Cornflakes of America
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Posted:Mar 26, 2008 9:12 pm
Last Updated:Mar 28, 2008 8:32 am 4320 Views
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Honestly, the things people will buy on ebay is ludicrous. The chap who tried to sell his life. And now someone who will probably pay $2350 for a glass of milk with a milk skin the shape of Miami.
Two sisters from Virgina claimed they were "biting our nails all the way up to the finish, seeing what would happen" on Friday night as they watched the ebay counter tick away.
What happened was that they laughed all the way to the bank.
Someone had just paid US$1,350 for a cornflake from the two shysters, I mean sisters.
The winner (sic) was one Monty Kerr, from Austin, Texas. The acquisition of flakey dimensions was not made in a moment of early morning haze but a strategic decision to add to his traveling museum of pop culture and Americana.
Kerr said of his latest investment, "We thought this was a fantastic one."
According to CNN, Kerr owns TriviaMania and declares that he will likely send someone to collect the flake by hand to avoid damage. Let's hope the courier does not get hungry and decide to have cornflakes for snacks.
Kerr's half-baked flakey obsession has manifested before when he purchased a cornflake billed as the world's largest but sadly, it flaked out on him by crumbling into three during the delivery. I guess Kerr was not into the three-for-one deal.
By the way, the two McIntire sisters, aged 23 and 15, are planning to use their milked money for a family vacation. Most likely not to Illinois.
I would just like to point out to Kerr that a traveling museum of Americana in America is a little ironic. Bit like bringing coals to Newcastle, ain't it?
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Hairy Audition
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Posted:Mar 26, 2008 8:36 pm
Last Updated:Mar 28, 2008 8:29 am 3849 Views
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Hmmm, I do not mean to go on about the blonde thing but I saw this quote and thought ... well, hmmm ...
“If I go [to auditions] with blonde hair it goes well, yet when I’m dark, I fail to land the parts” - Lindsay Lohan
OK, I sure hope they are serving lunch now.
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Party of Blondes
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Posted:Mar 26, 2008 1:48 pm
Last Updated:Mar 26, 2008 8:01 pm 4581 Views
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How many blondes does it take to make a Russian President?
I swear I am not on a vendetta against blondes or bimbos but both this and the previous article about The Bimbo Game appeared in my email and it seemed serendipitous.
I truly thought the article was an April Fool's joke till I realised it was not yet April. I know quite a few Russian friends and not all of them are blonde. And do not seem blonde inside either. I hesitate to inquire about the mindset and culture back in Russia that would induce such a phenomenon as it is a subject that seems broached with a minefield of faux pas.
From The Times
22 March 2008
Blonde ambition seeks to storm Kremlin
Tony Halpin in Moscow
Blondes famously have more fun, but a jealous world has long joked about their intellectual limitations. Now blondes in Russia are fighting the bimbo image by forming their own political party.
Organisers insist that the Party of Blondes will establish itself as Russia's newest political force by recruiting 50,000 members within weeks. The blonde ambition, they say, is to challenge Dmitri Medvedev for the presidency of Russia at the next election in 2012.
“The Party of Blondes is for blondes, those who love blondes, and those who are blonde inside,” general-secretary Marina Voloshinova told The Times. Confusingly, she is a brunette.
“I dyed my hair blonde once but it was so awful that I decided never to do it again. I just have to stay blonde inside,” she said. “Blonde is not just a hair colour, it's in your brain and your heart. Blondes accept life in a more lively way, they really have more fun.”
The idea started as an internet community, the Club of Blonde Lovers, that evolved from a forum for jokes into a discussion about the many problems facing Russian women. “We decided to make it more serious and to form a political party. Blondes are very attractive and the Party of Blondes is a way to gain attention for issues facing all women,” said Ms Voloshinova, a 39-year-old economist.
“We want to make it easier for women to start small businesses because that is where they can develop themselves, and 's education is a major question. It is free on paper but everybody knows that you have to pay under the table to get your into a good school.”
She added: “We will try to have beautiful blondes as party representatives. Unfortunately, a lot of our beauties have left Russia and we have to work hard to make life more convenient for women so that they will stay and be beautiful here. Men will vote for a beautiful woman, but we have to convince them that she is not only beautiful but also clever and a good leader.”
The party launched three weeks ago and claims 5,000 members. It needs 50,000 plus branches in half of Russia's regions to gain official registration. “We will be ready by May 31, which is the Day of Blondes,” Ms Voloshinova said. The party is seeking support from famous blonde Russians, such as Valentina Matviyenko, the governor of St Pertersburg, Maria Sharapova, the tennis star, and Ksenia Sobchak, the “It” girl.
“They don't have to become members, just sympathise with our ideas. To be a real political force we need to develop our own leaders, and there are a lot of talented women in the regions.” Non-blondes, including men, are also welcome. Indeed, the current leader of the nascent women's party is a man, Sergei Kushnerov.
“He founded the Blonder Lovers' Club so he became our leader, but that may change when we are more organised. Anyway, he has dyed his hair blond,” said Ms Voloshinova.
She insists that the Party of Blondes is not a joke and that it is serious about capturing the Kremlin in a country where ultra-nationalists and Communists ran in this month's presidential election. Mr Medvedev may even have a fifth columnist in his camp - his wife Svetlana is blonde.
“No other party in Russia represents women's rights. We want to teach women to love themselves and to believe that they can be all that they want to be,” she said.
“We will have a blonde president and if we find a great woman leader who is not blonde, we will make her dye her hair. To become the President of Russia, every woman is willing to dye her hair.”
Looking at the photo of Marina Voloshinova somehow makes the article even more facetious. I am really trying not to snigger here. Really.
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I'm Your Bimbo Girl ...
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Posted:Mar 26, 2008 12:58 pm
Last Updated:Mar 27, 2008 7:17 am 4849 Views
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Lord, Paris Hilton lives.
I am not quite sure what to think anymore.
As a , I was not really allowed to have dolls. Certainly never a Barbie and the only three dolls I possessed was a vintage porcelain doll with eyes that could open and close given to me by my grandmother as an heirloom, a Raggedy Ann doll my mother bought me to teach me a song and clothes construction (long story), and a big arse doll in plaid that an uncle in Scotland gave me and my mother was too polite to reject.
My mother was very much into hot-house rearing and believed that toys with no educational significance or purpose were evil. So dolls were out except for Bridget (the Scottish lass) as she could teach me about Scottish clans and history and the heirloom ... well, no one argued with Grandma.
If she had seen this game, she would have keeled over in horror.
Parents concerned about Miss Bimbo game
Last Updated: 2:16am GMT 26/03/2008
The Telegraph
Parents' groups have criticised a new internet craze in which give virtual characters plastic surgery and feed them diet pills.
The Miss Bimbo game has seen girls aged as young as nine given an online alter ego, which they look after.
They compete against other players in beauty contests to earn money so they can dress their characters in lingerie and take them to nightclubs.
The aim of the game is to become "the coolest, richest and most famous bimbo in the whole world". Players keep the girls at their target weight using diet pills.
They are given missions, including securing plastic surgery to give their "bimbo" bigger breasts and finding a billionaire boyfriend to bankroll her, while keeping a constant check on her hunger, thirst, happiness and other statistics.
The game, which was launched a month ago, already has nearly 200,000 British players, most of whom are girls aged between nine and 16. When they run out of virtual cash, contestants can send text messages costing £1.50 each to top up their accounts.
The sister website in France, which has attracted 1.2 million players in a year, has been condemned by French dieticians and parents.
The game's creators claim it is "harmless fun" and builds on the success of Barbie, the Bratz dolls and Tamagotchis, the virtual pets invented in Japan.
But parents' groups fear it will fuel teenagers' desire for plastic surgery and lead to eating disorders.
Bill Hibberd, spokesman for parents' rights group Parentkind, said: "It is one thing if a recognises it as a silly and stupid game. But the danger is that a nine-year-old fails to appreciate the irony and sees the bimbo as a cool role model. Then the game becomes a hazard and a menace.
" will do what they have always done with Barbie dolls and the like, modifying them with new hair styles and clothing. But the technology has changed and so have the fashions and trends.
"'s innocence should be protected as far as possible. It depends on the background and mindset of the but the danger is that after playing the game some will then aspire to have breast operations and take diet pills.
"Many parents have no idea what their are looking at on the internet and there are financial dangers for parents too if they do not know what their are texting when they pick up mobile phones."
The game's creator, 23-year-old web designer Nicolas Jacquart, from Tooting, south London, said: "The game is structured in such a way that it simply mirrors real life in a tongue-in-cheek way. It is harmless fun."
I am all for tongue-in-cheek but of that impressionable age often cannot differentiate that from reality and therein lies the rub. This worries me.
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Portrait of Bitterness
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Posted:Mar 26, 2008 12:19 pm
Last Updated:Mar 26, 2008 7:32 pm 3700 Views
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Writing Challenge to Meself 2:
I like to take the negative and churn it out constructively. No negative too ludicrous or poisonous. Rather, to take it apart and reconstruct and shed some light, if not humour, on it all.
The dark side is inevitable but to shy away from it and not look at it objectively is a mistake.
So, here's looking at you ...
Portrait of Bitterness
She walks in darkness, shrouded in shadows. Creeping along the jagged shards of onyx depths, her hungry eyes prying every corner, pricing the weight of malice against the insult of joy.
The veined poison of hidden spitefulness, poorly disguised in supercilious counsel that cloaks barbs of venom within its raspy linings. The pale pallor of disappointment past, present and anticipated future colours all her sightings of deeds, words and imagined slights.
Her avarice for that denied her and granted to unworthy others dilates the blacks of pupils to glossy, ebony visions of openings to rend and pierce with her sharpened talon.
Her bêtes noires are many. They form the unwashed masses of innocents wallowing in their mindless little clouds of joy. Like well-fed cherubs polluting the heavens with their insipid songs of love.
She longed to shatter the earth, dry the seas and flatten the mountains to reveal the rank blasphemy wrought by the heavens by allowing the existence of such ignoble multitudes.
Her hair she flicked back in defiance. Her visage she felt had nought to hide behind inky hair or veil or shade. Unlike the painted, inane harlots that littered the courts and stank the air with their over-perfumed affectations.
Low born pretensions, high born condescension. She played her pieces with a recklessness spawned from unwarranted arrogance.
Black taffeta rustled, shadows glided. Soft candlelight flickered and waned as its luminous aura faded a little in the vacuum of darkness that slithered the halls.
Some heads turned, others avoided. A few stabbed her with a jaundiced eye, either former victims or silent foes. Many looked on fondly, unaware of the snares and pricks of her many unsolicited advice, well-played false flattery, double talk and play.
Swearing complete fiefdom to romance, an arbiter of honeyed words, she was matchmaker to the willing and Iago to the weak.
The world owed her and she intended to collect.
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DarkCrystalla Versace
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Posted:Mar 25, 2008 12:38 pm
Last Updated:Mar 26, 2008 8:34 am 3688 Views
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I know this is evil of me but I see a resemblance. Don't you?
Yes, this further proves I am a geek.
Hey, it is one of my favourite movies so don't knock it!
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Snotty Watermelon Man
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Posted:Mar 25, 2008 12:17 pm
Last Updated:Mar 25, 2008 12:18 pm 2936 Views
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Doesn't it? Doesn't it look like he's spewing boogers out? Er ... OK ... nevermind.
Anyway, if no one remembers the song Watermelon Man, I shall be most disappointed.
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Dance of Ages
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Posted:Mar 25, 2008 11:56 am
Last Updated:Mar 27, 2008 7:40 am 3892 Views
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We live in a society of rules. Much as I would like to think myself a free spirit flouting and thumbing my nose at rules at large, I must confess that I actually have a lot of rules I abide by.
In the dance world, we have our own set of rules and each style has indigenous ones specific to their own community. But some rules are across the board and like most doctrines, they are followed and ignored as according to the personality, background and value systems of the individual.
I have very strict rules I set for myself.
Among them are:
Never dance at another performer's gig. It is rude and unprofessional and shows a marked disrespect to the dancer. If you think you are a better dancer, get your own bloody gig.
Even if the dancer(s) drags and specially invites you to dance either with them or solo, make it brief and try not to severely outshine them. Again, same reason as above. Trying to upstage someone at their own performance shows a certain lack of class and style.
Never give your cards, pamphlets, promotions materials out at other people's shows or workshops. Same reason as the first two rules and also shows a lack of ethics in trying to poach other people's business.
Try not to dance for fun at a new place. Period. Why? Because people will do one of two things - a) stop dancing to watch you, or b) try to dance with you.
When a) happens, they are either i) full of admiration and just want to watch, ii) think you are showing off and get pissed off, or iii) feel intimidated and stop dancing.
When ai) happens, I sometimes get weary of it all and will stop dancing. Being on show all the time, when I am off stage, I rather not be the show. If aii) happens, I usually would realise it right off and stop dancing to maintain the peace unless I really could not give a rat's arse that day. When aiii) happens, I will stop dancing as it is not fair to curtail other people's enjoyment. I get to dance it all the time, I do not have to deprive others during my off time too.
My least favourite is when b) happens. Once in while, another dancer will recognise me even if we have never met. You look at each other's lines, footwork and rhythm and you recognise one of your own. When that happens, not much needs to be said. You dance and have fun.
However, most of the time, two things come to pass. Which are i)Men start dancing around you without permission and trying to get touchy feely and doing that dancing at your back and edging closer thing; and ii) Women dance around you and start watching your every move and imitating them and next thing you know, you have an impromptu class without wanting it.
As with the a)s, I would usually stop dancing and sit in a safe corner with my companions.
Yes, it means I typically do not dance for fun. But all is not lost.
I dance for fun in the company of other dancers. Dancers dance with other dancers. Not because we are elitist and snooty but because we will not have to face a) and b) then. With each other, we know the score and are not intimidated ... well, usually ... by each other.
Also, we know that a dance is just that ... a dance. Usually. We know the tight press of belly to groin is not a invitation to do the horizontal mambo later. We do not panic when a hand reaches under the thigh to lift it to the other's hip when it is another dancer. Nose to nose, throat to lip is another combination of moves to communicate a feeling in the dance rather than an ardent need to feel the other's breath on the neck.
We do not misunderstand and are not misunderstood.
Too often, people see the passion in our dance and think that ardour is available to them. And they try to grab it. As if spilling it on a dance floor is an open invitation to obsess and possess.
Even then, I am careful where I dance. Never on a tabletop, bar-top or chair-top. Firstly because I am not a bar-top dancer. Secondly, because I am surprisingly klutzy when not dancing and am just an accident waiting to happen.
If I did dance on one of those surfaces, it would be in a closed party of dancers when we really let our hair down and act all goofy. And we have insurance. For when I break an ankle or something.
I prefer to dance at places I know. That means I know the owners and/or the managers and the staff. I can dance freely and anyone harassing me will be chucked out post haste before it becomes unpleasant for all. I can also beat the crap out of anyone for trying to "handle" me and not get into trouble.
It makes going out tiresome sometimes and I always have to keep an extremely low profile. Most serious dancers do. We stick to ourselves and are remarkable circumspect.
But you get the younger and less confident ones who feel the need to flaunt their skills in every and any public space. It is understandable. When you are uncertain of your own worth, you feel the need to display it constantly to others, hoping for validation. We have all been through it at some point in our youth although some people never seem to outgrow that.
I was at a club with some friends. Among them is a man I have known for more than a decade during one of my corporate stints. He knew I was a dancer but never knew the extent of it nor had he ever seen me perform. But we had danced many times before in the past and he is a natural, untrained dancer. It was always fun dancing with him and he is a easy dancer to follow with clean movements and latent talent.
This time around, dancing with him was a disaster. He had seen one of my performances the night before. And was now so intimidated he could not lead. He second guessed himself and me. He floundered and hesitated. He kept asking me what to do next.
In the end, I had to hold his face and tell him to just danced and not think and I will follow. As we had always danced before. Being a strong female partner means being able to follow without thinking and having the strength, experience, skills and confidence to surrender to another without fearing the loss of self or dominance.
Still, the dancing was stilted, less spontaneous and effortless as before. Because he was so intent on impressing me and not looking bad. I felt bad for him. And me. And I could only sigh.
A wee while late, a young man approached me. Seeing how my friend and I had faltered on the dance floor, he approached me with a swagger and a salvo.
"You're quite a good dancer. You a student? Want to dance with me? I am a salsa dancer and teacher."
Raised eyebrow. Trying to hide my amusement.
"Sure. Why not?"
"So ... you a student of Y?"
"No. I am just visiting."
"Oh, so you are not a student then?"
"I am a student. I will always be a student. There is too much for me to learn to ever stop."
"Oh, that's good. You got to keep studying, you know? Good for you. If you need a teacher, you can always look for me."
"Thank you. That's very kind of you."
We danced. And he is quite ... unpolished.
As we dance, even in his inexperience, he realised I was smoothing out his movements and covering his gaps and lengthening his lines. I was hoping to do it imperceptibly as I do have some level of mercy and did not want to shatter his youthful confidence.
At the end of that dance, he thanked me and escorted me to my group. He stayed around to chat with us and I knew the moment when he realised. His eyes widened. His face changed colour. He looked away, embarrassed.
But this young man was brasher than others. He berated me for mocking him and misinforming him that I was a student instead of a teacher.
I was still recovering from a bad flu so it explains my uncommon patience and kindness towards him. Instead of trouncing him with a volley of chiselled words of venom, I bothered to try to teach him a little of a dancer's short life.
"My dear, we are all students. Dance is a lesson that will never truly end. The day we think we have mastered it and there is not much left to learn is the day we have failed. I will always be learning and bemoaning my own ignorance and inadequacy. And be grateful I can still learn.
So, I did not lie to you. I am a student.
And I was sincere in thanking you for offering to teach me. Tonight, I did learn something from you. As I hope you have learnt from me. So thank you."
Surprisingly, he did not have much to say after that. But I hope he is thinking more than he is speaking.
My lesson from him? I learnt patience and to appreciate what I have learnt in the past that enables me to look kindly upon someone who I might have once been.
And isn't that the case in life as well?
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Comedy Festival Takeout
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Posted:Mar 23, 2008 6:41 am
Last Updated:Mar 24, 2008 6:25 pm 3462 Views
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Heard at a Comedy Festival -
I got in a lot of trouble the other day for calling someone a “retard”. You can’t use the word “retard” now. You have to use the proper word and say “my ex-husband”.
Comedy is the best way to make a really strong point without blowing up an embassy.
Dinosaurs are to 10-year-old boys as nekkid girls are to 15-year-old boys – they’ve never seen one, their room is full of posters of them, and they’d like to touch one, but they’re a bit afraid.
I recently recovered from a groin injury. Childbirth.
If you have an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time, they will eventually produce the work of Shakespeare. I think if you have one monkey, one typewriter and one minute it’ll be able to produce a Dan Brown novel.
Men can be romantic, up to a point. The point of ejaculation.
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