really, really, really, really, really, really, really, ridiculously, goooood looooking.

this month's cosmo online contains an extremely comprehensive and useful list for all the little aspiring anorexic crackwhores of this world.

and thus without further ado, i present to you cosmo's guide to what an agent looks for in a model:

1) the 'it' factor

vague much?

do they mean that to make it as a model i need to possess an indefinable quality that is neither visible nor tangible but that these days seems to be only apparent in 14 year old girls with mary-kate thinness and blank canvases for faces?

or perhaps they are implying that in order to strut my stuff down the runways of milan i have to be a freaky, murderous clown that is actually a big-ass spider who lives in the sewers and haunts the minds and dreams of b-grade actors? a la my favourite stephen king movie.

cause maybe its just me, but this guy don't really look like model material:



2) natual beauty

NOT MY SPELLING MISTAKE, PEOPLE.

now i know why cosmo turned down my job application, crushing my dreams of being a serious journalist forever.

and here was i thinking it was my lack of experience that cost me the job.

damn my ability to spell! damn it to hell!

3) height is an advantage

an advantage to who?

is there an international professional model's basketball league?

is there a cat stuck in a tree on a photo shoot somewhere?

can noone else reach the carb-free, fat-free, food-free cookie jar in the agency kitchen?

and besides, everyone has height, its just that some people have it more than others.

wow, that'd make a great slogan for midgets and dwarfs and stuff. i'm so politically correct like that. and heaps deep too.

4) a bit of an actress

can you be a little more specific please?

what bit in particular will i need?

her arm? her left boob? a lock from her hair?

and what should i do with her bit once i've obtained it. stick it to my bits? pose with it for a series of tasteful nude photos?

and also, which actress should this alleged bit come from?

what if i cut up salma hayek (*drool*) only to find out that only all-american girls' body parts are acceptable? please don't make me mutilate more than one actress. i just couldn't live with the guilt.

i give up, its all too confusing. i guess i'll never be a professional model.

*cries*

*eats*

sweet child o' mine (oh woh wo-oh)

dear unborn nephew,

you poor little bugger. you have no idea what you're getting your tiny unformed self into, do you?

don't get me wrong, you are being born into a wonderful (and only mildly disfunctional) family who will love you and spoil you as if you were a pagan deity sent to us from the heavens.

i mean for fucks sake, i am already in debt to the baby shop mafia due to all the gorgeous little booties and beanies i just can't help buying in my bid to make you the most styling baby this side of milan.

and it certainly could be much worse. you could have been conceived by them:



or them:



or worse:



and i doubt i'm the only one praying that union never produces its own spawn.

but no little one, your parents are beautiful, intelligent, DIGNIFIED people who won't name you after fruit nor leave ecstasy "just lying around in the living room. oopsy" for you to gobble up like candy.

future nephew, you are much anticipated. and you will be treated like a king.

its just that, well, this world kinda sucks sometimes.

what with horrible fuckups like this and morons like this and inbred fuckmonkeys like these.

and i worry about your innocent soul beng corrupted by all the forces of evil existent among us.

but i guess i'll just have to keep an eye on you prescious, and do my darndest to steer you along the path of tree-hugging commie bleeding-heart self-righteousness.

your mum and dad will just love that!!!

so, until july mi sobrino lindo,

love 4 eva,

aunty la nadine

xox

show us your pearlies

OMG!

australian idol host and alpha metrosexual andrew g just walked into the dental surgery in my building.

i saw him sitting in the waiting room, drinking from the water cooler, and making chit chat with the receptionist.

i'm off now to convince the dentist man to let me pretend like i'm a dental nurse so i can perform emergency root canal on the talentless himbo.

and when i say "root canal" i mean something really painful and extremely bloody.

anyone got a nurses uniform i can borrow?

and i when i say "anyone", you know i mean you, fits.

yay! its my birthday! yay! i can bring two of my friends!

HAPPY BLOGGERVERSARY TO ME!



yes, its hard to believe that it was exactly one year ago today that my beloved elmo, bono-crazed technocrat and patron-saint of nadstown, convinced me to jump aboard the nerdtrain and chug on down blog street.

i must admit that i was hesitant at first, not knowing what a blog was but assuming it was something only geeks and paedophiles did to meet others of their creed (or small children as is the impetus for the latter).

and although i haven't exactly been proven wrong on my first impressions (especially since that email from "con" wanting to know if i wanted some candy), its been one hell of an interesting ride.

i'm not going to wax reminiscent and list all the high and lows of the past blog-filled year, because quite frankly if you're interested in all that you can read my fucking archives you lazy bastards.

i will however, send a massive shout out to those individuals that have made the whole thing worth it and who have enriched my life with their wit, humour, kindness and fuck-me-sideways hottness. i won't name them all for fear of leaving anyone out and forever being made to lick the feet of the forgotten in guilty pleas of pardon. but i have no doubt that they know who they are.

so anyway, enough with the mushy wooshy la la talk now.

please raise your cyber-glasses and join bill, hill and me in a toast to another year of smut, stalking and SPA PARTIES!



l'chaim.

xox

look at the pretty flag, mummy, look, LOOK!

dear ignorant, nazi-loving, bogan rejects from hell,

you poor loves. being chastised (that means "told off") just for hanging a pretty flag outside your house.

what is this world coming to when you can't hang symbols of hatred and genocide from your own home?

oh, sorry, what was that? you didn't know what the lovely symbol meant? you had no idea that it was hitler's tag back in the third reich's hood?

of course you didn't, dears. afer all, how could you know?

its not like the arbitrary slaughter of millions of people at the hands of an evil group of right-wing german scumlords is common knowledge to anyone with even half a brain.

but i guess there's my answer there you brainless pack of hateful cretins.

oh no, did i hurt your feelings? so sorry. sometimes i have anger management issues. especially when it comes to backward cocktards canonising (that means "worshiping") the gaggle of swine responsible for murdering almost my entire family.

my bad.

maybe you should call mel gibson and have a good cry on his shoulder. apparently he knows all about being wronged by "my kind". maybe y'all can make a movie about it too and really get the old anti-semitic campfires a-burning once more.

hey, do you wanna see a symbol i think is really pretty?

yes?

you sure now?

okay then, here it is...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

...



now leave the flag down and fuck off forever.

kisses,

la nadine

reasons i would make a better pope than the german dude

- okay, so maybe i'm jewish, but i know all the words to 'silent night' and 'the little drummer boy'. plus, i totally believe in santa, i don't care what anyone says.

- i am, like, so conservative. like right now i am wearing a twin set and flat shoes. oh, and pearls. and there's nothing more conservative than pearls.

- i'd look way hot riding around town in the pope-mobile, blowing kisses to all the cute boys in the crowd.

- i am going through a painfully long dry spell actively celibate and against sex before marriage.

- i give away free condoms at youth sex education seminars am totally against all forms of contraception and don't care that about 25 million sub-saharan africans are living with hiv/aids.

- i support same-sex marriage and equal civil rights for homosexuals believe homosexuality is a sin and all that clever stuff about adam-and-eve-not-adam-and-steve. stupid pansy boys and carpet eaters.

- i abhor any treatment of women as inferior and am disgusted that we still live in a society where as a woman i have to prove myself to be twice as better as a man to get even half as far as him believe women have legs so they can walk from the bedroom to the kitchen. and mouths so they can go "ooh aaah ooh ooh aaah". and arms so they can cook my dinner bitch i'm hungry.

- i advocate a woman's right to choose as an inherent and inarguable human right hate baby-killers. sluts, all of 'em.

- i would have picked a way better name than 'benedict xvi'. like 'baroness carlotta van helsenbergermamasutra'. or 'scarlet warrior vixen, protector of all and sundry'. or 'la nizzle fo shizzle'.

and on that note, the gals in my office have created a game to finding your pope name. its totally easy, and way fun for the whole family. its very similar to the find your porn name game. and you all remember what a party that was.

your pope name is calculated by adding together the make of your first car and the way you like your eggs cooked. then add how old you were when you lost your cherry in roman numerals at the end and hey presto! you'll be banning birth control in no time.

for example, my pope name in this game would be 'holden poached xviii'. and my manager would be 'renault overeasy xv'.

sorry to any vegan virgins who can't drive out there. you'll have to make up your own pope name game.

so then, if you were elected to the papalcy, what would your pope name be?

inspired by jessculture

its 'write to an o.c. cast member and tell them what you think of them' day.

hoorah!

dear seth cohen,

i love you.

you are obviously the hunk of the o.c, no matter what the makers of the show want us to think. stupid ryan "check out my bowl cut fo shizzle" atwood is just an ugly clean cut wolf in bad boy clothing.

if i was summer i would dump that pathetic, cardboard cut-out of a boyfriend zach and spend all my time licking your neck and stroking your arms. i would also quit it with the over-acting and hideous pink lip gloss. but hey, if thats what you like honeycakes, i can make it work for me.

i want you to know that i am fully supportive of chrismakah as a legitimate holiday and wish to help you take the message to the people of the world. i believe it is a most valuable and beautiful mixing of cultures in these most troubled times. perhaps we could also incorporate other religious rituals into it, like yoga and cannibalism. i'm all for diversity like that.

lets make babies. lots of them. together we would create beautiful little curly-haired semites, with quick wits and huge boobs. well, the girls would have big boobs. the boys would be way cute in a nerds-are-the-new-jocks,jews-are-the-new-buddhists, emo kinda way.

you complete me.

you make me feel like a natural woman.

you light up my life.

when i think about you i touch myself.

(*touches self*)

so anyway, please think about what i have said. if you feel the same way, send me a signal next episode. if you want to be the sausage in my love sandwich, stroke your phallic toy horse three times in a row for yes, twice for no.

love and hot naked tongue-kisses,

la nadine

p.s - next time you see marissa cooper, give her a hamburger for chrissakes. the poor girl's too busy being a lesbian to eat anything but carpet. oh, then slap her silly for being such a snivelling, plastic whore with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. kay?

p.p.s - what are you doing for passover this year? wanna come to my place? i'll let you "find the afikomen" if you get my drift ;)

xox

to be sung by dolly parton of course

yep, its time for another country love song. for those of you new to nadstown, this is how we tell people we love/miss/want to grope them. cause nothing says "i love you" like a whiny, high-pitched, hick ballad.

ode to ukelele:

i met her at a party for my matty
she looked just like sex on legs with big red lips
i wanted to impress her so she'd love me
so i shimmied from my boobs down to my hips

we kept in touch by email and on nerdchat
she promised to come visit me in my town
and when i was all burdened with the saddies
her lovely phonecall turned my big frown upside down

and last weekend she caught a plane to see me
and by "me" i mean myself and daniel boud
she took us to see some hot boys play some music
and her nomination made me just so gosh darn proud

we drank, we danced, we pretended to be british
we ogled boys and felt each other's tits
i had more fun than i have had in eons
and now i love that gorgeous girl to bits.

we join with our dolly in saluting you, ukelele.



mwa.

xox

my gift is my blog

on the weekend i received the following presents:












it seems that people think i'm an angst ridden alcoholic with sagging breasts and empty pockets.

i can live with that.

*takes a swig of voddie*

'goom' is the new 'schmitz'

someone recently stumbled upon the shimmering oasis of enlightenment that is nadstown amidst the barren cultural wasteland of cyberspace by entering the following searchphrase into google:

"goom boud"

goom? GOOM?

i know what a boud is. i mean, everybody who's anybody knows what a boud is. it is a tall, handsome manchild with a flair for the photo and a black belt in booty.

but what the fuck is a goom?

i posed this question to the boud and his spunky sis (who is technically no longer a boud, but retains the essence of such by proxy), and received the following response:

"it is an ancient pagan ritual only practiced by the boud clan. it involves goats, confetti, lube and annalise braaaakensiek."

but then the horny mr. boud retracted this statement, confessing that this was actually the lustful dream he had last night.

i for one feel dirty knowing that. and kinda turned on. mmmm...boud and goats...

anyway, i propose the following usages for the term 'goom':

- n. a slimy, sticky portent of forthcoming doom. most commonly green in colour, but not exclusively so.

- adj. (slang) the wacky new word for 'excellent' that all the kids are using but none of the parents understand. soon to be used by thorpie in a series of advertisements to sell pearl necklaces to the starving children of bosnia-herzegovina.

- tr.v. the feeling one gets when imagining our delta and brian mcfadden making the narcissistic, pseudo-incestual, "we-look-so-much-like-siblings-its-scary" sex.

but if anyone can come up with a better definition, let's hear it then.

ooh baby, baby...ooh baby, baby...

its 'reminisce about your very first concert experience and remember how good it was to be young and innocent because now you are old and jaded and you can't even be bothered buying tickets to your long-time crush's upcoming gig' day in nadstown.

hoorah!

grab a sausage sanger and a glass of punch and come listen to my tale:

the year was 1994. i was an awkward, slightly overweight 13 year old with no dress sense and one large eyebrow. i remember one night i was lying on the floor in the tv room of my childhood home, watching beverly hills 90210 and bugging my mum to hurry up and finish cooking the goulash so we could eat before melrose place started.

suddenly the phone rang and my raging hormone of a 16 year old sister raced to get it, lest it be one of her many annoying, pock-faced boy friends (note the word separation here. she hadn't yet entered the dating world at this point. not sure if she'd even been groped).

practically throwing the phone in my face and scowling at me from under her hip early 90s disaster of a fringe she annoced that my "little friend" keera was on the other end of the line. she tried so hard to be cruel to me during puberty, bless her heart.

keera had rung to ask me if i wanted to go to a concert with her. more importantly, she was calling to ask if my parents would let me go to a concert with her. i miss those days sometimes. the days of permission notes and pocket money and 'can my mum speak to your mum?'. in fact, the last time i flew to melbourne for a spa party i typed up a permission note and asked my mum to sign it. i didn't, of course, mention the bit about the spa party. she might have refused to sign otherwise, and then i would have missed out on all the fun.

my (over?)protective parents were at first reluctant to let me go to the concert. i assured them that i would be fine because keera's dad would be accompanying us(like...how embarrassment!), so they needn't worry about kidnappers and paedophiles and drug dealers and all those other scary low-life types that keep parents awake at night. so eventually they agreed, despite their concerns about keera's dad being "one of those hippy musician kinds".

i was, like, sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo excited.

i spent a few weeks begging my mum for a new outfit, because i had to - i just had to - look "cool" for the concert. she didn't understand why i didn't want to go in my batmitzvah dress, a purple disaster with puffy sleeves and a waist belt to cover my "puppy fat" (meaning that i looked like i'd swallowed a puppy whole. a very large puppy). after a while she got sick of hearing me say "der mum" and finally caved on the new clothes front. i got the "raddest" skirt from sportsgirl and a "mad" denim mini jacket from portmans. i was ready for the crazy times to begin. i was gonna find me some sex, drugs and rock'n'roll and make them my bitches for life.

if only i'd known then what i know now:

if you want to make with the sex, drugs and rock'n'roll craziness, go to a motley crue show with your slacker, exhibitionist, stoner boyfriend, not a salt-n-pepa concert with your pre-teen friend and her dad.

despite the lack of craziness we still had a great time dancing awkwardly on our seats to the likes of shoop and none of your business and push it and what a man and several other hot girlpower anthems we pretended to understand. even mr. keera got into it.

i would also like to note that even when i was monobrowed and clad in sportsgirl at a salt'n'pepa concert accompanied by a parent, we were at least cool enough to boo and hiss when human nature came on to do their support thing. stupid talentless pretty boy band wannabes.

as we entered our mid-teens, keera and i spent a good few years refusing to acknowledge the fact that we'd ever been to a salt'n'pepa gig. we were ultra-hardcore-way-cool-grunge-punk-goth-fairies and we spat on people who listened to that crap. but now we think its the best thing ever and we reminisce often about how funny it was that we went to our first concert with her dad.

good times.

so then, who popped your concert cherry? were they gentle?

sometimes they let me out of the cage for exercise

things i did over the weekend that didn't involve hospitals, sickness or death:

- caught up with my favourite gun-toting bookseller and his delightful woman.

- drooled all over elo while watching this hottness-infested fantastic piece of foreign film wonder:



mmmmm...gael garcia bernal. honestly, i don't think i've been this jizzed up over a celebrity since leonardo dicaprio's days on growing pains. and this time my mum doesn't have to explain to me why i get a "funny, warm" feeling in my giney whenever i stare at his poster for too long. i'm a big girl now and i've made the sex with real boys and so i know all about that kinda stuff. really and truly.

- annoyed entertained people in the arty cinema by loudly proclaiming our shock and disappointment when we "realised" we weren't in fact seeing 'hitch'. we are heaps funny and original like that.

- watched a white stripes concert on dvd and laughed hysterically at jack white's ridiculously ridiculous pants.

- celebrated the birth of mitchell. he is tall and red and cool and hot and i am happy he was born.

- found out which of my male friends have been circumcised. i'm still not sure why i needed to know this, nor how it came up in the conversation, but maybe one day the information will come in handy.

(insert pun here, sherriff).

- had a scrumptious dinner at phamish. i think i liked it a bit more than the lovely sean and michelle at sydney food diary. but maybe that's because they didn't dine with fleur the fox and the salacious sasha.

- saw '15 and then some', the schmitz's latest offering to the theatre gods. a play about a has-been celebrity and his most obsessive fan. i'm so touched that he thinks we have a future together.

- had a post-play drink with the schmitz during which i took it upon myself to critique his performance to his face. oh, and then i failed to acknowledge the irony when we discussed his many crazy stalkers. smooth, nads, smooth.

- inflicted my sob story on way too many innocent people. including the hot mamacita at my favourite shop who made me tea, fed me chocolates and GAVE ME A FREE BELT.

*swoon*

things i am doing this weekend coming that don't involve hospitals, sickness or death:

ukelele.

unfortunately i don't think i'll be doing her in the hot, steamy, fingerbanging way that everyone who meets her surely desires. but she is coming to sydney to be rewarded for her brilliance. i'm hoping for a pash party at least.

is that wrong?

please note that i first saw ukelele's inspired piece of mastery while spooning one of the stars and her dog on a red velvet couch in a red wine and fun candy haze.

is that wrong?

r.i.p toffee

aka "bratty", "chicken", "psycho".

BEST. CAT. EVER.



warning: stay as far away from me as you can, people. i have the kiss of death.

*enters sealed bubble*

*weeps inconsolably*

WORST. DECADE. EVER.

hello dolly!

happy 20th birthday dollywood!

i'm feeling so totally connected to dolly parton right now. like, not only do we both have huge gazoongas (some of them more real than others, huh dolly?), but we also both have funparks named after us. okay, so granted dollywood is an actual themepark, while nadstown is just a self-indulgent, me-themed blog. but just imagine the possibilities were i to take nadstown to the next level:



wow, i vowed never to post my own picture on this here blog. times they are a changing folks. next i'll be posting pictures of my boobies. nah, i'll leave that to my superior.

anyhoo, here is some proof that dolly and i may in fact be cosmic twins of destiny:

- we both enjoy a good old-fashioned, thigh-slappin', hot-diggidy hoe-down every now and then.

- we both cry every time i watch steel magnolias.

- we've both been workin' 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin'!

- we both "hold the interest" of the local sherriff. me in a spa, her in a whorehouse.

- we both give to the youth. she gives them books while i prefer to say it with condoms.

- we both know that unlike that cunt-flashing hussy jolene, i would never,ever take dolly's man.

- we both strongly support gay marriage, although neither of us have ever confirmed nor denied our alleged bisexual tendencies in the media.

- we both want people to look beyond our cleavage, and see that "...there is a heart underneath these boobs".

- we are both said to be one-quarter cherokee indian. okay, now i'm just making shit up to prove my point. but i have always liked the word 'cherokee'.

dolly, if you're reading this, please contact me immediately. you complete me.

*this post is dedicated to my darling ukelele because both her love for miss dolly and her pulse-stopping hotness far outshine anything little old me has to offer.

**i'd also like to thank my friend, the lovely nicole, whose sheer boredom made the above piece of photoshopping magic happen.

am i hearing things?

i'm really angry right now. i can't even make jokes about it i am that infuriated.

this morning i heard a fleeting report on the radio that a mr. gunner (whose name i am apparently prevented from reporting for cultural reasons) has died. or at least i think i heard it. because otherwise i'm going insane.

mr. gunner is an indigenous australian who, along with ms. lorna cubillo, made history when he sued the australian government for compensation over mistreatment in his childhood. gunner and cubillo claimed that the government had breached its duty of care over them and was to be held responsible for the abuse they suffered as children at the hands of those authority figures charged with their care and supervision. both were removed them from their families ("for their own good". ha!) when very young and were placed in group homes for aboriginal children, where they were to be educated and trained. continuously and viscously abused by some of their "carers", mr. gunner and ms. cubillo have since experienced great hardships and mental health problems in their adult years which they claim is a direct result of their traumatic childhoods.

and guess what? they lost the case. the judge found that the government had not breached its duty of care and thus the plaintiffs were not owed monetary compensation as a result.

this is the very crux of the stolen generations. and it's disgusting.

and i for one am SORRY about it. no, i didn't personally forcibly remove children from their families. no, i didn't go out of my way to make sure that they lost all contact with their loved ones, never to see most of them again. no, i didn't personally beat or whip or sexually abuse those same children. and no, i didn't personally steal their hard-earned wages. but i am SORRY nonetheless.

do you hear that, johnny, you useless fucking piece of tin? I'M SORRY! see how easy that was?

so anyway, the reason i'm angry - because the above reasons just aren't enough fuel for my inner fire - is that after i heard about mr. gunner's untimely death on the radio (he is 56), i searched for more information on the internet. i tried google, i tried the abc, i tried the smh, i even tried the waste of cyberspace that is ninemsn. and i found NOTHING. not one little shred of info.

did he not die? did i imagine the whole radio report? was i asleep in my car as i drove to work? or is it just that the death of the pontiff, is all that matters right now and all other lives are rendered insignificant in its wake?

yup, i guess that's it.

if anyone out there knows anything about mr. gunner's passing, please let me know.

back to non-ranty fluff-blogging soon.

update: i'm not hearing things. thanks for this, annie. says a lot for my research skills, huh?

cognito ergo sumfin like that

i fucking hate philosophical ponderings. always have. well, at least since i got over my petticoat-wearing, best-friend-pashing, i-say-its-a-bong-and-you-say-its-a-bong-but-are-we-seeing-the-same-thing-or-like-something-like-totally-different-dude? phase.

"who am i?"; "what does it all mean?"; "what if g-d was one of us?".

i mean really, who the fuck cares? well, other than rancid tree-hugging hippy folk and first year arts students. all of whom need to get a haircut and get a real job. slackers.

does anybody else give a fuck? anybody? i thought not.

don't get me wrong, i'm down with plato and descartes and jung and all their homies. those dudes had their shit going on fo shizzle. and they wrote some killah rhymez in their badass timez. big ups themselves for trying to make sense of the big bad hood that is our world.

but when you're sitting in the oncology ward of the hospital watching your mother be prodded by the sharpness for like the gazillioneth time that day, and you're trying to get some uni readings done because you're already falling behind on your work because you're balancing work and study with your full-time role as a carer but the fucking topic for the week is 'the sociology of embodiment' and some wordy wanker is talking himself through hoops trying to figure out whether 'the self' is a tangible being or an ignis fatuus, only two thoughts cross your mind:

1) "i bet this fucker never watched a parent go through hell in a hospital bed. cause maybe if he had he'd stop with all the 'what is the true nature of the self?' bullshit and realise that all that matters is that people are real and fragile and vulnerable and wonderful. and that it hurts to see them hurt when you love them."

and;

2) "fuck me, that tradie fixing the creaky bed is hott. look sexy, la nadine, look sexy. and smart. actually maybe not too smart. but maybe he's really intelligent and this is how he's paying his way through medical school. you're so judgmental sometimes. hold on, fuck, where'd he go? damn!"

i really think its time i hurry up and get the hell out of my communications/sociology/international studies (aka 'glorified arts') degree so i can fulfill my destiny of selling my soul to cosmo for a crappy salary and a pair of jimmy choos.

or maybe i just need to get laid.

reasons i love my beautician # whatevs

text message from the goddess of wax:

"thinking of you. hope everything is at least stable if not okay. now hurry up and get yourself laid. that's an order"

now that's what i call service.