Tag Archives: Will Ferrell

Pick that up and put it down properly!

I feel tumultuous. Like Gary Busey in high wind.

Work has been insane in the membrane. Or for the less bombastic: totes nutsack.

In the last fortnight, all hell don break loose (stopping just shy of my shorts catching fire with only vodka to put ’em out). Each morning, trying to wake myself to the dawn was like a pterodactyl being born with tiny wing-claws and grit in its eyes … the end of every day like tits-up Titanic, with the band playing on as everyone scrambled on deck, our ship soaring and splitting in two like a whopping-wafer in an angry iced-latte.

Then. Friday. Things came to an iceberg-lettuce head.

Read: people crying into career soups and one dickhead nigh losing his job.

See, my boss went on leave. Yep. That was it. He went on walkabout and into his competent ‘n’ charismatic loafers stepped another. A woman I quite like, but one unprepared for the dickhead dead ahead; the he-man hurdle she had to clear to be awarded gold. (For us all to be awarded gold.) The details themselves are as long and winding as the collective intestines of The Beatles but suffice to say, he was too wide of wit and tall of ego for it to end well. Our fallout primarily political, his yet to be determined – it was one helluva ride.

Somewhere in the middle, was I. Clambering to keep up, to maintain a sense of logic amongst the panic, mutiny and high-seas. I may as well have been trying to send a fax in an insane asylum, using a post-it and the butt-crack of a contiguous catatonic.

In case you’re wondering, it looked a little like this:

Monday, the boss returns. Peaceful and pious on holiday cheer, he’ll no doubt sprint the last metre of our virtual marathon, barely breaking a bead. Never mind that we’re all shadows of our former felicitations, or that we’ve agnostically-aged faster than Lori Singer in Warlock.

That said, if we’re gonna silver-line this wedgie, it was in the midst of the climactic crunch that I made the decision to finally leave it all behind. Passion should neither be perfunctory nor the byproduct (read: cow plop) of a wandering grass-munching job. The egg may well come before the chicken, but the shit sure (as shit) don’t come before the meal.

Meanwhile (and speaking of), screw James Cameron and the four-stacks he rode in on.

I boycotted that movie for a decade whence its whirlwind release (like a rabid dog upon the bone of good taste), driven to dander by the tide of public love and affliction; his success proof only of self-promotion the likes of which a caterpillar should never see.

For, in somewhat sluggish summation, we all know Kate could’ve fit Leonardo on that door.

the wuc bytes – anchorman

I love this movie as if it were a love child produced from an ill-fated yet delicious union with Robert Downey Jr. It makes me happy in my comedo bone.

It makes me want to grow a curly moustache and smoke a sea-captain pipe.

It makes me want to dance in long-johns painted with prancing puppies.

No, scratch that. I’d never fucking do that. Actually, I’d take a shotgun to whoever dances in long-johns painted with prancing puppies. Then I’d watch Anchorman, the corpse cooling beside me – a coffee table for my popcorn and soda.

“Boy, that escalated quickly.”

“It jumped up a notch.”

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.)


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