Meet Me at the Alter

Ever wanted to just, be someone else? Wouldn’t it be grand to just wake up one morning as a completely different person? Unfortunately, unless you really, really need a change and can afford the gruelling chain of operations required to do so – generally you’re stuck with what you have.

That’s what your alter ego is for. A fun, on the side persona you can pull out every once in a while, dust off and place your tired, overworked shell in its place. Alter egos can make for extremely humorous entertainment and can bring out the wild side in normally subdued people. Alcohol and drugs can provide you with a temporary personality change, but the outcome is usually not of the most desirable standard.

I’d like to be a character of the animated world. Not one of the annoying, overly-toonlike characters – perhaps one of royal descent who is poised and gracious and can break into a perfectly pitched song without a moments hesitation. Surely a fool’s dream – but dreams are not always of the impossible.

Try, for a day, to change the way you approach the world. Embrace your inner eccentric, bring yourself to life with an expression or two you have yet to experience. Say something silly and nonsensical to another, and take pleasure in their bedazzled reaction. To say the world has become a cesspool of despair, drama and dereliction would be the understatement of the decade.

The world is nothing more than a very worn piece of canvas. When shit gets bad, society pulls out the tired paintbrush of life and with it a new tin of brightly coloured paint in the hope another coat will make everything seem shiny and new once more. It takes more than suppression to hope for a better tomorrow;  you need to embrace the animated self you no doubt wanted to expose at some point but fear of rejection or ridicule quashed that beautiful, soul warming piece of that spectaular inner you.

Don’t let the fuckers of the world threaten what you could be – what you would be if society wasn’t such a huge pile of shit. I’m in no way saying you should turn to Jesus (luuuul) and start adopting African children… just be a little bit cute, or a little bit kooky or a little bit innocently wild and don’t allow your TRUE personality to forget you. And you, it.

Hello world, this is me.

The Fame Monster

It has recently come to light that the Father of the son who was supposedly trapped inside the family’s homemade hot air balloon that went bye-byes in sky-skys (only to be ‘found’ hours later in the damn house, hiding like the piece of shit kid he is) had choreographed the entire ‘ordeal’ in the hopes he could get a piece of that warm, sugery nirvana that is FAME.

First of all, if you’re going to pull off a believable hoax, it’s best to inform the authorities BEFORE approaching the media.  And frankly, if the Father was really that hungry for fifteen minutes, he would have IRL stuck his son in that balloon – perhaps equipped with a mini-mic and handicam to blog the entire process for his newly founded website BALLOONBOYBLUES.COM.

The moral of the story being, don’t fucking half-ass attempts at gaining celebrity, even if you expect to get nothing more than an interview with NBC and possibly your own reality show or a starring role in one already established – such as My Super Sweet Sixteen or Pimp My Balloon with out of work rapper XZibitBiscuit.

The Celebrity has manifested itself to the stage where it has found itself a new home to spread its shameless famewhoring seed; the everyday, runofthemill member of society. With access to new technologies such as cellphones, the Internet and…homemade balloons becoming increasingly easy to come by, even the most intellectually lacking members of society have a shot a becoming a bigshot. You only need to look at YouTube sensation failure Chris Crocker, AKA Tranny Mess – his self proclaimed ‘honest’ vlog about his borderline homicidal adoration for pop princess Britney Spears catapulted into the headlines of every media outlet imaginable.

Crocker is IRL batshit insane

This year has the been the year of famewhoring families, wherein it isn’t only one pathetic loser lusting for attention, it’s now becoming a family affair. First it was the Jolie lookalike and her multiple babies; for a while there her lackluster parenting skills and general failing at life garnered her some sweet, sweet paparazzo attention that she clearly needed like a maniacal cokehead did not want.

Then it was Mr. and Mrs. Jon and Kate Gosselin…(plus eight) and their turn to prove they deserved the fame more because they had more children. Granted, they at least received a reality show and John is still being raped hard by the bug of celebrity, but at the end of the day – irrelevancy is lapping at your breeding toes.

Jon thought Kate was refillable, like at Hungry Jacks

There seems to be a certain ‘grade’ in the celebrity food chain and once it is reached, be it a fallen A-lister or an average Joe, the resulting shenanigans by any and all can leave the rest of us feeling apathetic and/or extremely bemused by the individual trying desperately to cling  to that last icy rung on the fame ladder.

If you are a fledgling public figure or just….another Tara Reid, here are some tried and true ways in which you can keep your foot in the door:

1. Sex tape: Paris did it, now look where she is. Nearly thirty and still passing herself off as nineteen. She does movies too, you know. Did you know Mini-Me has a porno? Dude, I so want to see that shit.
2. Twitter: Get yourself a Twitter, get your dwindling followers to follow it and tweet your tits off. Even if you’re out of work, pretend you’re more successful than ever. When that next blockbuster starring YOU never eventuate, blame it on ’scheduling conflicts’ or just say ‘the Director drugged me and raped me anally’.
3. Reality Show: Most celebrity based reality shows will accept anyone with at least a D minus level of The Celebrity. Even ex governors are giving the world of reality television a crack. Also, try and be naked as much as possible during filming.
4. If all else fails, just stand in the street outside your girlfriend’s house and accuse her of cheating. Also, it helps if you look like you’re on crack.

Remember, always ALWAYS tip off the media before pulling a publicity stunt. Or you could follow Britney Spears around if you’re really desperate for attention. Or you could kidnap Britney Spears, stick her (and yourself) in your home made air balloon, and rape her until she has more children than Jon and Kate.

TRIPLE. THREAT. BABAY.

In Engrish, Prease

I’m not going to lie to you and say I am completely anti- racist, because that could not be further from the truth.

I, and anyone else who is willing to admit it, have an issue with any person with skin that differs from my own. Yes – this includes tan abusers, cholos and Carrot Top. Although my new found passion of helping the elderly has brought me nothing but positives, I have had a somewhat… unpleasant experience with a few of my co-workers.

Fuck I hate Carrot Top

You see, the aged care industry (like taxicab organisations, petrol stations and shoddy shopping mall massage parlors) seems to attract – in alarming numbers – persons of a non-caucasion persuasion. For every white carer and nurse at my facility, there are five or so Asians, Indians and Africans – the majority of which have extremely underdeveloped English language skills.

This language barrier has become an increasing issue for myself, as communication on the job is vital. And when you’re dealing with the frail, vulnerable and elderly, having a confused looking Filipino woman as a partner for the morning rounds can be a challenge within itself.

For me, it has become a literal game of charades with many of the foreign workers. This has led to me becoming extremely intolerant of a select few who consistently fuck shit up and I am continuously left wondering what ass backwards institution handed these stupid foreign fucks their certificates.

Having worked in such close proximity with people of differing origins has forced me to be more accepting of other cultures and people. Yet, many of them flatly refuse to adopt or at least accept the Australian English way of communication and interaction.

If you decide to move to another country, one far different in almost every way from the one you are leaving – prepare to embrace new ideals, personalities and ways of thinking. AND for fuck sakes, do not get offended at every little bit of advice or criticism given to you as it is given to make things easier for every individual involved. ESPECIALLY in a working environment and ESPECIALLY ESPECIALLY when the line of work involves caring for others.

If you want to bitch, moan and play the race card, pack up your chickens and get a job driving around drunks or pumping petrol. Otherwise, welcome to our country, my name is Ashley! No.. I said Ashley. Not Asslee.

FUCKING INASIANIPINO ASSHOLE LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH DID YOU LEAVE YOUR ‘H’ PRONOUNCING ABILITY BACK IN UZBAKIBAKISTAN WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Ahem.

Mayan the Black Hole!

Before I begin, Mayan is pronounced ‘MY-AN‘, for you illiterate boobs out there that probably failed to comprehend my awesomely witty header.

2012.

End of the world? Or will it be just another same ol’ year, in which I turn twenty four and start developing man jugs and taking Viagra. Oh the woes of old age. Anyway, back to the end of the world, it’s totally something I’d love to see happen. I hear you whispering and pointing at me, fuckers. You’re thinking, ‘Isn’t it a little, I don’t know, emo and also slighty insane to think that a new ice age would be a good thing, right?’

The answer would be yes – after the borderline insulting ‘Dawn of the Dinosaurs‘, Ice Age has well and truly run itself into extinction. A legitimate, non Dreamworks funded ice age however, would be welcomed with open arms by not just myself, but The History Channel also.

Like the dinosaurs, the Mayans are also extinct. But not before making an epic calender of epic mysteries that is said to end on or around the 21st of December, 2o12. Although there is no evidence of the Mayans ever prophesying an EEEEND OF DAAAAYS at the conclusion of their stupid ass calender of epic mysteries, the media have made damn sure that they run this date, slathered with helpings of fear mongering, into the hearts and minds of the easily manipulated citizens of the world.Each and every one ready to throw some ca$$$h at a t-shirt or two emblazoned with slogans such as ‘I survived 2012 and all I got was this lousy shirt… and also everyone is dead including my dog and what’s up with that ’cause in I Am Legend Will Smith’s dog was totally by his side and kicked zombie ass and all my dog did was hump a dead guy on the footpath instead of following me and a stray meteor fell on him and now I’m alone with nothing but a half eaten turkey leg and this t-shirt’ or ‘I’M WITH CHILD’  which will hopefully send a message to any survivors using the procreation excuse as a way to gang rape your lily white ass.

Tinkerbell can hold her own against any apocalypse

Hysterics and hystericals aside, 2012 is srsbsns. Not only is the expiry date of THE ENTIRE EXISTENCE OF EVERYTHING right after my birthday and right before Christmas, but it is also during Summer. I don’t know about you but if I wake up December 21st, bottle of coconut oil in hand, and step outside to skin cancer my way back to a killer tan to find my backyard has become a yeti swingers party, I will definately consider popping a bitch. Or Kevin Rudd. I’m not fussy.

If the Mayans, America and The History Channel are correct in their prediction of an end of days – then can you honestly think of a better way to go than riding a tsunami or being alive long enough to let go of a frozen loved one as they float gently to the bottom of your Port-A-Pool whilst you whisper ‘I’ll never let go’.

Even though, you quite clearly just let them go.

Otherwise you’d be holding them and they wouldn’t be at the bottom of your pool. So, technically – YOU killed them. Okay, so the ice age killed them initially, but you exacerbated the whole situation by making them even colder at the bottom of the pool. Now they have to work twice as hard to get resurrected which means God has to cut his lunch break short which means you are so not getting ahead of the heaven queue. Fucker.

Podcrastinate: Part 1 – sLuTs!

My first audio blog/podcast/thingy about how teenage girls like to have sex and I briefly touch upon my lack of wood.

CLICKY.

Five Things I Hate About Q

In celebration of the National Equality March held in US of A this week, I’ve compiled a brief list of the reasons why we should have a public flogging (BDSM FANS REJOICE) of the gays instead of yet another song and dance of why the GLBQTI (mmmm.. BLT) community should be given the right to get a divorce and westernise Asian babies. If you’re offended by homophobic notions, please read on. I love an enraged audience, gets me all hot and flustered ‘n’ shit.

1.) Drag Queens: At number one we have a highly disturbing hobby that many a homo indulges in;  the drag scene. Two dollar wigs and Maybelline overdosing aside, the mere perception that it’s in any way appealing to dress like a woman when you clearly own a cock is offensive not only to the senses, but to members of the female sub sex. Dressing in drag is about as artistic as doing the esrever cowboy whilst playing Chinese Checkers with a Chinese guy; ultimately an unimpressive endeavour that will end in failure.

Remember Draggies – your face is not a cake, it does not need icing.

2.) ASL?: There is no such thing as dating, courting and general romancing amongst the Q’s. Instead we have hookup websites that will very likely give you an STD if you even look at them, IM conversations that comprise mostly of the words ‘pic/when/where/inches/bottom’ and ‘asl’. There is no love between men, only lust.

Stop trying to imitate straight couples when they themselves cannot live up to fairytale ending expectations.

R U CUT?

3.) ‘He said he was seventeen!’: Oh yes, it’s time to face the music – gay men love them some hairless, underage twinks. Whilst there are the select few that prefer the older specimen (holla!), experience and general observation has taught me that most Q’s would rather a disturbingly childlike male companion to service their manbags while moaning ‘Daddy’. If I hear ‘I liekyounger lololol’ uttered once more, a kitten in Jamaica loses its ears.

Fucking warned.

Keep that pedo-inspired behaviour behind closed doors, you filthy mingers.

4.) IT’S NOT FAIR, ETC: Homos, especially male homos, should definitely be refused the right to marry. You know why? Because males are by nature, sluts. Even more so than your everyday, average hetero couple. This equality bullshit has got to stop because, well, homosexuality is still not ACCEPTED.

So quit wasting resourses on rallies and marches and stick to your goddamn rimming and your dad/son fetishes and ass-to-ass dildo diving, because you’re all sexual beings and really – deep down most of you don’t care if Adam and Steve can’t become man and..bottom – you just like to complain.

If it wasn’t marriage rights it would be the right to…. have sex with teenagers. Now, believe me, that shit would get the masses out in support.

5.) U.G.L.Y: I like to say Q’s are God’s heterosexual fuck-ups that were thrown into the reject bin and became part of everyday society. Face it, most muff-munchers and anal-architects take a back seat physically to the heterosexuals. A homosexual could eat, sleep and fuck at a gym trying to get fit and will, in most circumstances, look inferior to the hetero hottie on the treadmill beside him.

Also, where did the idea of the fashion conscious gay dissappear to? This aint so in the shit hole town I reside in.

So I salute you, fellow brethren. You are a hot, hot mess with a face to match – and I hope your marriage rights get blown harder than you did Saturday night in the gardens of Adelaide.

Ascent Into Madness

The term ‘normal’ has been overused and applied to so many abnormal beings and ideals that the word has lost all meaning, and thusly should be grabbed by the syllables and thrust into dictionary limbo.

The closest one can come to normal is when one tries to discipline unacceptable habits and traits into a dormant state whilst engaging in social activities. Even I, an individual who identifies as a man with no facades, will tend to suppress the more unappealing qualities when contact between others becomes a foreseeable possibility. Alas, I fail at this most times.

Suppression leads to a nasty build-up of emotions that, upon eventual release – will spew forth like rancid sewer water onto unsuspecting bystanders. This is commonly referred to as a mental breakdown. Hilarious for the most part, mental breakdowns will almost certainly come when the host least expects it and always during the most untimely of situations.

The straw that broke the camel’s back is a common analogy used to describe the moment a breakdown or freak-out occurs. Humans can only handle so much disappointment, heartache, rejection and misfortune before inevitably going absolutely psycho on your shit.

People that are close to this breaking point will commonly share distinguishing signs and symptoms. Bloodshot and/or twitching eyes, sweaty palms and foreheads and a general homicidal facial expression are all dead giveaways that this person has long since checked out of normal and into Norman (Bates).

If you are concerned your crazy has risen significantly, channelling these seemingly unwanted feelings and emotions into suitable outlets can turn that loony lad or lass inside of you into your own creative powerhouse. Weird behaviour births wonderful imagination.

Let’s Play A Love Game

Love

What does it mean?

Like, what does it really mean? Does executing this four letter emotional landmine upon a luuuuva or omgbffs!!!1! hold the same depth and unconditionality if expressed to a Mother or a Son? Should the decision to confess a love for someone be made with much consideration within oneself or should it be word vomited from the mouth in one of those dreary moments of heated passion? In any case, uttering this one beast of a word can very easily alter a relationship within moments. It can turn a pleasant oyster filled evening into the colonisation of Uncomfortable Town; population: you. Also, colon is highLARIOUS.

Personally? Love in my eyes is a grand concept; a fantastical dream that can only truly blossom upon the pages of the World’s most treasured love stories. Love, and it’s evil, post-op step sister  ’Soul Mate’ like to meet on occasion and sit at the back of the seediest bar they can find – and scheme. Love, the brighter and more attractive of the two, is the mastermind behind every wedding, every high school crush and every celebrity obsessed fan.

These two are legitimate Soul Mates. Seriously.

Love will relay it’s cliched, butterflies in stomach, snugglebunnymuffincherub ideals onto Soul Mate, who proceeds to scour the world for that next foolish gal or guy who thinks his one and only is only a heartbeat away. So, unless I have yet to make it perfectly, unquestionably clear for you all. Love is, in all it’s stripped down, back to basics glory – a humongous crock of sweet-scented, mildly attractive fecal matter. Furthermore, I’m afraid to say this menace is quite possibly festering upon your happy happy hearts waiting for that opportunistic moment to strike.

You know the deal: your one true love ends up on a drunken YouTube video, servicing the photocopy boy at the work happy hour. Or you visit your sweet sixteen boyfriend who you made a pact of virginal purity till marriage with for a surprise study sesh, to find he is already deep in his algerbra best friend.

Then follows the depression, Barry Manilow on repeat and avoiding any and all TV shows that are prone to displays of affection or emotion. Gilmore Girls reruns it is. So for my dignity and yours, please don’t think anyone other than your blood relatives really, TRULY give a flying fuck about you.

Remember, love rhymes with dove which is a bird and also a brand of chocolate – which evidently tastes like complete vaginial shit. You see the connections? Yeah, have a good day.

The Princess and the Pill

Once upon a time…

There lived a most beautiful Princess.

She was loved by all.

Her sun-kissed locks and porcelain skin was a sight to behold.

Beneath her mesmerizingly immaculate exterior, a tormented soul burned within the deepest crevices of her being.

No Prince could save her.

No spell could break her.

She carried on with a smile, so convincing and kind – until the villain slayed her.

That villain was her.

World Suicide Prevention Day

Thinspirational

You are an absolute fucking liar if you deny ever having teased someone, be it to them or behind their back, about the size of their stomach. Maybe you remark on how the pants they chose to wear cause them to bear a striking resemblance to a blueberry muffin, or guesstimate with your fellow bitchy buddies as to how many chins that person has – and whether or not those chins have chins of their own.

It may appear the victim of your cruel words laughs it off or acts nonchalant about being compared to a baked good. However, how would you then feel if you discovered that one offhanded comment you made during recess or around the water cooler at work was the straw that broke the camels back, and that individual developed an eating disorder?

Admittedly, I was guilty of being one of those individuals that would often scoff at the stories shown on television and in print media regarding anorexics and bulimics and considered these sufferers to use their ED as a way to attention whore. I was also guilty of many times poking fun at the more rotund members of society, and stood idly by as others did the same.

Start them early, I suppose.

Having now gained a different perspective on issues of body image, I am disgusted by what I witness around me. Parents telling their young children they need to go on diets and start working out at the gym… for fuck sakes?! Hearing stories of barely pubescent girls and boys being admitted due to dangerously low BMIs, caused by EDs, makes me RAGE.

Even the gay community, a demographic of which I am unfortunately apart of, has absolutely DUMB expectations for what homosexuals should look like – either chiseled Adonises or stick thin ‘twinks’. You don’t fit one of these two categories? Enjoy your hand, loser. Some of you may think I’m being harsh, but that’s the harsh reality. It’s human nature for us to judge a book by it’s cover; if that book is worn and faded, or the pages water damaged and bloated, it will take a back seat to the shiny new copy next to it – regardless of it’s contents.

Hawt.

At the other end of the spectrum, overly slim people also cop shit for the way they present physically. I have on more than one occasion been compared to a ‘broomstick’ or been told to ‘eat a hamburger’. If you’re one of the judgemental cocks out there, stop it. Stop telling your girlfriend she needs to lose the jelly belly she has gained since you began dating, or leave her – you clearly want all the wrong things. Stop telling your tubby younger brother the creators of the wheel used him as inspiration, he can only be told so many times he looks like mans first invention before he starts to believe it.

PARENTS: let your child be a fucking child and eat that packet of lollies and for crying out loud it is NOT OKAY to stick them on a diet or workout regime, and it is SO NOT OKAY to comment on a young persons weight unless they are at a BMI that poses a risk to their well being.  To the media I say, die in a fire. I find it hilarious to see an image of Britney on FAMOUS with text implying she is at a dangerously low weight, and then next to it New Idea saying she’s morbidly obese.

Generally, one knows if one has a weight issue, whether too thin or too fat. Additional commentary by you is almost never required and always damaging. Stop and think.

Stop. And. Think.