Archive | November, 2011

Look to me in my eyeball.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Love songs are like a tepid bath. They may start out warm and comforting; but really, you’re just languishing in crap.

Why is Sarah Silverman popular? I prefer silent Snoopy.

My average week is akin to Zallinger’s March of Progress, in reverse. Mondays, I’m a Darwinian dream. Come Friday, I’m hobo erectus.

If I ever make the sequel to Popeye, it’ll center around his older brother – Cockeye.

Gal Gunslinger reads and reveres serial killers. Red flag. Red flag. Stop right there! (To be said in Bourne baritone.)

I looked up ‘titillating’ in my thesaurus and the answer came back: venereal. Sounds about right.

If I were rich, I’d create an underwater movie theatre – where you’d get your dive on and watch the Life Aquatic, aquatically. There’d be a sushi snack bar, mermaids for ushers, and Usher as a mer-man (to be said like Zoolander).

I’ve decided to name my cleavage Fortitude Valley.

What’s the upchuck factor on that?

I’ve been rediscovering my Thirsty Merc (kick-ass Aussie band, don’t ya know).

And by rediscovering, I mean chair-dancing like the lousy, legless dude from Forrest Gump. Like the wicked witch o’ the East with Dot’s house resting on her lower extremities. Head banging. Torso tossing. Rockin’ that shit like I’m drowning at a seated event.

I’m sad to say my love of the Merc has grown dusty in recent years, eclipsed by flashbacks of a tradge trip to Barcelona in 07. I’d been living in London shy a decade and the Merc was on special needs repeat (in native nostalgia). Then came the Barce. Like a monocled moustached moth, I was drawn to its architectural flame.

It shoulda been grandiose. Instead, what followed were days of great beauty and greater apathy. I couldn’t put my pulse on it, but the finger was off. Then. On the final day, to serenade of The Hard Way, I was groped by some Charlie on the train. Of all the gropes in my life, this was the lewdest ‘n’ longest. All the way from Girona to Barceloneta, baby.

For the record, if I was gonna let a meaty mid-life man lather my ladies – it’d be the actual John Goodman, not his fragrant vagrant look-a-like. But I guess you don’t get to choose your groper (she says wistfully, staring off into the mischance). Plus, how often do you find a Downey down on his luck? (Don’t answer that.)

The greatest tradge of this tit tale was losing the use of my Merc. I couldn’t listen to their songs without recalling my musical molestation. Until recently. When, in an effort to evade GP songs, I stumbled upon this past love like a carousing clown on my doorstep come 2am.

Result.

As such, I feel the need to share my lascivious lurve. And so, herewith my murky favs. Consider me your Goodman, rubbing my Thirsty Merc all over your coquettish and virginal ears. How you like them hairy apples, little one?

  1. I Wish Somebody Would Build a Bridge
  2. In the Summertime
  3. Claude Monet
  4. Wasting Time

They make me happy in my Aussie bone, unlike Baz bucken Luhrmann (insert hissing like a cat). Meanwhile, you’re gonna have to go old school on this puppy (iTunes, baby). Is your attention span better than a Bieber’s?

Well, wuc me gently with a chainsaw.

So. This week’s been fairly Oliver Stone, I don’t mind sayin’.

Or, as the kindly black man says to the portly, ultimately acquiescent Kellerman at the close of Dirty Dancing: lots of changes, old Max. Lots of changes.

First, I had drinks with the gunslingers.

I know, right. I have no godly excuse for such a brain fart. I don’t know why they wanted me, or why I agreed to go. I’d like to call it survival tactics, but that’s like saying Twilight is an existential look at man’s need to live forever. That dog don’t tap dance. It was like sitting across from two sharks, beers nestled in fin, contesting my juicy jugular. E pluribus unum.

At worst, it was strangely inspiring; like attending a high-school reunion where you hated all you schooled with, but to which you’re oddly drawn in curiosity and self-loathing. Like all reunions, then. Twas indeed glorious to hear Cult Boy failing in a job where he’s incompetent in perpetuum (aka routinely-reamed by Schwarzenegger, like Shriver on a Saturday night).

Second, I had coffee with Gay Prince.

I know, right. But, while he’d left our place of work (dropping from view like the boobs of Whoopi Goldberg), he’d also left me with more possibility in the air than bubbles from a drunken hiccup. He’d been building towards something, a kin to crescendo; and the demise of one routine left an opening for another (if you get my Tokyo drift). Probable, even.

This coffee, like all coffee, was the crux. Where our sentimental soufflé would rise to Tim Robbins’ heights, or collapse like Elijah Wood’s career in the early hours of adolescent morn.

And so. Like Indiana entering the Temple de Doom, I ventured forth in hope and inquisition – armed with nouse, nerve and my proverbial Short Round. Further and further into the belly of the romantic beast … to come vis-à-vis with the manicured hand that held the answer. The same hand which once high-fived me in comedic and questionable union. That had stroked my arms and ego. The same hand that led me here, in conspiracy and adventure.

The hand that now … reached into my ample chest and ripped out its pumping heart, before holding it maniacally aloft and tossing me into the fiery depths of singledom.

Not to be dramatic or nothin.

As swift as any Taylor, I was sexually irrelevant. As if someone flipped my plot, mid movie. One minute, I was Sandra Bullock. The next, Meatloaf. In rocky, shocky horror.

Ah, screw it. Our landscape always was Seussian, so what did I expect?

What went before, was not to come. His attention fickle and my luck, dumb. So wave bye-bye and fuck it all to hell. My heart came near, but never truly fell.

the wuc bytes – dodgeball

I think GP broke me.

Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.

Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).

Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.

Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.

Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.

GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)

What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.

What the wuc just happened?

I’m back.

Like a chump who shows up to her bat mitzvah at 32.

So. Um, how’ve you been? [Looks awkward and shuffles feet.] Good? You been good? Sweet Mary. The guilt I’ve felt for letting my wuc grow cobwebs! (Ewww.) We’re talking, Catholic guilt. Teenage pregnancy guilt. Hairy armpits guilt.

Guilt.

But I return to thee (laptop, Bareilles and figurative in hand) – the Lando Calrissian to your Han Solo. It’s good to see you, old friend. We shall live to fight another day! (And I will go on to star in such nuggets of goodness as Dynasty and Dangerous Passion) (good times).

I have much news (to be said like Xena the Warrior Princess) but no Zeusly idea where to begin. Like Atreyu, I battled the Nothing only to lose “Artaaaax!” in the Swamp of Sadness.

Uh huh.

I feel beholden to shoot to the crotch of the matter, like a spider seeking a damp and warm place to reside. But the tale of Gay Prince and Me is not a coherent one.

In short and much surprise – he took it to the next level (read: mezzanine with restricted access). Months of imitating dating. Hours and daze, attached at the hip. Twas bonny (albeit soggy with pseudo), and much like living in the belly of a hiccup.

“And she did dwell beside GP in glorium (aka her new office) for the time it took a ray of sunshine to be eclipsed by a painfully-punctual precipitation.” Beard of Zeus

Or, in the soluble words of Jane Austen … “exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week later, Gay Prince did cease employment, and became as absent to Wuc as she herself could not fucking desire”. (I paraphrase.)

Ergo. Tragically. We’ve missed our window to join hands, tuck penises and sing Kumbaya.

Instead, welcome to The Hangover. Where I puzzle together what went wuc (and come to terms with the proverbial Tyson sprawled across my face).

In the kindime (and absence of cognitive thought), allow me to depict my mental state:


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