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Saturday, April 27, 2013

Uncomfortable Truths

Hi. I like your shoes, are they new?
About a year ago, I wrote this for a truly excellent independent wordy juggernaut called The King's Tribune, which you should definitely pay the pittance they ask for to get it delivered, all quivering and moist, into your inbox every week.
And now I'm reproducing this thing here, because its intention is to make people feel  bad and I'm a bitch who likes that kind of thing.

UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTHS


People eat dead animals because they are delicious. People do everything they can while they’re eating dead animals, or purchasing parts of dead animals to eat later, to ignore the fact that we know that these animals have been grown and killed and chopped up for us to eat. We ignore that fact because it gets in the way of us enjoying our meal of dead animal parts and crackling.

Bindi Irwin has boobs now.

Generally speaking, women are physically weaker than men. They’re more likely to make decisions based on emotion. Mind you, they’re a lot less likely to make decisions based on what their penises want, so there’s that. Still, there is no good reason that women can’t or shouldn’t serve in the armed forces or go to war or lead countries or run companies or build bridges or control spacecraft. Almost none of those things have jars in them that need opening.

Penis size does matter. Not as much as you think it does. But it matters. There’s such a thing as too small, and there’s such a thing as too big. You are not either of those things.

There’s a reasonable chance that Tony Abbott will be prime minister of Australia. There are people who will vote for Tony Abbott based on his personality alone. There are people who think it’s fine to see the outline of Tony Abbott’s genitals nestled in their Speedo hammock. They think that’s just okey-dokey.

Kyle Sandilands is liked by tens of thousands of people.

People don’t like to look at the physical deformities of others, or at people in wheelchairs. When people pass people with obvious physical deformities in the street, they notice them, but they pretend they haven’t noticed them.
People treat people with disabilities differently. People are nervous and uncomfortable around people with disabilities. They think more carefully about what they say to and around people with disabilities.

Human beings like the smell of their own farts and the smell of their own feet. Human beings are sometimes disappointed when they clean their ears with a cotton bud and it comes out more or less clean. They’re disappointed when they floss their teeth and no chunks of spitty food come out on the string. They like squeezing blackheads. They like getting a big chunk of sleep-crust out of their eyes. They pick their noses. They wee in the shower.

Some nuns are horrible, horrible people.

When we see someone on the street collecting for charity or a homeless person asking for money, sometimes we make up an excuse not to give them anything. We might have a couple of different excuses that we use at different times, but we have one favourite excuse that we use more often than the others.

Elle Macpherson has at least one grey pube now.

We only want to look after the planet if it’s easy, comfortable and convenient. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use electricity. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use plastic. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t travel anywhere except by foot. It would be better for the planet if we didn’t use soap or detergent. But for now, let’s separate our rubbish into vegetation, recyclables, and other. Mostly. Sometimes. Do we have to tear the little windows out of envelopes? Because we do not want to have to do that.

We’re racist. At the absolute and very least, we expect to see stereotypical traits or behaviour in people of particular races, including our own. Of course, the best thing to do as highly evolved humans is to rise above our racist impulses and not make any judgements or choices or decisions based on race. But we do. We’re racist.

Children are a pain in the arse.

We become less physically attracted to our partners as time goes on. We have other things to keep us going, like romantic love and support and comfort and reliability and companionship and both digging the shit out of crumpets with butter and honey. But we’re not as jazzed about our partner as we used to be. And sometimes what we thought was forever isn’t. And sometimes we just go along with things anyway, because it’s better than being alone. Either way, those quirky habits that you used to think were borderline adorable are now the main reason you want to stab each other in your sleep. And oh, god. Is that an ear hair? That’s an ear hair.

Genitals are ugly and periods are gross.

We believe that people who believe in things that we don’t believe in are stupider than we are.

Attractive people will be presented with more and better opportunities in life than unattractive people.

Our parents lied to us about things. So many things.

We should get that mole looked at.

We have friends that we don’t really like. We say bad things about them to other people, but we’re nice to their face. Some of our friends don’t really like us.

Parents have a favourite child. Your parents had a favourite child.

People with sun tans look better than people without sun tans. Slim people look better than overweight people. Acne is off-putting.

We judge people based on what they do for a living.

We wonder what our friends look like having sex, and then immediately wish that we hadn’t.

People in cities barely pay any attention to the needs of people who live in the rest of the country, and find it far more comfortable that way.

We will give money to charity, but we’d rather not volunteer.

We like watching extremely famous and rich American celebrities going off the deep end and damaging their careers.

Somebody is still watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.

We look into the shopping trolleys of fat people.

We want our exes to go out with people who are uglier than we are. We want them to see us with someone more attractive than they are.

We would rather that our children didn’t turn out to be gay. Being gay is more difficult than not being gay. Gay people are more likely to face prejudice, or be treated differently, or be teased and bullied, or not afforded the same rights as heterosexuals. We don’t want our children to have to deal with that. Life is easier for straight people.

We lie to people about how their haircuts look. They lie to us about how our haircut looks.

There are millions of tiny animals on you, right now. Some of them are feeding on you. They’re eating your dead skin. They’re crawling through your eyelashes. They’re in your intestines.

We don’t know what it’s like to die, but we’re going to find out.

Sometimes, just seeing the word ‘yawn’ in print can make you yawn. Especially if the word ‘yawn’ is in a sentence a lot, or stretched out like this: yaw-haw-haw-haw-hawn.

Once, you sneezed and got some mucus on your hand, and you wiped your hand on your clothes or on the tablecloth or on your friend’s furniture.

When your friends have problems, you don’t always want to hear about them, especially if it’s about the time they found someone’s mucus on their couch. 

When your friends break up with someone, you don’t want them to keep talking and talking and talking about it, even if it makes them feel better.

You pretend you have to get off the phone, even when you don’t.

You washed it in the washing machine even though it said ‘dry clean only’. You opened it at this end even though it said ‘open other end’. You used it after its expiry date. You didn’t wash it before putting it into the salad. You told them there was no garlic in it even though you put garlic in it. You made it from a packet but you told them you made it from scratch. You used one and threw the rest in the bin. You just scraped the mouldy bit off. You can’t be bothered, so they’re having chicken nuggets. When they asked if anyone had any chocolate, you lied even though you had chocolate. You put salt in it. You didn’t check what kind of eggs they were. You tried a grape in the fruit and veg section. You ate it straight out of the jar. You ate it off a knife. It fell on your lap and you picked it up and ate it anyway. It fell on the floor and you picked it up and ate it anyway. You ate a Chiko Roll. You served yourself the biggest one. You’re not always a vegetarian. You ate the whole packet yourself. You ate the whole packet yourself on the way home. You ate other people’s leftovers while you were cleaning up the kitchen.

That is seriously the ugliest baby you have ever seen.

Porn.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Yet I Still Don't Know How To Say 'Meme' Out Loud

By now, whether or not you know how to pronounce it ('meem' to rhyme with 'team'? 'Mee-mee' to rhyme with 'seamy'? 'Mem' to rhyme with 'them'? 'Morange'?), you should know what a meme is.

If you don't, then here's a hint, and Mum I think it's adorable that you still read my blog.

Either way, I have never been quite so enchanted in my life as I am with the ERMAHGERD meme. Because I'm all highbrow and university-graduatey and shit.

I was first made aware of it with this piece of pop-cultural magnificence:


Which quickly and firmly found its way into my heart and made me laugh until I farted just a tiny, tiny bit.

Quite soon, I became aware of other variations, most notably those of animals becoming quite excited about an impending meal or plaything or whatnot, thusly:







See, right, because bunnies like carrots.

Not wanting to miss out/badly wanting to fundamentally misunderstand the premise of this meme, I took it upon myself to make a few of my own.






Yes.
This whole time I was just leading up to my own shit.
What, are you new here?


Tuesday, April 10, 2012

The CnB Initiative

I know. I know.
It's been a long time between thingetties on this here bizzo.
Of course, with Twitter taking care of all my brief things (except my actual briefs, but that's only a matter of time, surely), and Australia's Next Top Model being on hiatus until next year (any aspiring contestants can look up the word 'hiatus' here) what am I going to write about?

THE COCK N' BALLS INITIATIVE IS WHAT.

See, my mate Russ has an unofficial Pictionary rule that whenever you draw a picture, it has to include a cock n' balls in it somewhere. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be present. Like this, for example:

I call this one 'Baby Fish Mouth With Cock N' Balls'
The always-classy Bert Maverick extended this rule to encompass Draw Something, so that everyone who plays against him gets an oddly malformed little bonus. Or 'boners', as it were.

Less than a week ago, Shellity and I were flying on an aeroplane in the sky, when she decided it might be fun to draw the good ol' Cock N' Balls in the inflight magazine. That got us talking like grown-ups, and the Cock N' Balls Initiative was born.

Here are the instructions:

1. Whenever you find yourself in the presence of publicly-available magazines that other people have access to, like inflight magazines or waiting room magazines (NOT shops that sell magazines), draw a cock n' balls in it. Anywhere you'd feel fine completing a crossword or quiz in a magazine probably qualifies.

2. If possible, take a photo of it and post it to your Twitter account or Facebook doo-hickey (I forget what they're called).

3. Leave the magazine for others to find.

4. If you happen to FIND a cock n' balls drawing that someone else has left for you, you can feel that warm, fuzzy feeling that only being part of a secret international community can give you. And also take a photo and post it.

Here's a couple to get you started:



QF431, Sydney to Melbourne, by Shellity.



QF425, Melbourne to Sydney, by me.




If we all work together, we can make the CnB Initiative a thing.

Who's in?

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Sit On Myspace And Tell Me That You Love Me #5

Okay, okay, so I received this particular moist and poetic come-on via email, not Myspace, but come on. That title is the best pun I’ve ever used, and I’m clinging onto it like the last midget at a… a midget… capturing… party. Shut up. They have those.


If you need to catch up, you can read about how I’ve been relentlessly pursued by amorous digital suitors of all genders here. I guess they single me out because they heard I have a nipple-shaped birthmark on the top of my head. Extra nipple = value for money. It's simple economics. And sexy.

Except they didn’t single me out. The following email was sent to six people, all with the same first name as me. My new stalker is such. A slut. Here’s what she said, with my comments.

From: Lina


Sent: Friday 25 November 2011 5:10:04 AM


A GOOD OLD COUNRTY BOY THATS GOOD TO THEIR WOMEN

Okay, so you’re after someone good. I’m good. You’re after someone old. I’m… depends on your definition of ‘old’. You want someone ‘counrty’. I guess you’ve misspelled one of two words there, so I might be able to help you. But if you want a boy without apostrophes, you have come to the wrong place, Lina. I am a girl with many, many nipples apostrophes.

Privet!

Privet? That’s a hedge. It’s a hedge. Although in this case I’ll just assume it’s a euphemism for pubic hair dressed up as a greeting, in which case I’ll respond with: Labia to you, my friend!

The greatest tragedy of life is not that the men perish, but that they cease to love.

Yeah, well I’ve got a bit of a policy that after they perish, I kind of leave them alone. There’s a bunch of laws relating to loving on after they’ve died, Lina.

There is an ocean between us, my honey, and I wish that it were not true, for every day when I awake I yearn to be with you.


You should buy your honey from somewhere else. Problem solved.

There are many miles between us, my love, though you are always here in my heart.

I get it. We’re a long way away from each other. Get on Skype and I’ll do you a little dance to take the edge off. They’re all my own moves, too, unless you’ve seen the music video for Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’.

I feel you and imagine our first meeting under the starts.

Feeling me makes you spell badly? Maybe I should wax or something.

Every night beneath the silver starlight I pray for the day we will never part http://websitenobodyshouldeverclickon.in

That day is totally here! I promise you, we will never part. We will stay exactly as close as we are now forever and ever.

Sweet goodbye


Li N

Bye, darling. Or should I say: Privet!

I just can't understand why I only attract borderline-illiterate lesbians. It's probably my deodorant.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven - THE FINALE

What? You’re still here? It’s over, you weirdos. Demelza won. Go home.

Oh, for the love of camel nipples, ALRIGHT. FINE. Have your frikkin’ recap, then. Sorry it’s late – I had to wash the champagne out of my frock and the taste of victory out of my mouth. Also, if any of you can tell me whose house this is that I woke up in, that would be AMAZING. But I think I maimed their dog.

Rather than painstakingly going through the finale episode with a fine-toothed comb like yoo-shoo-wall, I sat in my seat at the Opera House scribbling in my notebook, which seemed like a good idea at the time. That time before I opened my notebook this morning and found the phrase ‘IT’S THE GODDAMN OPERA HOUSE, BITCHES!!’ scrawled in capital letters across the top of one page with five pages of complete bollocks after it.

So basically, you’re getting bullet-points. Aaaand I’m making most of them up. Aaaand they’re not even bullets, they’re little dots. Seriously, ‘bullet’ is a stupider name than ‘Bindi’. Unless you’re a cowboy, I suppose. WHAT. WHAT. I HAD A LOT TO DRINK.

******

  • IT’S THE GODDAMN OPERA HOUSE, BITCHES!

  • Things there were lots of:
1. The word ‘journey’. It’s law that ‘journey’ has to be included in any reality television show final a minimum of six thousand times. I only counted eighty-seven. Pull your socks up, Australia’s Next Top Model.

2. The word ‘expensive’. Shiny Alex Perry is using it as punctuation now.
3. Montage packages. And also Liztage packages and Simtage packages.
4. Costume changes. I tried to write down descriptions of each frock, but they changed so quickly and often that I resigned myself to just writing ‘cloth’ in the margin. They were cloth. And there were many.
5. Short Stack songs. Sure, there was only one, but ask yourself how many is too many.

  • So Neo is wearing her wig again. That seems like a good decision. I made a decision that good once, and ended up with a papercut, a bag of dead mice, and a great story about cleaning fruit stains off the ceiling.

  • So Izzy has her pink hair back again. This actually is a good decision. Izzy with pink hair is like a monkey in a top hat and waistcoat – you don’t want to like it and it annoys the monkey and makes the waistcoat smell like a mixture of fleas, bananas and popcorn, but you just know it’s right.

  • Seriously. Short Stack are a lot of different kinds of shit.

  • Maddy wins the ‘Favourite Model’ prize! She also wins the ‘Concrete-Lacquered Hair-Helmet’ prize, but the trophy is too big to fit in the taxi afterwards. Shame.

  • Shiny Alex Perry and Charlotte Dawson, one dressed as Alex Perry and the other dressed by him, which thankfully worked out, were perched up in balcony seats for most of the show like Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets except that Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets don't wear sunglasses or say ‘knickers’.




  • I doubt she’d thank me for pointing it out, but Rachel still walks like a three-legged horse in cardboard shoes. Come to think of it, she probably would thank me.

  • The Harpers Bazaar shoot is like chocolate-coated cheese wrapped in sugared unicorns and orgasms.

  • I’m not even joking. Short Stack sucks dead hobo arse.

  • Doik Simone comes third. She’s used to coming third, though, as her boobs generally enter any room about seven minutes before she does.

  • NOBODY MENTION LAST YEAR’S FUCK UP. DO NOT MENTION IT. SHUT UP. DON’T EVEN.

  • Montana wins. This is as surprising as opening a book of teenage poetry and finding pages full of dreary emotional wank inside. But. Y’know. Congratulations and that.

There were two after parties, and I weasled my way (see: showed my wristband) into both. Highlights for me (and I’m sure there were different highlights for other people, but who am I, Gandhi? ) were:

  • My mate Shane made a bunch of Brigitte-Nielsen-heads on sticks. WITH EYEHOLES. Josh Flinn now owns one. I reckon I’m totally set for life now, because everyone loves eyeholes.

  • I accidentally called Teary Tayah ‘Teary Tayah’ to her face. I dunno, she looked a bit upset about it.

  • Caroline grabbed my arm and shouted across the room “MUM! MUM! This is the girl who called me an arsehole for six weeks!”. Her mum cupped her ear and shouted back “What? She designed your dress?”. I just nodded, because sure, I design dresses for arseholes now.

  • In return for calling her an arsehole for six weeks, Caroline threw a drink in my face. I HAVE WAITED FOR SOMEONE TO DO THAT FOR FIVE FRIGGING YEARS. Now all I need is a free Alex Perry frock and I can finally stop blogging forever.

  • Megan Gale swore.

  • I met some of you. That sounds like I’m getting soppy and stuff, including that as a highlight, all nawww she loves her readers and crap, but I’m specifically referring to the bit where you told me I was funny. Hugs are nice too, but come on – I would electrocute a hug in the bath for another compliment.

So now, with the last bit of alcohol-soaked brain that I scraped out of the bottom of my handbag, here’s the LAST VERSE of my country song summarising the series episode by episode. Things don’t have to have a point to be achievements. They just have to rhyme.

I’m huuuuuung
Over as fuck, so you’re out of luck, ‘cause I can’t be bothered rhyming;
So Montana won, and I already told you I’m not rhyming, so get stuffed.


But really. As Rachel would no doubt say over and over and over and over again, thank you. No, really, thanks for reading. Ta. Sorry. Thank you.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven #12 - PENULTIMACY

Okay, first: a bit of housekeeping. At the beginning of this series, I hired an actuary to keep a tally of the number of times anyone on the screen:

a) Clapped and said ‘woo’;
b) Used the phrase ‘oh my god’; or
c) Said “we had no idea” in any context.

Yeah. He... well, let’s just say he quit.



Secondly, a warning: this episode takes place in another country. We should probably just get this out of the way right now as a kind of blanket statement:

Welcome back, little dude.
It’s sand, souks, niqabs, nipples, bouffants and brows in this, the ‘I’ve Been Through The Desert On A Scrag With No Name’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. Ugh. Sand in my gusset.

******

A live Sarah Mail arrives at the Module Mansion, as Saint Sarah breezes into the packed-up loungeroom to farwell the girls. “Think back to the top one hundred, remember back then? When you went off to Paris?”.

Ummm no, not ringing a bell.

OH PLEASE, THESE GIRLS HAVE PIMPLES FROM BEFORE THEN.

Sorry. Sorry. I’m just really uptight about the end of this competition. After this is over I’ll have to go back to screen-capping and judging my own life, and nobody wants to read about not being able to find a shoe or having trouble getting my ideal mix of pillows right. What? Oh, right.

THEY’RE GOING TO DUBAAAAAAIIIII!

Wait – where’s that again? We’d better show the modules on a map, as they’ve come up a little short in the ol’ knowing-their-geography department more than once before.

Perfect. Ta.

Everyone is surprised and delighted. Let’s get all the surprised and delighted faces out of the way right from the get-go, ‘kay?











Surprised. Delighted. And available on an inflatable life partner in an up-a-narrow-staircase shop near you.

Suddenly the modules are styled to within an inch of their short lives, the cameramen change their lens filters to ‘poignant and whimsical’, someone drops a jewellery bomb on the Middle East, and everyone’s off to the airport.
Montana reminds us of the gravity of this last trip, saying that “It’s gonna sort the mice from the men”.

OH MY GOD YOU'RE IN THE WRONG LANE.

The scrags go to the Business Class lounge and oh my god it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen in their lives. They get on the plane and oh my god it has legroom. They go to the bar on the plane and find that oh my god there are trays of cupca – THIS ISN’T A FLIGHT, THIS IS A WONDROUS BROTHEL OF SENSATION.

Sorry. Sorry.

Suddenly!  A Dubai montage! If you missed it, don’t worry. There are eight hundred and twenty-three more.

Coming out of the air-conditioned airport into the heat of Dubai, Doik Simone remarks that it’s like “Running into like, a brick wall made of fire”, showing us two things:

1. That Doik doesn’t like the heat. If you missed that, don’t worry. She will mention it eight hundred and twenty-three more times.

2. That Doik should totally be writing lyrics for Cock Rock bands in the 80s.

A brick wall made of faaaaayaaaaaaah. SAXOPHONE SOLO.

The modules pack themselves into a terribly cramped stretch limo and point excitedly at things out the window as they zoom past. Montana comments that there are “so many freakin’ buildings”, basically nailing the definition of ‘city’ in one hit, and Simone shows some early town-planning skills by saying “I feel like we’re in the middle of the desert, and they decided to like, build things around”. Oh my god, Doik. That’s exactly what the Wikipedia page says!


The limo spits the scrags out at Atlantis The Palm hotel, which really impresses Montana. It’s the biggest thing she’s ever seen “and you can see it from like, five hundred metres away”. So, like FROM THE END OF THE STREET?! SHUT UP, NO WAY.

For the next five minutes, someone just shakes up opulence, shiny surfaces, rosewater, soft furnishings and the phrase “oh my god” in a bag, Liz gets excited because the hotel’s been on Getaway (somewhere behind Catriona Rowntree’s boobs), Montana gets excited because the hotel should be on Cribs, and Doik gets excited because the bath can fit a person in it.
Meanwhile, in the foyer aquarium, a scuba diver has a strange, cryptic message for the girls.

I can't help but think that this information will come in handy later.

Suddenly! A Dubai montage! I just can’t get enough of that shit.

A Sarah-Mail arrives via a what, a slave? What do they call them here? And the modules are back in the limo pointing and hooting out of the window again. “Oh my god look!” shouts Liz. “This is the history!”.
Simone responds with “I’m kind of glad that we haven’t been taken to history places, ‘cause I’m not a big historian”, which is a bit like Bridget Riley saying she’s never really been one for landscapes or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Terri Irwin saying she might put her kids in the public eye a little bit.
This is how Simone feels about history and culture.



Well, until they’re surrounded by ogling men and a woman who probably doesn’t spell her name ‘Suad’ takes them shopping, anyway. Three significant things happen in this bit.

1. We learn that Doik wouldn’t mind having a husband who buys her gold jewellery. We keel over from shock and die.

2. We learn that women just wear black burqas because they’re slimming. It is, after all, every woman’s right to look slim.

3. We eat camel-milk chocolate.

WAIT, WHAT? But... where does.... how does... I KNEW we should’ve paid more attention to that scuba diver. It’s okay, though, because Montana does some science all over us:

“I’d heard of camel’s milk before, but we had no idea where camel’s milk would’ve come from. Like, when have you ever seen... do they just sort of inject it out, like what does this camel milk come from?”

WOW. Stay in school, kids.

The next morning at breakfast, the scrags face their biggest test yet.

They've never had to avoid this many carbs before.

A Sarah-Mail summons them to the ‘old quarter’, and it’s frigging hot. They’re met by photographer Georges Antoni, and he’s frigging hot. He takes them into the ‘Centre For Cultural Understanding’ because he’s into things like irony, and then tells the girls that they’ll be doing two photo-shoots, the first of which will be in winter clothes in 45-degree heat, first individually and then in a group shot, and I can see a little bit of sweat trickling down your neck and into your chest hair and I may need a moment to collect myself.

Cough.

The girls go into hair and make-up, get styled with quiffy beehives, scarves, orgasmic Bally outfits and shoes I want to have stapled to my feet and OH GOD HE’S LYING DOWN. HE’S LYING DOWN. BRING MORE TISSUES.

Thats... that's quite a lens you have there, Georges.

Montana’s brain swells from thinking too hard about camel milk...

Science hurts, you guys.

Simone tries to suck a few extra IQ points out of the air...

Sure. That's what she's doing.

And Liz is a goddamn freakin’ giant.

My new best friend could totally stomp on your house.

But seriously. These girls are completely fracking amazing. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT. SINCERITY, BITCHES. But looook:



They piddy ladies.

Suddenly! Doik nearly faints, Georges ‘In My Pants Right Now Don’t Make Me Tell You Twice’ Antoni carries her to safety, and we all have to listen to fucking Enriques Iglesias.

HHNNNNNNGGGG

Oh my god wait. Hold the freakin’ phone. I think I’ve just discovered where Doik Simone keeps her on/off switch, proving my theory that she’s a short-circuiting bitchy boob robot from the future. IT'S ON THE SIDE OF HER HEAD.




BRAIN NOT FOUND ERROR

It’s morning, and I’d like to welcome you to Episode 1 of DOING SCIENCE WITH MONTY AND DOIK.

Here’s how it goes down.

Doik: “People do milk camels, because how do you get camel milk, like, you might not see their teats...”
Monty: “I’ve never seen a teat on a camel before”.
Doik: “Yeah but people still milk them, how...”
Monty: “Oh, I’m sure they do, but but like, have you ever looked at a camel and saw like ...”
Doik: “I don’t look for camel teats, but I just know that you can milk them, because people drink camel milk and you can get camel chocolate”.
Monty: “Do camels eat? I thought they only like, drink”/
Doik “No, you can feed camels at zoos, I’ve done it”.

I’ve been watching this show for twelve weeks, so I no longer have the IQ to respond to this. Let’s just leave it to the pictures.






Thankfully the phone rings and Saint Sarah sends the girls off to swim with dolphins, like she always does, but please. For the love of lactose. Nobody ask where dolphin milk comes from.

The scrags wave at, kiss and swim with the dolphins in a massive man-made pool. Now, I know that three girls swimming with mammals and talking about how they look like they’re smiling and they’re so cute and they feel like sea cucumbers should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by thousands and thousands and thousands of grains of sand.

Speaking of which, we’re off to the desert for a dune-top shoot in wafty outfits, slicked back hair, killer heels and no eyebrows!

I am begging for your pardon.

That’s right. Those bad boys are bleached right off their faces. And you know what happens when I see shots of people without any eyebrows? Yes, you do.






I make your life better, whilst wasting my own. It's okay. I know.
The photo shoot is amaaaaaaaaa *takes breath* aaaaaaaaaayzing, see?





Just like the grey wig/pink paint photo shoot of episode whatever-it-was, at first the styling looks like it’s going to be Fugly McFuglerson, and then BAM! Gorgeousness bomb fired from a chic cannon aimed at Hot Diggetty Dang County. And as a bonus, I’ve totally solved the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster.

It's not a monster. It's Liz's leg as she falls arse over tit down a hill.

And speaking of tits, let’s do some more teat science!

Hypothesis: Camels have nipples.

Method:
Tip a motherfucking camel over.
Results: Totes nipples.

Conclusion: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN WE STOP NOW.

Doik Simone is concerned that her camel is ignoring her and ‘ostracising itself’.
 Oh, honey. I just... sweet galloping horses of... your mother must be so...
For fuck’s sake, pet.

ANYWAY. The scrags go to dinner in the middle of the desert to drink Coke, try to subtract three from ninety-nine and talk about feelings when the phone rings. It’s Saint Sarah, and it’s almost time to go home. It’s also almost time to wonder what kind of bullshit magical phone service provider these kids are on.

Suddenly! Sydney montage!

We’re back in the big smoke, at the Opry House, and WHERE’S BRIGITTE NIELSEN?!? I haven’t seen her all episode?  Maybe she’s busy baring her teeth, sticking her neck out and holding one boob? Naaaaah.



For some reason Saint Sarah (a bit late, having rushed from the AGM of the Camel Ostracisation Front), Charlotte Dawson (dressed today as nothing in particular, which isn’t funny at all), Shiny Alex Perry (dressed today as a luminous cowboy squinting his way through a sunglasses muster) and Georges Antoni (fresh from MY PANTS) are all gathered to talk about photos and tell us that they think Montana should win.

What do you think, Magic Psychic Desk?

Hel... hello?

Oh, great. No Brigitte, no Magic Psychic Desk. FINE. I’ll have to pick my own winner.
I vote for sewing my best friend Liz and Montana together, making a hybrid module called Lizmonta.

WINNER.

Of course, the real winner is the phrase ‘pigeon eyes’.

OMG FINALE OMG FINALE OMG FINALE TOMORROW NIGHT.

I’ll be there in person because people at Foxtel are aces and I’m a whining needy bitch and what am I going to wear and is this finally going to be the year I get a drink thrown in my face.

As a result of me planning on drinking away my pain/joy/facial tic, as per previous years please DO NOT expect too much in the way of a finale recap.
It will be late (like, after lunch on Wednesday late), it will be lame (like, legs-bitten-off-by-bears lame), it will be lacking in detail in the extreme (like, Simone’s brain lacking in detail) and it will be unsatisfactory. Live with it. MAMA NEEDS HER REST.

******

It will, however, have the final verse in the longest ever country song about modelling competitions in it, though. That is my promise to you. Second last verse goes like:

While theeeee
Budget lasts get to the airport fast tell the pilot he can park it
In the Middle East at the very least, ‘cause there’s souks (yeah, that means ‘markets’).
In a nosebleed shoe, with a beehive ‘do, you’ll be hot but dang, you’re highbrow;
But it matters not, because for your next shot, we’re gonna bleach off both your eyebrows.
People of your ilk know they like their milk in their chocolates, drinks and tipples;
But you’re still surprised when a camel, capsized, lets you know that it’s got nipples;
Now excitement’s high, ‘cause the last night’s nigh, and it’s going to be so gnarly;
There’s no time to rest, wear your frocking best to the Opera House finale.