the passion of the racist cunt

"I am deeply ashamed of everything I said and I apologise to anyone who I have offended."


APOLOGY. NOT. ACCEPTED.


please leave (the world) now.

and take your hateful hick of a father with you, for fuck's sake.

ta.

in your face jedi loyalists!

to all those who have thus far pledged allegiance to my cult, and also to those interested parties yet to officially commit:

i dare you to write 'THE CULT OF NADSTOWN' in the religion section of the upcoming census.

that's right bitches, i fuckin' dare ya!

special edition 'THE CULT OF NADSTOWN: CENSUS '06' badges to all those who promise to do it.

come on people, together we can make my our evil plan dream a reality.

(n.b. i must thank ms fits and thr for planting the seeds of this brilliant plan in my brain. so, thanks ms fits and thr. don't hate me cause i'm an idea stealerer.)

to be young at heart...

as my dear friend toby's adaptation of 'peter pan' is set to tear the sydney theatre scene a new one next week, i have been pondering the whole "growing up" thing.

you know. coz peter has this whole 'boy who never grew up' schtick going on, and even though michael jackson has kinda ruined the fantasy for many of us by touching all them kiddies, its still a lovely fantasy all the same. the not growing up thing. not the kiddy touching.

um...

WHAT'S THAT OVER THERE?!?

...

...

...

anyway, the question here is, have i myself grown up yet? am i really and truly a big girl now?

and if so, will i ever stop feeling like a five year old girl playing dress-ups in her mama's closet?

my friend miss sam and i have an ongoing argument about which of us is more of a grown-up than the other.

admittedly we both have a lot of ticked boxes on our adulthood checklist, but each of us claims that the other's ticks carry more weight.

and ignoring the fact that miss sam is ten years older than me (because apparently age is no indication of maturity nor responsibility*) we both present very strong cases.

so below are two lists. one contains three reasons why miss sam claims i am more grown up than her, followed by three reasons why THIS IS NOT TRUE.

i ask you to read them both and make up your own mind (that i am obviously the less adult of the two of us) so we can end our pety squabbling once and for all and finally move on with our lives.


the case against la nadine:

- has a mortgage;

- has no parents;

- has "people" (solicitor, real estate agent, financial advisor, pool cleaner mortgage broker, builder, etc).



the case against miss sam:

- has a child;

- is divorced;

- has a real job, a career even.


and there you have it.

thoughts? opinions? totally unrelated comments about more interesting topics?



*as is evidenced by several of my exes. and most football players.

reasons why suicide tuesday will probably suck even harder this week:

so i have discussed here before my penchant for listening to love song dedications when driving in my car of an evening.

don't judge me, we all have our foibles. i bet some of you still wet the bed.

i can't actually stand listening to the majority of songs played, being in general wrist-slashingly nauseating ballads sung by the likes of james blunt and various other sub-humans, but i am totally loco for the callers, illiterate spawn-of-cousins that most of them must certainly be.

i especially love it when some woman calls in to share with the world her excitement that her man will soon be released from the slammer, where he has been since the day they met and fell in love in the police holding room at the local courthouse where she worked as a security guard and he was awaiting sentencing for some unnamed indiscretion.

i also love it when they play songs by "edgy" bands like jet and youth group. HAH!

anyway tonight the love god made a comment that got me thinking. he basically said that it is near to impossible to have an enjoyable monday night unless you spend it "with that special someone".

say what?

i did not spend my monday night "with that special someone" (unless you count my entire trivia team, or my pole, which you may well do) and i had quite a lovely monday night indeed.

i celebrated my new status as an official home owner(!), i mastered the art of hanging upside down in pole dancing class, i contributed at least two answers in trivia, and i basked in the glory of a wonderful weekend spent drinking, couching, fondling and eating with various wonderful people.

SO JUST BACK THE FUCK UP THERE, LOVE GOD!

don't be telling me i need no "special someone" to make me happy today. i'm walking on fucking sunshine here and you can't take that away from me.

at least not until tomorrow.

...

so, dear reader, how was YOUR monday then?

and how's your tuesday going for that matter?

talk to me, people.

on again?

dear falafel roll from the sandwich shop in the arcade,

i've been a fool.

i miss your hot, oozing sauce; i miss your soft, moist balls; and most of all i miss the way you made me feel:

satisfied, and yet always wanting more.

for the first time in my life i think i actually understand what joni mitchell meant in that song about the parking lot and the taxi and putting all the trees in museums and stuff.

i guess you really don't know what you've got 'til its gone/you stop buying it for lunch for a year or so.

and so i have decided that we should give "us" another try.

if you're up for it, that is.

i'm older now. wiser too. and i promise never to take you for granted again.

i've been trying to think of the perfect apology, but have thus far failed to come up with the right words.

thus i will employ the words of another, more qualified wordsmith:

mr. gary barlow.

and so in barlow's words, from his days as a bonafide, mesh-wearing member of 'take that' (you know, that group robbie williams' was in before he was a megastar):

whatever i said, whatever i did i didn't mean it.
i just want you back for good.

(want you back, want you back, want you back for goo-ood.)

so, waddya say? can we start over?

i'll be at the shop tomorrow around one o'clock. you can give me your answer then.

love and extra chilli sauce,

la nadine.

x

hold the onions!

my new hospitality crush looks somewhat like this:




















except with an armful of sexy tats and the incredible talent of making my name sound like dirty talk.

also he looks more israeli soldier sexgod than latino actor sexgod, but that's not a problem. i'm not a racialist.

he works in a cafe i go to occasionally for a takeaway salad when i can't be fatoushed making dinner for myself.

and his smouldering eyes and welcoming smile make me weak at the knees, wet in the pants, and stupid in the head.

plus he's a flirty flirt from flirtsville which makes it all the more fun.

here are some of the things i have thought about him doing while i have sat waiting for my dinner to arrive, pretending to be reading trashy magazines but really just picturing him naked:

- putting a note in my takeaway bag professing his lust for me;

- standing on the counter and professing his lust for me, seth cohen style;

- jumping over the counter and professing his lust for me while ripping his clothes off and begging me to do the same;

- throwing me on the counter while professing his lust for me and then "ravaging me", tarzan porn style.

you can see why i sometimes have trouble maintaining my composure at this particular cafe (and many others to be honest. i have a dirty mind. cope.)

of course i am well aware that his royal hotness no doubt flirts with all the laydeez who go to his cafe for a salad and a low-fat latte, but that's okay with me. i flirt with boys in other cafes too.

ours is an open relationship.

anyway, i'm off to buy me a salad and a low-fat latte. just as soon as i finish applying my make-up and pushing my boobs up.

anyone else got a hospitality crush they wanna tell the blogosphere about?

and despite the unrelenting awareness of my parents' now permanent absence, i somehow managed to have a lovely weekend nonetheless.

some gifts received this weekend in honour of my twenty-fifth birthday that show just what a crazy old spinster complex yet well-balanced individual i truly am:

- blender;

- matching apron and oven mit set;

- cookbooks (assorted);

- art (both produced by and purchased by friends);

- book: 'movies of the eighties';

- brooch by my most favouritist designer ever;

- vibrator;

- book: 'yiddish with dick and jane';

- professional photos of my beautiful nephew;

- vodka;

- black boots;

- throwover blanket;

- money;

- book: 'bad hair';

- tassled underwear.

thanks to all the wonderful givers of the above trinkets, and to all those who came to the doggies last night and froze their sweet patooties off in honour of my "milestone".

and even though i do love the dishlickers so, i promise that next year i will attempt to think of a new way to celebrate my birth that involves neither furry friends nor frostbite.

oh and by the way, at least two of the above were actually purchased by yours truly as happy birthday presents to myself.

i'm not telling which they are, but i'm about to try one of them out right now.

nighty night.

x

p.s it has always been my belief that a birthday is not over until the last present has been received. this has meant that in past years my birthday sometimes has lasted almost until the next one rolls around. so keep 'em coming people. KEEP 'EM FRICKIN' COMING!

wanted: dead or alive

taking my oft-referenced concept of the guilt-free three and running with it all the way to wrongtown, miss fluffy has developed the new concept of the guilt ridden three.

basically, the GR3 is similar to the GF3 (although neither are in anyway linked to nineties poptarts GF4), except that admittance of the choices made must involve some level of soul-gnawing shame for the list-maker. for a more detailed explanation, please to be referring to el blog de la fluffy.

the divine miss ukelele provides a stellar example here. although why anybody would be embarrassed about wanting to make the hot sex with justin "hips don't lie" timberlake is beyond me.

and now for my current GR3:



















WHO: william melvin "bill" hicks.

WHEN: from the very moment i first saw him open his mouth and espouse the gospel of his brain i declared myself a devout member of the cult of bill.

WHY: admittedly my wide-on for the unfathomably brainy (and unquestionably dead) mr. hicks is not nearly as bad as a certain lady-blogger's crush on another mr. hicks. but then again at least david hicks is ALIVE.

i love bill hicks for so many reasons i could write an entire blog dedicated to the subject and update it daily, perhaps hourly, without ever running out of new material.

but instead of going on and on (and on) about the very wrong thoughts i often have about the very dead bill hicks, i'll let his words explain it to you instead:

"You know we armed Iraq. I wondered about that too, you know. During the Persian Gulf war, those intelligence reports would come out: 'Iraq: incredible weapons – incredible weapons.' How do you know that? 'Uh, well ... we looked at the receipts.

I'm so sick of arming the world and then sending troops over to destroy the fucking arms, you know what I mean? We keep arming these little countries, then we go and blow the shit out of 'em. We're like the bullies of the world, you know. We're like Jack Palance in the movie Shane, throwing the pistol at the sheep herder's feet: 'Pick it up.' 'I don't wanna pick it up mister, you'll shoot me.' 'Pick up the gun.' 'Mister, I don't want no trouble, huh. I just came down town here to get some hard rock candy for my kids, some gingham for my wife. I don't even know what gingham is, but she goes through about 10 rolls a week of that stuff. I ain't looking for no trouble, mister.' 'Pick up the gun.' Boom, boom. 'You all saw him. He had a gun.'"

i don't know about you, but i came twice while reading that.

NEXT!



















WHO: nick cave

WHEN: actually, i can't remember a time when i wasn't jonesing for mr. cave. i can distinctly recall several moments from my early teens in which my mother displayed grave concern about my obsession with sir brood-a-lot.

WHY: my love for the cave has often been ridiculed by friends and family. and i concede that there are many items on the 'against' list. but then there are the reasons 'for':

for one thing he's the ultimate slashie - singer/songwriter/author/artist/actor/screenwriter/kylie-minogue enthusiast/ professional brooder.

for another, he wrote 'murder ballads', a darkly humorous album dedicated to those of his critics who hailed him as nothing more than a wannabe poster boy for the gothic-inclined.

also, any man who willingly writes a book in which every second word will require dictionary referencing by the reader is a keeper in my book.

and lastly, i dare any red-blooded heterosexual woman to listen to the song 'black hair' on 'the boatman's call' album and stay dry in the pants region for the duration of the song.

his. voice. is. an. aural. aphrodisiac. from. heaven.




















WHO: "dino" from big brother australia, 2006.

WHEN: when he took brokeback david's criticisms about his attitude towards women and homosexuals in his stride and made a commitment to changing his ways. also in his eviction night interview with gretel. he just looked so damn cute!

WHY: he may share a moniker with both a cartoon dinosaur and kylie mole's bogan love muffin, but there's just something about dino. call it maternal instinct, call it pure loin-tingling lust, but this REFORMED chauvinistic homophobe (he's really trying to change, he promises) has me all a-flutter. although to be honest i can't work out if i want to fuck him or feed him. and hey, at least he hasn't turkeyslapped anyone (that i know of anyway).

the end.

for now.

peace out.

x

UPDATE: the comments thread for this post continues to be filled with people askig why wanting to make the hot monkey love with nick cave and/or bill hicks is in anyway a source of embarassment.

to clarify, hicks is on the list because he is no longer breathing, and sex with him would be both wrong in a gross way and illegal. not to mention extremely difficult considering that he was cremated upon his death.

and cave, well, its not that i consider my crush on cave to be a source of embarassment. but i've been ridiculed for it so much in the past that i can't help being on the defensive about it from the outset. riddle me that.

as you were.

x

i thought i was done with the whiny, soppy posts. seems not though. cope.

i'm all out of the funnies today. so if laughter is what you're after its probably best you look for it elsewhere. allow me to suggest here, for example.

for those of you who feel like joining my (self)pity party, read on!

throughout the grieving process, the number of "firsts" can seem endless. first birthdays. first christmas. first new years. first grandchild. first holiday. etcetera. etcetera.

and this weekend i will "celebrate" my first birthday without my beautiful mother.

how do you like them apples?

on my last birthday my mum wrote me a card. she left it on my bed so i would find it when i came home at night. it had a picture of a ginger cat on it, as they always did.

that card was both the most beautiful and most painful thing i've ever read. that card knew as well as i did that it would be the last. that card was the very definition of 'melancholy'. that card was how my mother said goodbye to me.

she didn't pass away until three months later, and her actual last words to me were "i can still thump you". but in that card my mother said everything she could never say aloud, tightly-capped bottle of repressed emotion that she was. that card was love, gratitude, concern, pride, fear, hope and farewell all in one.

and now i want to see that card again. i want to see that card so bad it hurts.

but that card is in any number of unmarked boxes in a storage cage on the other side of sydney. and, as my mother would say, i've got "buckley's chance" of seeing it anytime soon.

fuckfuckfuckcuntingfuckfuckfuckkfuckfuckingfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!

happy birthday to me.

x