Tag Archives: Travolta

Things I’d like to say to John Travolta …

  1. Man, were you hot in Grease. (Lanky hot.)
  2. I’m sincerely sorry to hear about Jett.
  3. What’s with the black monkey toupée? Lighten up the charlatan shade – you look like the creepy dude Minnelli momentarily-married.
  4. My bro-in-law met you once, said you’re très nice and normal.
  5. Also, I don’t believe you flashed your twig ‘n’ berries to a masseuse.
  6. That said, I can’t give you a free pass on Scientology (sorry).
  7. Remember your film, The Experts? I seriously can’t find that on DVD, like, anywhere.
  8. I forgive you for Look Who’s Talking.
  9. I forgive you for Look Who’s Talking Too, too.
  10. I love a good action movie but the ending to Face Off was way too long.
  11. Let’s do lunch – I’ll have my people call your people.

Do that voodoo you do so well.

I feel happy today. Like a jelly bean after a lavish spa treatment. It aint a Disney day, understand. But my undies are nevertheless alive with the sound of Cusack.

The factors to my blissful briefs (aka the pantaloon union) are thus:

  • they’re clean
  • Gay Prince is in da hizzie (whoop whoop)
  • I’ve been offered a job

Yes, they’re always clean (I aint no motherlovin’ grundie miscreant) but it bears heralding. Yeah baby, GP is scrum I’d-like-to-diddle-his umptious and yielding a tropic Travolta vibe today (night diva, night diva). And I doompahdee might have a new job! I’m negotiating the salary much like Hugh Hefner negotiates stairs – hopefully yet with some trepidation.

So! Like a pimp, allow me to headline the pros: the new gig is with my current company, but at a different office. Which means a transition smoother than an exfoliated Clooney and (like Shriver upon the morn of meaning) fare-thee-well Schwarzenegger. Most importantly?

No more Cult Boy, no more kooks. No more gunslingers, dirty looks!


I’d still be working with the mental crew but from a distance (à la Better Midler) (with hula hands and a song in my heart). And. Four days a week. Motherfucken, and. In the same bedazzled building as, drrrumroll … that fabled fabio of hetero hotness, Gay Prince.

It’s as if George Michael finally heard my prayers. (Wham wucs.)

In pointiest of fact, I’d be working for his boss’s boss. Wuccadoodies. GP dropped by my desk today, paused for bing grin and inquired after my employment health. Then, upon learning this malodorous morsel, backed away slowly (like James Cagney at having a tommy gun pitched in his gut). Aww-kward (to be sung like my little brother) (macho falsetto, yo).

This could be considered a con. Also: no more Coffee Guy. But then, I suspect his lattes are hotter than he. And he looks weary of late. As if our imaginary courtship is taking its toll.

It’s so frikkin on right now – Act 2

We exit the mall, like Batman and Robin sans budget, jumping into a nearby taxi. The driver gives us the whatever once-over and we head to the club (which I hereby crown, Loserville) (just so I can stop calling it the fucking club). The chick on the door eyes our disguise.

“Where’d you two come from, Supernova?” (aka Aussie Comicon)

“Mary Poppins.”

NASA and I have been to Loserville so often, we’re honorary citizens. The bouncers and DJ give us the nod like rodeo favourites, our sometime metaphorical (one time literal) spurs clinking as we mosey across the dance floor, tipping our metaphorical (one time literal) hat.

If you could splice together every dance movie ever made, throw in epilepsy and partial blindness, you’d see how we rip that dance floor a new one come Friday nights. Our dancing edict? Never surrender to one style, good taste or gravity. We cut a swathe through those two-stepping chumps with an array of backflips, twists and shouts.

We built our notoriety one leg-split at a time, my friends.

Probably our finest moment was what I fondly refer to as UN (United Nations) night. We were golden on that fateful day. NASA is a gymnast so, while she wowed the crowd with vaulting somersaults, I threw down a cocktail of Travolta, Astaire and Footloose. Most nights begin with the requisite ‘who the hell are these idiots?’ stares. But. Slowly. Surely, whispered asides of ‘what the fuck?’ are replaced with the wish to be One of Us.

Such was the power of UN night. Idiots from every nationality and walk of life came together in a glorious melting pot of drunken derangement. People who didn’t know each other, didn’t know us, were suddenly dancing as one – doing the conga, hopscotching across the floor, dancing on the graves of our smashed forefathers. I burned a hole clean through the sole of my right shoe that night. Through the very sole of Australia, compadres.

Pause for silence and awe at THE POWER OF DANCE (hangs head).

The night of my bir, NASA and I seized the dance floor – a pink duo of hero. We worked that dance floor like a couple of hookers on Sunset Boulevard. I got my Jack Rabbit Slim on and NASA was soon dancing with her cape over her head (I like to think, in a fitting tribute to Casper the drunken ghost). We danced as we always do: til they kicked our heroic asses out.

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