prepping the Ark. There’s rain, and then there’s rain. And this was motherfucken rain (to be said like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction). The gruff uncle had turned and was now groping the wrong auntie. All hell was breaking loose.

I sat on the bus, my eyes gritty and my trousers stuck to my legs like the tongue of a country singer. A woman stood before me (her crotch up in my grill) and an old coot sat next to me (taking up the majority of our love seat with his wide corduroy ass).

I hate people who read the paper on the bus. Since when was this appropriate reading material for confined spaces? It’s bloody wider than Shannon Doherty’s forehead and requires that you thrust your arm into my face every few seconds. He made me want to ram his balding head into the steamy glass, to see what shape it’d make.

Our love affair was complete when he got up, kicked my umbrella down the length of bus and alighted, an “oh, was that your umbrella?” drifting over his shoulder.

I found myself muttering after him, like Rain Man about to board a Qantas flight.

Definitely my umbrella, ass monkey. Definitely. Definitely.

Maybe this is indeed how a baby feels upon being yanked from the womb, if only they had the wherewithal to speak. Maybe they’d turn to the doctor and slap him upside the head with wet placenta and say, how you like them apples Doc?

Yes, it’s true. This man has no dick.

I’ve been pondering what my ideal posse would look like; a group of diabolically-awesome people with whom I could shoot the shit (and walk in slow motion).

But to assemble the prime posse, I must first put aside the pesky restrictions of reality.

This might be considered an exercise in stalking, but I prefer to think of it as creative friendshipping (and will cease and desist from saying, if these peeps could only meet me we’d be best friends forever … ever… ever) (creepy echo).

My brothers used to get their jollies from strapping my Barbie to the family combie as a hood ornament (and comedic roadkill). I recall the moment where I could either do the slow-cry of a Barbie-less existence or admit, that’s hilare. (I stand by my decision to go with the latter.)

It’s with this posse preface that I inaugurate my first members – Will Ferrell, Owen Wilson, Jason Bateman and Paul Rudd. If Ben Stiller feels left out and asks Owen (to ask me) if he can come too … yes Ben, you can. (But only if you randomly channel White Goodman, sidling up to strangers and stating “nobody makes me bleed my own blood”.)

The fact I’ve fancied Paul Rudd as far back as Clueless is a slight infraction of the posse bylaws; but the Rudd majorly cracks me up, so he’s in. Right?

Next, one must balance the juvies with some innately cool daddios; so I hereby add Clint Eastwood, Christopher Walken and Willie Nelson. We’d hang separately to my boy crew – maybe over some scotch and Cubans. Willie would jam on his plaits ‘n’ guitar, Walken would be simultaneously hilare and terrifying; and Clint would brood intelligently in the corner.

Of course, I’d feel intrinsically inadequate in a grouping such as this, but such is the price of cosmic gold, my friends.

Like a fine wine, a great posse has many influences; and mine would be incomplete without the comedic chops of Tina Fey, Bill Murray and Joan Cusack (so added). Bill and I would routinely sit on a park bench, sipping lattes and making pithy observations of passers by. Occasionally, we’d reenact scenes from Groundhog Day and Ghostbusters.

“Yes it’s true, this man has no dick”.

Add to this mix a dash of punk-rock awesomeness in the form of Pink (to whom I bow down), brunch with Betty White and Sandra Bullock, the odd fundraiser with Michael J.Fox and occasional (wuccadoody) bender with Jack Black and John Cusack. In round up, I feel I must sneak in another bylaw infraction with Noel Fielding and a hummener hummener shout out.

And last but definitely not platonic, Robert Downey Jr … who will always dominate my heart and DVD collection. (You know that’s right.)

You know that’s right.

I’ve recently discovered the tv show, Psych (five years behind everyone else); and the combination of new comedy fodder and 80 unseen episodes has resulted in a binge fest the likes of which Graceland has never seen. (Fortitude is but a castle in France, my friend.)

I have now seen four years worth, in the space of a week and a half.

Hours of back-to-back eps, until my eyes lolled and the left side of my body ceased to function. Other side effects include singing along to the credits like I’m special needs, crushing on the male lead like a prepubescent teen and twitching in my sleep from withdrawal (like a cat dreaming it’s being chased by a dog).

I’ve been here before.

But a new phenomenon has occurred. I’m now crushing on the show itself, in an exultant love previously reached only by my brother and Bea Arthur. I’ve fallen in love with Psych for its beautiful, sexy and sumptuous movie references. Sigh.

Sumptuous and sexy 80s movie references.

My heart swoons and I feel a heady rush with each obscure, Hughes-filled reference. I blush when it says ‘fear does not exist in this dojo’, toy with my hair at each nostril-flared mention of Judd Nelson and tell myself that only I see that the dude in the werewolf ep is from An American Werewolf in London. But I fear that, not only do others share and compete with this love but, I’m now a stalker of Joanie Loves Chachi proportions.

In my defense, I’m surrounded by movie heathens. It’s a sad day when you’re reduced to deciphering “are you okay, ‘cause you’re sweating pretty profusely?” for a pack of drunks on a Friday night. My pithy cinematic references are words without a home, like Ralph Machhio wandering the streets of LA as the pop-culture hobo he is.

But the pleasure I get from such a show is bitter-sweet; as if the closer someone gets to my funny bone, the more painful the laughter becomes. After the rumble of delight and guffaws pass through, like the astral train in Ghostbusters, the whippet tail of jealously swiftly follows. Truth bomb: that someone else wrote it before I could.

Meaty jealousy.

That and I really want a hot chocolate friend to coolly bump fists with … as I purse my lips and declare, “you know that’s right”.

Cram it up your cramhole, La Fleur.

I feel like stabbing my eyeball with a paperclip the shape of Fozzie Bear. (The bear is now under construction.)

My boss had his performance review today and I don’t need a doctorate from Kiss My Ass University to know, it did not go well. He’s chucking a tanty under the guise of legitimacy, which makes me wanna photocopy my ass, sign it and post it to him via internal mail.

He just demanded something that I’ve already given him. He deleted it the moment he got it, unread; I know, because I’ve got access to his inbox and I saw that shit go down. Now he’s ripping me a new one and I just have to take it up the tail pipe.

“Suck my fat one, you cheap dime store hood.”

This is the line continually running through my head (courtesy of an 80s fav, Stand By Me). If a woman acted this way in such a senior position, she’d be tagged as overemotional and erratic. But my boss has a mangina, so just deal with it.

“Who ever told you you had a fat one, Lachance?”

“Biggest one in four counties.”

He sends me on a fools errand (is there any other kind?) to rip someone else a new one, via the gift of delegation (the gift that keeps on giving). It doesn’t go well, they return fire and give me a verbal instead. I’m but a ping-pong ball on the table of iniquity.

Is it a full moon, or were they handing out manginas at the train station this morning?

Now boss man is nitpicking over all of my tasks, demanding answers but talking over me as I try to give them. It’s now that I begin to revise my mental CV – not the doc which charts my experience with mental cases (not far off), but the virtual escape hatch from Crazy Town.

Coincidentally, this is the moment a coworker chooses to ask me when my contract expires, wondering if I’ll stay in the job. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention there’s a better chance of me getting plastic surgery to look like Mickey Rourke in drag, but I let it go.

%d bloggers like this: