Sunday, November 28, 2010

Why slasher films and daytime television are the same.

As most people who have gone to uni would know – a quarter of your year is spent going to lectures and studying, and the other 75% is spread between trying to make the best tasting drink possible from the cheapest liquor you can find, stealing road signs, and of course, watching TV at random times like 1 PM and 4AM.

Because of this, I have a minor in horror film and day time soap studies. And, of course, one stormy afternoon, watching Passions (still can’t believe that they cancelled that masterpiece) after finishing the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, it became clear:

Ever seen Deliverance? Ever heard the phrase “Squeal like a pig?” Don’t need to add anything else. Deliverance is some inbred fucked up shit right there. Not to mention The Hills Have Eyes, Wrong Turn, etc. In horror films, inbreeding equals cannibalistic murderer

In the quality of daytime drama program, someone is always marrying someone and at the last minute some random person runs in and says “STOP! He’s your son!!” which in turn causes a 15 minute close up of a shocked face before cutting to a commercial break, followed by a return with another 10 minutes

Yelling at the screen
A key element of both of these genres is yelling at the screen

You know that they can’t hear you, and people around you are glaring and pointing but you can’t help it.

It’s important in either genre to over gesture every emotion, no matter how small.

Your father/cousin/husband/brother in law just died? Throw yourself to the floor!!

Trying to stab someone? Go for a full windmill arc arm! Give the killer time to have shot you twelve times before your arm even starts going downward!

Getting some revenge on your mortal enemy? Say it out loud right next to the person you are plotting against! If you stare into space, they can’t hear you!!

No sense of real time.
Okay, go right now to your television. Watch any episode of any soap. Then go back a year later. IT’S STILL THE SAME DAY!!! THE MAIN CHARACTER STILL HASN’T FINISHED HIS DRINK!
However, at the same party, the kid who was 3 a year ago is now 24.

In horror movies, one minute the soon to be murdered students are just finishing school, then in the next scene the skankily dressed lead is walking home with her school books at 1AM.

I know why they are both so bad.
Clearly, this is the entertainment industry’s way of making our expectations so low that they can release movies like The Ugly Truth and we think it’s good in comparison.

I’m onto you, you bastards!!

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Tacos tried to kill me


Looks innocent doesn't it?
Looks delicious?

Hahaha (Just in case you're wondering, I am laughing condescendingly and shaking my head slowly in amusement).

How naive you must be.

Back when V was the boyfriend, not the husband, and I was living in Ballarat for uni, I would take the train down to see him on the weekends.

One night I was saying how I felt like tacos. V said he had never eaten a taco.

I'm going to let that marinate for a second.

A twenty four year old. In the free world. Had never eaten a mother freaking taco.

My facial expression was something like the facial expression Heidi Montag has in the opening credits to The Hills where you think she's that side stand at the circus that you throw balls in (hehehehe, dirty) to win a prize:

I was all, "We must make tacos immediately!!!! What if you die in your sleep tonight? You will never eat a taco!! What if the world ends? We will be too busy fighting mutants to make tacos. WE MUST GO NOW!!!"

We went to the shops and bought the necessary supplies and made them. Then we sat down with my final comment:


This is how the tacos looked at this point:
All nice, happy and innocent.

After basking in the reverent kudos of V, I smugly strutted around the house in a manner reminiscent of the intro to Saturday Night Fever

I was the taco queen. I pwned the creator of tacos. I was going to rule the world, one taco at a time (No I wasn't overreacting. V's mother is an awesome cook and up until that point in my life, I had hardly cooked anything. I spent three years of uni living on two minute noodles and toast. This was the greatest cooking triumph in the history of the world).

After being the taco queen got exhausting, we went to bed.

Waking up at 3 in the morning, I had that specific feeling you get when your body has been invaded by miniature hockey players, and the hockey players have hands like Edward Scissorhands. And they just found out there is free beer right outside your body, and they haven't had anything to drink in three years, and there has been an announcement that there is only enough beer for half of them, and it's first come first serve. It turned into freaking anarchy.

I commando crawled down the hall while their cat took a swipe at me and set up camp around the toilet.

After three hours of pain enduced delusions, and crying "WHY? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHY?" at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, my mind became strangely clear. There was no happy taco. My excitement of not burning down V's parent's house while cooking actually hid the true nature of the tacos I had ingested. They were evil.

If you go and ask the doctor, he'll say I was in the early stage of appendicitis. And that because I was so sure that it was the tacos trying to shred my insides, I avoided going to the doctor for two days. And that apparently I nearly let my appendix burst and could have died. HE obviously got his medical agree at  and refused to go with my suggestion that tacos had decided to use my internal organs as a nuclear weapon testing area.

I didn't eat another taco for six years. And even now I run a metal detector over one before it is eaten

Tacos. The silent appendix killer

Saturday, November 6, 2010

A disturbing update!

The neighbours have had a meeting about us.

In my completely objective and logical mind - it is the only reason I can think of for waking up and finding this:


Obviously, they realised that I have begun to feel guilt about my lack of house pride, and they read my blog (one of my almost forty hits - taking over the internet, forty people at a time) (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, see here) and sensed my fear of being percieved as a crack dealer. So they took the blatantly conspicuous final step - a discarded shopping trolley.

Everyone KNOWS crack dealers have front yards full of trolleys.

After a short show down with the trolley:
(To understand the seriousness of the following battle, please listen to the music in the attached scene

Da da da da da da da da da da da

De de de de de de de de de DE DE



Then the shame overtook me and I weeded the garden. So now we look respectable.

Well played faceless neighbours, well played.
(I am under the impression that none of my neighbours have faces. Their heads are always turned away or they stand in front of the sun so they are blocked. It's a freaking horror movie) (Except for the guy over the road, he has a face and looks like the Colonel from KFC. But that is the house that V and I suspect are the drug dealers I mentioned last time, so that guy is working with a whole other set of secret herbs and spices).

I was actually going to come on here and tell you about the time tacos tried to kill me, but I had to inform you all of the unstable nature of the current situation.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

How weeds are stopping me from achieving my true potential

I have a very short attention span. In my job, I often need to tell people about why it is important to focus so that you may achieve goals and progress in life. I often YELL at people who are not focussing and achieving things. However, I myself never finish anything.

That is not to say that I don’t WANT to achieve things. I volunteer for jobs, sign up to projects, join clubs and organisations, only to find that within a month, week, day, even within the HOUR of committing myself to the job/project/idea, I will lose my motivation towards it. My history in blogging is the perfect example of my inability to have follow-through.

Now some of you may believe that this awareness of the situation should actually allow me to motivate myself to fix it. Not the case. Rather than acknowledge that I am terrible at self motivation, I instead move to my default emotion – anger.

Exhibit A – NaNoWriMo 2010
If you are aware of NaNoWriMo, it is the program where you write a 50000 word novel in a month. Someone I work with encouraged me to do it with him, so I signed up. Then the husband (also known as V) heard me talk about what a great idea it was, so HE signed up. Then I wrote 1100 words and got bored.

V wrote 900 words. Then added 1100 words. He’s now up to 6000 words. And his story is much more interesting and seems to be going somewhere – whereas mine does not. Also, V seems to be putting some thought into his. Whereas mine... well, see the printscreen below:

Now rather than go “Hey, my dear husband who I have a novel writing advantage over because a) English was my first language, and it is his second, and b) I actually read and deconstruct novels for a living, is doing really well and working hard at a novel, which he started because I talked about it till he signed up. I should really get working on my novel so that we can enjoy our success together!!

I instead adopt the following attitude “OF COURSE he’s got more words than me. I have to look at students writing stuff all day, and his job really just involves answering phones and looking at Youtube links. Then sending me the links on my work email even though he knows I can’t access Youtube from my work. Then I spend a good hour trying to find a decent proxy because I want to see the link, which is obviously his way of making sure I waste my time and not get anything done and HE WANTS ME TO FAIL AT WRITING 50000 WORDS. V WANTS ME TO FAIL AT LIFE!!!!!”

Of course, I end up stewing on this for a good hour before he comes home. When he DOES make it home, I am completely pissed off, and the conversation goes as follows:

V: How was your day?

Me: Fine, if you don’t count you trying to make me a loser!!

V: ...

Me: Your silence just proves your guilt!

V: I don’t even know what you’re talking about.

Me: Youtube and Writing and unusable proxies!!! You trying to tell me that it is a coincidence that they ALL FIT TOGETHER?!?!?!

V: Are you okay?

Then I walk over to continue making my point and trip over air (which I often do) and he laughs, and I try and be angry but I laugh and then I get distracted by something shiny.

Okay, so I went off track from my original point. How weeds are making me a failure.

Here is my front garden in its current state:

The image of this, combined with the fact that I live in Cranbourne may give you the impression that I am a crack dealer. While it could be true for some of our neighbours, V and I have neither the criminal aspirations, organisational abilities or dodgy contacts I assume would be required for the job. Plus I enjoy frequent showers, so it’s not the lifestyle for me.

V and I have been discussing the need to mow the lawn and weed for a few weeks/bordering on months. But then the weather gets bad, of I find a really good reason for us to have a Super Mario Kart Marathon, or V says that we need to practice Guitar Hero so we can start a band.

Then, I found Monty:

Okay, I didn’t really find it. V sent me an email saying “We definitely need to do the garden. It’s past Halloween so I can’t say we are trying to make the garden scary anymore. Plus there’s a huge weed next to the garage.”

I replied “How big? How come I didn’t notice it?”

V: “How did you not notice it? It could eat a puppy.”

Well, I don’t want to embarrass myself and say that I haven’t noticed it, so I answer in a way that will distract from the original line of questioning:

Me: “Oh, yeah, I call him Monty”

V: “Monty? Why is it called Monty? And if you had seen how big they were, why didn’t you say we should do the garden on the weekend?”

Me: “Well, I didn’t want you to kill Monty”

V: “Um, it’s grass”

At this point I pretended I didn’t get any of his emails. Because I have no answers. Plus he thinks I’m an idiot for caring about weeds all of a sudden, when I normally talk about how crappy the garden looks.

And this is how I never get anything done. Because I have to make up elaborate stories for plants with names I never really gave them in order to prove I have seen things I haven’t.

No wonder I have no damn time to write a freaking novel.