Saturday, November 06, 2004
Who wears short-shorts? I wear short-shorts! It has come to my attention that nobody seems interested in commenting on my posts anymore, because they've mainly been exercises in literary and musical trainspotting. Never mind that the point of this blog was to create a forum for the sort of things that would bore my friends. Now they bore my online friends. So, I suppose it's time for the stuff that people have told me they like: gossip about my alcohol-fuelled adventures.
Tonight I'm going to Tash, Leanne and Jess' birthday party. The theme is Invent Your Own Superhero - that's why I was researching superheroes and came across Prince Gavyn of Throneworld. My superhero is called Sweet Cheeks. One night she was at a party and fell asleep sitting on the speakerbox. The bass frequencies somehow transferred to her arse, and now when she slaps it, it produces a sonic boom that temporarily incapacitates her enemies.
In case you can't tell, this is just an excuse to wear hotpants and slap my own arse. I just hope I don't end up looking like the poster for this year's Melbourne Underground Film Festival.
There will be all sorts of hilarious superheroes at this party - the danger, though, is that inventing your own superhero can seem like daggy propaganda. Remember, Superman fights for "truth, justice, and the American Way" - he'd have trouble getting the first two through in today's America. Got to stop that post-US-election bitterness. But anyway.
One that Tristan came up with the other night was Union Man. See, he was once a humble union delegate who was horribly injured in an industrial accident and rebuilt - better, stronger, faster - thanks to a whip-around from his fellow site workers. Now he fights against corporate corruption and for the rights of workers. His trademark quip would be made as he's pummelled some suit into quivering submission and the suit says (I can even see how his face would be drawn, comic-strip style, in extreme closeup with sweat pouring down his face and his enormous terrified eyes all bloodshot): "B-b-but - who are you?"
Union Man would reply in a voice of doom, "I'm with the union."
Trouble is that the satire gets lost in this - you can just imagine the embarrassing pamphlets a real union would put out with this 'Union Man' character. In fact, I have grown really disillusioned with unions lately, despite coming from a pro-union family and having the union help me through that little Canine Fellatio Defamation Incident of 1998.
There has been a little trouble in the blogosphere recently with politics that tries to abdicate its grotesque offensiveness by calling itself satire, and politics that people want to think is satire because it would blow their minks to imagine that someone sincerely holds these views.
But like Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that. More recounting of my arse-slapping hijinks when my colossal hangover wears off.
Tonight I'm going to Tash, Leanne and Jess' birthday party. The theme is Invent Your Own Superhero - that's why I was researching superheroes and came across Prince Gavyn of Throneworld. My superhero is called Sweet Cheeks. One night she was at a party and fell asleep sitting on the speakerbox. The bass frequencies somehow transferred to her arse, and now when she slaps it, it produces a sonic boom that temporarily incapacitates her enemies.
In case you can't tell, this is just an excuse to wear hotpants and slap my own arse. I just hope I don't end up looking like the poster for this year's Melbourne Underground Film Festival.
There will be all sorts of hilarious superheroes at this party - the danger, though, is that inventing your own superhero can seem like daggy propaganda. Remember, Superman fights for "truth, justice, and the American Way" - he'd have trouble getting the first two through in today's America. Got to stop that post-US-election bitterness. But anyway.
One that Tristan came up with the other night was Union Man. See, he was once a humble union delegate who was horribly injured in an industrial accident and rebuilt - better, stronger, faster - thanks to a whip-around from his fellow site workers. Now he fights against corporate corruption and for the rights of workers. His trademark quip would be made as he's pummelled some suit into quivering submission and the suit says (I can even see how his face would be drawn, comic-strip style, in extreme closeup with sweat pouring down his face and his enormous terrified eyes all bloodshot): "B-b-but - who are you?"
Union Man would reply in a voice of doom, "I'm with the union."
Trouble is that the satire gets lost in this - you can just imagine the embarrassing pamphlets a real union would put out with this 'Union Man' character. In fact, I have grown really disillusioned with unions lately, despite coming from a pro-union family and having the union help me through that little Canine Fellatio Defamation Incident of 1998.
There has been a little trouble in the blogosphere recently with politics that tries to abdicate its grotesque offensiveness by calling itself satire, and politics that people want to think is satire because it would blow their minks to imagine that someone sincerely holds these views.
But like Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that. More recounting of my arse-slapping hijinks when my colossal hangover wears off.
