the story of la nadine and the hungry, hungry seal

a friend of mine used to quote a line of her favourite book to me quite often. i never read the book and i can't for the life of me remember it's title, but the line has stuck with me for several years and always pops into my head at times when i feel like the world is one big-ass bubble of evil and it's inhabitants satanic warriors on a mission to mess my head up good.

this be the line:

do you ever feel like you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown 24 hours a day?

yes. yes, i do. and thanks for asking. you're too kind. wanna make out now?

so anyway, although i'm all down with the mopies for reasons inexplicable, i am going to tell you all a funny story from my childhood because as my mama always said, nobody likes a whinging bitch. well, almost nobody, huh chris martin?

the story of la nadine and the hungry, hungry seal:

it was a sparkly summers day in sydney when a feisty, curly-haired seven year old lass who liked to dance and and play elastics set off on a trip to the zoo with her charmingly functional family.

a lover of all animals, but not yet old enough to chain herself naked to cages in support of their liberation, this little girl loved the zoo.

and so when she came upon the seal enclosure, she shrieked with glee:

look mummy, seals, my favourite animals in the whole wide world ever.

of course she had earlier made the same proclamation about lions and tigers and bears (oh my!), but that's beside the point.

determined to show the seals how much she loved them, and already aware at such a tender age of the international language of touch, she stuck her hand through the silly cage and called old sealy over for a pat.

he came. he saw. he bit.

i screamed. i cried. i bled.

and bled.

and bled.

there still remains a very faint scar on my right index finger. i wish it was more pronounced because scars are fucking sexy. like my friend patrick's bad-ass mofo scar down his chest from his knife fight/gall bladder removal (depending on who he's telling) that would make any girl want to remove her panties and make the hot sex with him pronto.

*drool*

oh, yeah, so anyway, that's the story of la nadine and the hungry, hungry seal.

you may call me cuntspeare

i have thus been hailed "cuntspeare" by my friend chris.

he is on the radio and stuff. and he likes drinking beer and making with the funny talk. he is also a superstar dj and, as of today, a promise maker-gooderer.

and i have two words for him: something cryptic.

on the politics of slipping

things that could possibly be the end of my recent unprecedented one month buzz:

- the knowledge that i will probably never ever make the hot monkey love with zach braff, nor kiss him on a cherry picker overlooking an infinite abyss. *sigh*

- disovering that my bestest friend and partner in bad russian accent, shopaholic, kilt-wearing fairy crime is staying out of the country for yet another year, bringing the total amount of time we will have spent together in 3 years to a whopping 5 months.

- 42 degree peel-my-skin-off-and-stick-my-bones-in-the-freezer heat.

- boys with fucking girlfriends.

- boys without girlfriends but also severely lacking a clue.

- the holiday season. kill. me. now.



things that could possibly maintain my upness:

- 8 day sojourn/spa party in melbourne with her and him and him and maybe him and hopefully her.

- ass-kicking, booty-shaking, we're-so-not-white-middle-class-bitches-right-now hip hop dance classes.

- cancer reduction.

- babies.

- beautiful, wonderful, i'm-not-worthy friends.

- possible handsome boy modelling school tour.

- vodka. lots. of. vodka*.



*if anyone wants to point out the adverse effects of this last bullet point they can eat soggy penis forever.

the schmitz in blogworld

OMG, the schmitz! the schmitz! the schmitz commented on boudist! and he used "schmitz" as a verb in a totally relaxed and non-snooty way!

i have been schmitzing like a bitch on heat for about 12 hours now. its the fucking schmitz for fucks sake!

toby schmitz, if you ever read this, i heart you. never stop scmitzing. its working for you. thanks for letting us incorporate your multi-functional last name (its a noun, verb and adjective in one glorious syllable) into our geeky blog vernacular. and please try not to be too offended by any nasty comments i may have possibly made about 'the cooks' in the past. oh, and if you're ever up for that schmitzel sandwich with me and this hot piece of woman...

the schmitz! the schmitz! the schmitz!

*overschmitzes and passes out cold*

not another country ditty

below is a country love song farewell to red betty black, who is leaving us today forever and ever (or until her boss realises she can't live without her and decides to sponsor her).

ok, so i've done this before, but slap my thigh and call me thunder if its not the gosh darn best way to bid tally-ho to a travelling wilbury.

i met her at a grogblog, in november,
i can still recall the sexy heels she wore;
she was biting at my g-string by eleven,
and i felt rather like a cheap and tawdry whore.

i promised her if i switched sides that i'd call her,
but deep down i knew that i'd always like boys,
cause even though i've dabbled with the ladies,
i still prefer the real thing over toys.

she told me she was leaving oz forever,
going back to where she came from: the u.k,
i said that i'd remember her with fondness,
in a totally platonic kinda way.

(cue back porch rocking-chair cud-chewing flannel-wearing guitar solo).

lets have a kegger

the boud and i have decided there needs to be an o.c. drinking game.

actually, i'm sure that one is already being played by freshman girls in their nighties in sorority houses all over the u.s.a.

but lets make one up together anyway. it'll be fun. like a big online slumber party. feel free to get naked and have pillow fights with your colleagues as well. i know i will.

the first rule is care of mr. boud himself:

- you have to drink when someone leaves orange county "for good".

and i would like to suggest:

- you have to skull your drink when a couple breaks up.

and also,

- you have to drink whenever seth "hotty hot hot hot" cohen says his own name.

mmmmmmm, seth cohen. *drool*. i think i need a drink right now. and a shower.

drape me in diamonds and call me sugar

this year my new years resolution was to dedicate myself to the following two things: underachievement and shopping.

i have been incredibly successful in my pursuit of the former goal, but it would appear that the latter has suffered as a direct consequence.

i suppose if i was a little bit on the smarter side, i would have foreseen this from the outset. but hey, i'm a bit slow sometimes. i hear boys like stupid girls though, so i totally intend on playing up to it next time i meet one.

anyway, i have considered many ways in which to combine the two ambitions so i can have my laziness and wear chanel too.

stealing was my first thought, but i feel the guilts for taking free samples from the cheese plate at the fruit shop. so that wasn't an option.

then my thoughts turned to prostitution. but as down as i am with other women who CHOOSE to pawn their pussies for pennies, i just couldn't do it myself. no sirree bob.

a career in the porn industry was ruled out for similar reasons. although not as quickly. i was once an aspiring actress after all. and i can go "ooh" and "aah" and "my what a big dick you have there, sailor" quite convincingly. but still, no.

so i set about making peace with my meager salary and existing wardrobe.

but then today, i became desperate. i realised i just can't live without that $155 karen walker necklace, nor those $500 chrissy hammond shoes, and i will certainly die without the $300 french negligee to keep me warm (well, at least semi-clothed) at night.

and thats when i found this.

i'll be sure to remember you all when i'm lunching in paris while waiting for my geriatric texan trillionaire hubby to hurry the fuck up and die already so i can move on with my life (and the poolboy).

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

it's just so gosh darn hard to find decent homosexual porn on the internet these days, don't you think?

a big thanks to australian idol and telstra for making it that little bit easier for us.

and i bet noone's more thankful than idol host andrew g (i dare anyone to look at his blond coiffe and tell me he seriously likes girls).

thanks for the (few, drunken) memories

apparently i'm expected to blog about dorkfest...sorry, i mean grogblog.

so, here is my list of personal highlights (or what i can remember anyway):

- agent fare evader's many failed (yet highly entertaining and endearing) attempts to hump my leg.

- jess's many failed (yet incredibly enjoyable) attempts to detach my arse from my body.

- the delightful red betty black's failed attempt to remove my underwear from my body with her teeth*.

- every single person in attendance's failed attempts to get any dirt on ms fits out of me by trying to convince me they "really like nadstown too".

- random weird creepy guy's failed attempts to appear as a reasonable human being while photographing like a drugfucked pedo stalker (you know who you are, rwcg).

*my profuse apologies to darp for my demanding of the removal of the photographic evidence from boudist. but a girl's gotta keep her dignity. what little she has left of it anyway.

queen casey

tonight my faith in the australian public, and in the inherent goodness of the world i live in was somewhat restored.

a large, dreadlocked, punky teenage diva became our second australian idol, beating out a doe-eyed italian midget with a lifetime supply of hair wax and a legion of 14 year old fans.

i heart you, casey. you make me feel like a natural woman.

its just such a pity that she'll soon no doubt be turned into an anorexic blonde popsicle with a cocaine habit and a string of lousy love songs.

i just hope she at least stays the hell away from mark philippoussis.

ode to my family

oh fuc...i mean cun...oops...dear lordy gosh darn.

several members of my conservative jewish middle class family have jumped on the blog train. they've hopped the blog express, direct to nadstown, no stops along the way.

oh fuc...i mean cun...oops...dear lordy gosh darn.

below are some of things they asked me over dinner last night. my brother-in-law's 30th birthday dinner in fact. with his grandparents. whom i suspect already think i'm a complete whoring trashhound.

"do you have to say...ahem...f-u-c-k...so much on your little website?"

"you don't really let that andrew boy touch your bosoms, DO YOU?"

"um, sweetie, about that tongue kiss with the ms fits lady. you were just making it up right? i mean, you're not a...well you can't possibly be...one of those...not that there's anything wrong with them...but you're not a...ahem...lesbian...are you?"

"and about this four way spa party you keep mentioning..."

"really darling, what kind of slutty slutface from slutsville are you?"

okay, so noone actually asked me if i'm a lesbian. and i might have made up the slutty slutface hullabaloo. but i know they were all thinking it.

is it wrong that that makes me really fucking hot?

see, i just can't help myself. i guess i really am a complete whoring trashhound.

oh fuc...i mean cun...ooops...dear lordy gosh darn.

sorry mummy. love you.

i may be a tramp, but i'm not a trap!

ah, fleur. so wise. so very, very wise.

p.s. boys are dumb.

very superstitious...

my left eye has been twitching all day. how hot does that sound? please try and control yourself, i know it must be hard (he he).

anyway, my beautiful friend and colleague fleur told me that she heard that this means something. she looked kinda weird when she said it too. her eyes rolled back into her head and then she levitated for a few seconds.

so after i felt it was safe to return to my office, i googled "eye" + "twitch" + "superstition" in search of the real meaning behind my current rabid-junkie-retard state.

i found hundreds of tree-hugging hippy sites claiming to answer all life's great mysteries. half of those i visited said that a twitching left eye means good luck is a-coming. the other half claimed that it heralds horrible times ahead.

however, there were also claims that if you dream of someone nude, someone you know is going to die. and that if you have sex in your dream, then you are married to a spirit.

well, noone i know has died today (nor yesterday, nor the day before, nor the day before that. get the point?). and i am certainly not living in marital bliss with my thousand spirit-spouses. so i think i'll put my eye-twitching down to random wacky bodily functions.

and maybe stay off the drugs for awhile.

another list! ha ha! take that, haters!

i was bitterly disappointed by the revelation of mr. big's real name on the final episode of sex and the city last night. i mean, john, come on, how fucking boring is that?

10 better names for mr. big:

- alejandro

- mohammed

- benicio del toro

- shirley

- captain massivecock

- luigi

- shlomo

- ohad

- hogwash barnsworth the 3rd

- snoop biggy big

any more?

some things about hen's nights:

- if you have a penis, don't come (unless paid to do so, of course).

- if you can't handle looking at penis, don't come.

- if you don't like eating chocolate penis, don't come.

- if you won't pose for photos with a fake penis, don't come.

- if you've never seen penis, you can still come, but you may run away crying.

and also,

- if you don't like talking about boobs (your own or otherwise), don't come.

- if you don't like other women seeing your boobs, don't come.

- if you don't want to see other women's boobs, don't come.

- if you don't like other women touching your boobs, don't come.

- if you don't like touching other women's boobs, don't come.

pity he doesn't actually read my blog...

my friend andrew (he with the unlimited boob-touching permit) has asked, nay, demanded that i write an entire blog post dedicated to him.

apparently he thinks that just because he texted me for once in his life rather than relying on running into me at the usual trashy dive, or waiting for me to call him for a meet up, he is some kind of nipple-hardening demi-god worthy of my time and creative energy.

well, my nipples ain't hard, and i'm not kneeling in unworthiness before his holy being. but he is pretty sexy. and rather funny. and really good at playing the "roxanne" drinking game. so i figured, what the hell.

this one's for you, andy. para ti, andres, para ti.

its the end of an era. or is it?

-you can take my life, but you'll never take my spa party.

-you can take the girl out of the spa, but you'll never take the spa out of the girl.

-nobody puts baby in the corner (of the spa).

-you had me at "jump in".

-its my party and i'll spa if i want to.

-i've been to spa party but i've never been to me.

-take me down to spa-ah city where the bubbles are soapy and the girls are pretty.

any more?

turn turn turn stop

a lot of people have asked me lately if i'm excited that 2004 will be over soon, being that it has mainly been one big poo-brown coloured metal-spike protruding ball of suck.

and for a while there i was indeed jonesing for this hateful year to be gone with.

but then i remembered how antsy i was for the big poo-brown coloured metal-spike protruding hateful ball of suck that was 2003 to end.

and look how that turned out.

and so this new years eve (which will be spent on location in melbourne, perhaps in a spa somewhere, hopefully with schmitz on top) i intend to be all zen nightmare hippy girl about the passing of 2004 into 2005 and make like the judeo-christian calendar has no effect on neither my life nor my chakra.

wish me luck. although i'm usually pretty good at kidding myself without any help.

colonia sexidad

this morning my spunky friend andrew sent me this link.

and i almost fell off my chair while reading it.

while studying in chile in 2003 (yes, to remind you again cause i know you love it, i'm very worldly and well-traveled), i was required by my university to write a report on an aspect of cultural, political or socio-economic life within that country. for example one of my friends wrote about youth alcoholism, another about the employment market, and another about hip hop graffiti. ya dig?

i chose to write about this bizarre german cult i had heard whispers about, known to civilians alternately as "colonia dignidad", "villa bavaria", "las alemanas" ("the germans"). this crazy sect is suspected of harbouring escaped nazis (including eichmann and goebbels), producing sarin gas for the german government, acting as a torture chamber for war criminals during the pinochet regime, kidnapping jewish foreigners, and mass sexual abuse. oh yeah, and incest. LOTS OF INCEST.

anyway the weirdo nazi-pedo cult allegedly exists within a secret enclosure, apparently surrounded by electric fences and armed guards, about 2 hours drive from the town i was living in. noone is allowed in, and noone ever comes out. the closest you can get is a german restaurant/funland run by the members, where everyone is dressed like 1940s german peasants, all food is german, and german is the most audible language. there are bizarre german games and a statue honouring those who 'faught the good fight against those evil allied jew-lovers' in WWII. in the middle of fucking chile.

throughout my research i was priveleged enough to correspond and score interviews with some fascinating people involved in the fight to bring down the cult. namely a chilean newspaper editor who has published 2 books on this very topic, the senator trying to pass a bill to officially dismantle the cult, and the elderly sister of a russian-american scientist who disappeared near the cult's grounds in the 80s, and is believed to have been kidnapped and tortured to death by its members (she has become my adopted grandma, and still emails me regularly to make sure i'm still alive and haven't been kidnapped too by evil cultists).

but most intriguingly was my clandestine meeting in a bus station with chile's top human rights lawyer, who is defending some of the children claiming to have been abused by the cult's leaders. as we hid in a dark corner of the dingy station cafe, he showed me photos on his laptop of the cult's secret underground tunnel system, marvel-comic style security lair, and torture chambers. but he refused to tell me how he got his hands on these, whispering the chilean equivalent of 'if i told you, i'd have to kill you' (i.e "no").

i began to feel like the protagonist in a bad midday movie:

the feisty (and breathtakingly sexy) young student who gets drawn into a web of intrigue and nazi conspiracy, and then falls in love with an abused cult member and has to battle her own demons about a past filled with sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle who liked to dress like hitler and play...

oh dear, got a bit carried away there.

anyway, my point here is...oh fuck what is my point? um, fucked-up-nazi-cousin-cousin-marrying-kiddy-fiddling cultists in the chilean countryside. noone believed me. well, hah ha! i showed them! take that unbelievers! feel my wrath.

deep breaths. in. out. in. out.

sharing is caring

reasons i love my beautician number...i've lost count:

he was the best lover i've ever had. my whole body is satisfied. do you want his number?

this is probably going to get me into some kind of trouble, huh?

while so desperately not wanting to give this pack of malevolent cretins any more publicity than they are already receiving from their sugar daddy and from this intriguing blogwar, i feel compelled out of both rage and loyalty to refer you, oh trusty and hopefully choice-loving readers, to their pathetic little world for three reasons:

1) they celebrate the reelections of howard and bush and revel in the thousands of wasted innocent lives that have already and will in future be lost as a direct result of this most glorified and sensational "war on terror" being waged by the two stooges (they even had the nerve to say "go get 'em boys". yeehaw!);

2) they dare to refer to abortion as "the slaughter" and to the women who CHOOSE to have them (as is their fundamental right) as "chronic baby killers" with personal moralities "of the least self-disciplined kind" (OMG, THEY HAVE SEX!);

and,

3) they are attacking my friend, and for that alone they must pay.

please, go and visit their hateful sphere and stand up for both the delectable ms fits and also all that is good and decent in this world. puh-lease.

or i guess you could not go there, and therefore avoid being drawn into their web of ignorance and adding further fuel to their puerile fire. as anonymous so aptly commented:

"i really don't know why you bother trying to reason with these people...."

i totally agree anon, but its so hard to stay silent when they fill me so much with the fiery wrath.

did i wake up in 1904?

smallpox is an epidemic.

ebola is an (awful, disgusting, bleeding from every orifice) epidemic.

fear-mongering conservative right-wing bush-and-howard-loving fuckmunchers are an epidemic.

ABORTION IS A FUCKING CHOICE.

more on this subject later. too angry right now.

that other election results 2004

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fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.
fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.fuck.

i don't even like grinspoon. not even a little.

things i've done recently that could possibly be construed as sad part 2:

- paid $5 to watch the o.c. at the pub.

well, actually, that's pretty much it. not to say that my existence is one big ball of crazy-sexy-cool, but neither is it usually this worthy of a bitch-slapping from my nanna.

in my defense however, the night was organised by phil from grinspoon. and he's a musician. and that means he takes drugs and doesn't wash and has wacky sex. and even though i never much cared for grinspoon, i can at least feel better about myself for PAYING to watch a FREE tv show because of them.

also, phil from grinspoon seems to like the character seth cohen from the o.c. too. i don't think he likes him in the tingly thigh-squeezing way i do, but it would be okay with me if he did. gay people watch tv too.

after the show, phil from grinspoon's other band (well, him and some dude) played some funny songs. my favourites were "now that i've fucked you, can i fuck your friend?" and "pulling out before coming isn't safe enough".

i'm thinking of asking them to perform at my next sex education seminar. what do ya reckon?

we've got a schmitzy kind of love

i'd really appreciate some sympathy for the pressure i am under to make with the good funnies about the same weekend as already written about so charmingly by this here lady.

i have been struggling with deep feelings of inadequacy ever since she swayed a fishnet-covered hip in my direction*, and though i put on a brave face and blog like a trooper, i am always conscious of my place in our relationship. i am the skipper to her barbie, the baby to her johnny, the george in her beatles cover tribute band.

but despite my affirmed place in her (bitesized) shadow, she certainly appeared to be having a good time on her second visit to sydney. i could tell this from all the smiling and the laughing and the fake orgasm noises.

however the voices in my head insist on reminding me that she was a child actor, and therefore i must QUESTION EVERYTHING she says and does at all times in case she is just playing pretends.

here are some other things the voices in my head WON'T FUCKING SHUT UP ABOUT:

"YOU TOOK A WRITER TO SEE SOME PLAYS THAT YOU KNEW NOTHING ABOUT? ARE YOU MENTAL?"

- yes, yes i am. another glass of crazyjuice please bartender, i ain't done here yet.

"AND YOU LAUGHED OUT LOUD DURING THE BITS INVOLVING BABY-RAPE, INCEST AND BOGAN EYE-GOUGING?"

- u-huh. why? is that wrong? my bad.

"YOU LET DANIEL BOUD TAKE A PHOTO OF YOUR NIPPLE IN A PUBLIC BAR? WHAT KIND OF SLUTTY SLUTFACE FROM SLUTSVILLE ARE YOU?"

- oh dear, you know about that? i didn't think anyone saw. he promised me not to put it on his blog. i believe him too. he's nice like that. i think. i hope. oh god.

"YOU WERE WAITING OUTSIDE THE LECTURE THEATRE LIKE A CRAZY A.V.O-DEFYING PSYCHO STALKER WHEN SHE FINISHED HER SPEECH ?"

- she texted me and asked me too. she did. its true. ask her if you want. why are you being so mean to me?

"YOU MADE COMMENTS ABOUT POLITICAL MATTERS WHILE READING THE PAPER WITH HER: A SEASONED POLITICAL COMMENTATOR?"

- what? i'm smart and savvy and stuff. john howard bad. mark latham good. see?

"YOU FIDDLED WITH HER BOOBIES, UNINVITED, WHILE SHE WAS TRYING ON DRESSES?"

- they needed a tweak. i was only trying to help.

"YOU LET HER BUY YOU AN EXPENSIVE DINNER IN A SWANKY-PANTS JOINT AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN OFFER TO PUT OUT AFTERWARDS?"

- is that what people do when other people buy them dinner? i wouldn't know.

*makes sad pouty innocent face*

"YOU LET THE HOTNESS THAT IS TOBY SCHMITZ SIT IN THE SAME PUB AS THE TWO OF YOU AND YOU DIDN'T OFFER TO MAKE A SCHMITZEL SANDWICH OUT OF HIM?"

- this one i will never forgive myself for. and i can safely assume neither will she.

"YOU CONTINUED TO SMS (AND EVEN CALL) HER FOR HOURS AFTER SHE'D RETURNED TO HER HOME TO LAUGH ABOUT YOU WITH HER FRIENDS AND BE STALKED BY OTHER PSYCHO BLOGFREAKS?"

- please go now, scary random head voices, i'm frightened and ashamed of myself and i need to find a big sharp knife.

"AND NOW YOU'RE PLANNING A TRIP TO MELBOURNE SO YOU CAN STALK HER IN HER NATURAL HABITAT? YOU REALLY ARE SICK AREN'T YOU?"

- you got me there.

*this is a metaphor for the first time she commented on my blog. do you see how bad i am at this? do you? i can't even write a clear fucking metaphor. oh, the shame of it all.

if its not hyphenated, its not on

this was the most important question posed in the sex education seminar i helped facilitate this evening:

"excuse me miss, is 'one-nighter' hyphenated?"

i'm glad the youth of today have their priorities sorted: safe spelling, dirty sex.