Australia’s Next Top Westie Scrag Series 3 #2

Spray water on a seed, and it will bloom and grow.
Spray water on a new car, and it will bead and glisten.
Spray water on a shirtless man, and there goes my afternoon.

Spray water on this bunch of wanna-be models, and you’ve got yourself a Baha Men hit.

For god’s sake, get an umbrella. It’s the Mingin’ In The Rain episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

· A work-experience girl visits The House Of Scrag to deliver a box full of butterflies*, which makes most of the girls squeal with delight, and makes Rebecca shriek in terror, because she’s afraid of birds. I love that that’s an actual sentence. A Joydhi-Mail explains that the butterflies represent metamorphosis, although Leiden is too busy licking one of the butterflies to notice the connection. I love that that’s a sentence. A couple of the girls guess that the allusion to ‘metamorphosis’ might mean that they’ll be getting makeovers this episode. A group of patients in a hospital’s Lobotomy Recovery Ward slap their foreheads and say “You think?!”

· The modules present at Mahogany salon, where they’re met by Joydhi and JP. Joydhi is apparently there because she’s passionate about hair. She has hyooooge ishyoys with models who have bad haircuts. She says this with a straight face – difficult when an Afghan Hound has recently fainted on her head. JP explains to each girl how her coiff will morph, which in most cases is “not much”, with the following exceptions:
o Leiden’s hair is cut even shorter and bleached platinum blonde, and she emerges as a cross between Brigitte Nielsen and someone feminine.
o Belinda’s hair is cut quite short, and isn’t great. She moans that she hasn’t received her new contact lenses in the post yet, but I’m not sure what the hairdresser’s excuse is.
o Jamie, previously criticised for being a bit too ‘men’s magazine’, is given long blonde hair extensions, which is like Mark Rothko trying to make his paintings less realistic, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Bindi Irwin being advised to up the energy factor in her next shit video.
o Alamela (to be pronounced in monotone, like a robot, whilst making hilarious robot actions with robot arms, just to make the hilarious robot comparison last as long as possible, and to say the word ‘robot’ as often as possible, robot) is given a short, smooth bob, which is a massive improvement. For a robot.
o I’ll let you make up your own mind about Alexandra, and whether she’s a complete arsehole or not (Hint: Alexandra is a complete arsehole). She’s given a sharp, Cleopatra-esque bob (seriously, people – if a girl already looks like she’s packin’ testosterone, do we really need a blunt fringe? Soften. Soften), which she pretends to like at the salon, but then complains that ‘it’s a look I’ve already done’. Back at the house, she goes through her photo album, crapping on about how she had the same haircut a year ago, and calls the stylists ‘pigs’. She then calls her boyfriend (although on the screen it’s typed as ‘boyfriend?’) and cries about her haircut. Her boyfriend says “If I was in that show, I’d know a lot better than those fuckwits”. Alexandra. Honey. You’re a man, and your boyfriend’s gay.

· Challenge time is upon us, and it’s Scrags Ahoy! Charlotte and JP tell the girls that they’ll be dressing in fifties outfits (which are, almost without exception, adorable) and strutting down a catwalk on a navy ship in front of a hundred sailors. Charlotte then tel... what’s that? Alexander’s still complaining about his hair? Crying and holding onto JP’s shoulder? Without a hint of irony, she tells JP she needs to move on. Yes, Alexander. Yes, you do. Arsehole.

· The catwalk challenge, like a scrag just out of the salon, has a couple of highlights:
o JP squeezes in a quick plug for Holeproof undies (I know there’s a joke in there somewhere), by handing out flesh-coloured briefs and offering the complicated instruction “make sure you put them on underneath to start with”.
o Belinda is ‘packing herself’, and rightfully so, as her contact lenses still haven’t arrived, and she’s walking blind. She looks like she’s walking the plank with an inner-ear infection on a pirate ship that’s made of butter and marbles.
o Demelza is a bouncy, flouncy sex kitten, and milks every jeer, leer, and crudely-pitched tent with a flirtatious flip of her skirt. Alamela comments that “you don’t flash your knickers at sixteen years old to a bunch of sailors”. She almost has a point, that nutty robot. She must have learned that from reading New Scientist.
o Alyce’s boob nearly falls out. Leiden remarks that “I didn’t see Alyce’s boob come out today, but I’ve seen everyone’s tits in the house”.
o Alexandra drags her massive jaw (and by jaw, I mean undescended testicles) down the catwalk, sending JP into paroxysms of admiration. I didn’t even know he was gay.
o Alamela is transformed into sexy robot, partly because she’s given the skimpiest outfit to wear, and partly because she says “the sailors seemed very enthusiastic about having models on their vessel”. Somewhere in the distance, the Benny Hill theme tune plays, and I lose all interest in sex.

· There are two challenge winners – the ‘sailor’s choice’ and the ‘industry choice’. The sailors pick Demelza’s underpants (I really wish I’d chosen different words there), and the judges pick Alexander’s boyish charm. The two winners are sent on an eleven thousand dollar shopping spree in three different locations, whilst the losers are sent to clean the house (from “top to toe”, according to Joydhi Bjelke-Petersen). Now, although I know watching people who aren’t me shop and clean should be interesting, I’m momentarily distracted by psoriasis.

· Quote break! As compensation and as thanks for cleaning the house, Alexander and Demelza offer the losing girls a bag full of clothes as a present. Well, a bag half full of clo – well, not so much half-full as quar... okay, an underwhelmi... Alexander and Demelza offer the losing girls three shitty tops and a fuck-ugly skirt. Leiden, trying to control her obvious mirth, says to camera “That bag was BULLshit”.

· Hmmm... I’m feeling out of sorts. I think what I need is a photo-shoot, some water sprayed in my face, and the gayest “straight” man alive. Spookily, the modules arrive at a shoot directed by JP and Napoleon Perdis. Napoleon likes his girls moist. Because he's totally not gay. Each girl is to sit under a saturating spray of water in a bra and undies and have a close-up photograph taken, to the sound of supportive, constructive styling advice from Napoleon such as “To be honest, you’re starting to bore me” and “One of your eyes is looking lazy”. So how’d we do?
o Caris is absolutely stunning. Full stop.
o The powerpoint angles of Kristy’s face make all the water collect and run off somewhere around the middle.
o Alexandra is all severe jaw and three-day growth. Nup.
o Rebecca, having blinked her way through an admittedly decent photo shoot, is overcome with humility as she bounces back to the other girls announcing that it was “Soooooo good!”.
o Alamela’s delicate circuitry can’t handle the water, and even though she’s given two chances to get it right, is really a bit crap. Under her breath, she mutters “11011000011”.
o Leiden looks awesome. Awesome and scary. Awesome and scary and angry. She paraphrases JP’s styling advice as “I can’t look sexy for shit. It’s like, I’m gonna go and like, fuck you, but kill you after”. Like a great big bogan praying mantis, bless ya.
o Emma is very tall, and marginally less boring than last week. Not interesting enough for three sentences, though.
o Belinda’s eyes look great – to us. To her, they’re just a big blur.
o Alyce tries a bit too hard, but is otherwise quite good. Unfortunately, at this stage of the game, ‘quite good’ means ‘no jokes’. Next.
o Demelza sort of sucks at this. Napoleon tells her so, and you can tell she takes it well because she sobs in the bathroom for the rest of the day. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

· Suddenly it's Leiden's 19th birthday, and all the of-age scrags head off to the local yacht club which is deserted save for a handful of mildly grotesque gentlemen. Consequently, the girls have little to do but slam shots and pash each other. Alexander has other ideas, and chews the face of an unsuspecting nearby ugly bastard with her giant predator teeth. Run, nearby ugly bastard! She'll steal your essence! Later, she confesses the indiscretion to her boyfriend on the 'phone. He seemed marginally more upset about her haircut.

· At home, there are seventeen-year old boys, and their idea of fun is being in a gang called the Disciples, high on crack, and toting a machine gun. Meanwhile, in songs not written by Prince, at home Demelza has planned a surprise pirate-themed birthday party for Leiden which, aside from birthday cake eventually being smeared on every available human and non-human surface, is exactly as interesting as every party without beer is.

· It's elimination time, and my two favourite outfits in the hangar this week are Joydhi's remodelled skydiving jumpsuit, and Alamela's silver robot outfit. Joydhi reels off the prizes, which I think include a manicure set and two pieces of toast, and introduces the judges. This week it's Charlotte, who mimes 'face lift' in a self-aware and yet still frightening way, Shiny Alex Perry, who looks like someone put expensive sunglasses on a garlic bulb, Napoleon Perdis, who loves his wife very much, and Jackie Meiring, who shot this week's photographs. For this, she should not be proud.

· There's no two ways about it – these photographs are… I don't… I have no words. I'll have to make one up – these photographs are GRONK. Every. Single. Photograph. Blows. This is the kind of photographer you hire when you need to prove to your boss that you were too sick with the plague to come to work yesterday. Emma looks like an upset trout. Alexander looks like a constipated ginger boy. Belinda looks like she just got a parking ticket. As each shot is shown, all the girls and judges flinch in horror and grimace through the pain. Woeful.

· I'm colourblind, so I had to ask my housemate what colour Joydhi's cheap-arsed clipboard folder is. She confidently replied "fuschia". How rock and roll is my house?! Anyway, after some deliberation, Joydhi reads out names from her cheap-arsed fuschia clipboard folder until only Blind Belinda and Powerpoint Kristy are left. Joydhi gives them each some completely meaningless criticism – Belinda is a kooky, beautiful girl who can't deliver, and Kristy looks like a model, but needs more than that. What – does she have to smell like one, too? Eighteen years pass, and Kristy is given the flick. Bye, Kristy! Mind you don't try to plug your new ghd straightening iron into your face on your way out!

Next week, the girls are frightened by crocodiles, snakes and clowns, the bitch factor is turned up a notch, and everybody summons their inner slut with a spot of pole-dancing. Fears. Tears. Legs around your ears.

* Next time a guy asks me what I like in bed, I’m totally using this phrase as my answer.

For a bit of mutual blog-love, check out PetStarr's take on the whole thing over at Bland Canyon.

Eponymous = Anonymous

My real name is on my blog.
I want you to think my real name is on my blog because I'm willing to stand behind everything I write, thumbing my nose at the safety of anonymity and proudly tearing off the bullet-proof vest of cowardice.
My real name is on my blog because I'm a complete and utter attention-whore.
Everybody I know is aware that I have a blog, because I'm a complete and utter attention whore.
Somewhat irrelevantly, sometimes I wear bright red stockings, because I'm a complete and utter attention whore.
Consequently (as a result of mostly the blog stuff, and a bit less because of the red stockings), it's not just people I like who read my blog. Some complete arseholes I know read my blog. In some cases it's their only redeeming quality.

Unfortunately, if something happens to someone I know and I want to blog about it, often I can't. I might have been sworn to secrecy. I might use my dwindling sense of social propriety and decide that it's better to keep it on the down-low. I might be worried about hurting someone's feelings. I might just want to avoid looking like a gossipy bitch.

Anyway, a person I know did something hilarious on the weekend. And then kept doing it. Then, the next day, they did it again. I have a feeling it won't be the last time, and I'm going to end up having to talk to them about it, even though I secretly want them to keep doing it, because it's incredibly entertaining for me.

For you: not so much.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #1

Brush. Twice a day. Floss. Gargle. Get to a dentist. Rinse. Repeat. Save yourselves.

If these thirteen girls have anything at all to teach us, it’s a lesson about the perils of neglecting oral hygiene. This is dental tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, people. Alas, poor Yorrick even had better teeth than this. And a bit more fat on him.In the immortal words of David Bowie (with about the same dodgy grill): Oh, baby. Just you shut your mouth. It’s the Dental As Anything episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

· We start with a montage of images of all the successful models to come out of previous series of ANTM. So, Alice.

· We dispense with anything more than a cursory glance at auditions, presumably because a production assistant spilled coffee on the release forms, or because looking at all that Supre clothing would have jeopardised one of the show’s sponsorship deals. Then, suddenly, we’re into the theme song, and the titles, and faces, and names, and titles, and music, and excitement, and a title design that can only be called Eighties Shapes Come Alive! I need a beer already. Luckily, I’ll soon be looking at some teeth that could open the most stubborn bottle cap invented.

· Almost all of the old crew are here – Joydhi Meares (consistently cardboard), Charlotte Dawson (it’s not a new haircut – the last facelift just hoisted her pubes into view), Shiny Alex Perry (looking more and more like someone drew a couple of hyphens on a pearlescent lighbulb), and Jonathan Pease (or JP, who has unfortunately replaced his floppy fringe with an uninterrupted view of his self-satisfied face).

· Fresh faces abound as each new module is dropped off at the National Art School in Darlinghurst, which I’m now calling the National Tart School, because I’m a skilled satirist. They all gather in a big white room, and we all sit up straight in our loungerooms, ready to figure out who we love, who we hate, who’s a bitch, who’s a snitch, who’s rich, who to ditch, who has an unexplained itch, and who needs an open-handed slap. Each girl has to introduce themselves to the judges, walk up and down, get shouted at by JP whilst changing into Tiger Lily swimwear, pose for some photographs and say some bitchy stuff to camera. Spookily, this exactly what I did last Monday.

· Just for something different, I’d like to let you know my opinion about some of the girls, if you don’t mind:

o Alexandra (teeth like a fence) says that she feels like she has the traits of a model already. Unless she just means that she’s a primate, she’s sorely mistaken. She’d make a better male model than female model, but this is primarily because I suspect she has a penis. This may be why she walks at a slant. Even more obvious than her robust set of testicles is her belief that she is an authority on fashion. She takes every opportunity to let everyone know this. Nickname this week: ‘Annoying Fashion Guy’.

o Demelza (overbite) has big eyes, big lips, big hair, big opinions, and a tiny, weeny voice. Along with Carys, she’s accused by Charlotte of being a ‘jelly botty’ (instead of Boticelli – get it? I’ll pause while you write it down). Nickname this week: “Helium”.

o Leiden (that’s quite an overbite you have there, honey) rocks. Don’t get me wrong – she’ll totally lose this competition. But she burps, swears, slouches, and according to Charlotte, photographs like she’s giving birth to puppies. Awesome. Nickname this week: “Beer”.

o Alamela (teeth like spooky chattering robot) scares the bejeezus out of me. Speaks like there’s a semi-colon after each word. Skin like polished dentures. Black eyes like licorice bullets that can both see into your soul and burn whatever they find there. Body like menacing cotton buds. Calls other models “it”. Nickname this week: “Bleached Hell-Spawn”.

o Kamila (overbite and possible fangs), when viewed from the side, is one-dimensional. When spoken to, is one-dimensional. She studies law. That’s it, really. Nickname this week: “Glass”.

o Alyce (great big vampire fangs) is bloody gorgeous, but, I suspect, bloody annoying. Excellent walk, excellent look, excellent attitude, excellent for opening two tins of apricot nectar at once. Nickname this week: “Bram Stoker”.

o Samantha (normal teeth! Gads!) is the prettiest girl in the world, but for some reason, this doesn’t make her much chop as a model. Her eyes are unbelievable, and she seems sweet and inoffensive, but... that’s all. Probably a great girl to go out shopping for unicorns with. Nickname this week: “The Lemur”.

o Belinda (great big yellow teeth) is the psychotic Jekyll & Hyde of the series. Away from the camera, she’s a myopic, clumsy dork. In front of the camera, she’s a beautiful, clumsy dork who walks like she’s trying to keep a fish between her knees. She’s “kooky”, apparently, and very rarely makes sense – endearing, but disconcerting. Nickname this week: “Purple Monkey Dishwasher”.

o Emma (great big toothy overbite) is shy, very tall, uncomfortable and B-O-R-I-N-G. Nickname this week: Next!”.

o Jamie (more normal teeth!) has a body to die for, and a tan she probably will die for. She seems like a normal, well-adjusted, likeable girl. What the fuck is she doing here? Nickname this week: “Agent Orange”.

o Kristy (normal teeth) is the girl all the scrags think will win. She’s this series’ powerpoint-face, and leaves me a little cold. She’s the kind of gorgeous that would make the rest of the netball team jealous, but I don’t really want it selling me shoes. Nickname this week: “Stinky Bali Clothes”.

o Rebecca (didn’t notice the teeth, fixated on the scars) annoys me a lot. She’ll probably make it big as a model, she just doesn’t have anything like the brain, sense of humour, or charisma she thinks she has. Nickname this week: “Shut Up”.

o Caris (braces, for fuck’s sake) has train tracks and bad skin, but for some reason I dig her to bits. The judges think she has a fat arse. Her arse cheeks are the size of my face cheeks. Nickname this week: “Just Wait Till I Get My Braces Off, Bitches”.

· At one point, Alexandra is “caught” “accidentally” falling asleep under a Kafka book. Arsehole.

· The exhausted scrags cram themselves into a couple of Taragos and are vomited out at the new Module Mansion, which is very shiny, very modern, very big, and very incongruous with the cut-price double-bunks the girls have to sleep in. House rules are quickly established, including my favourite: “No shitting in the upstairs toilets”. Kitchen sink: fine.

· Quote break! Leiden about Alamela: “She doesn’t look like a model. She looks like someone who goes home and reads”. Oddly enough, later Alamela remarks that she’s not interested in the girls’ conversations, and that she’d rather just read New Scientist. This is a bit like Frida Kahlo sneaking peeks at the latest issue of Alopecia Monthly or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Britney Spears reading... reading.

· A Joydhi-Mail, terrifyingly delivered via a suddenly-appearing television screen, warns the scrags of their impending challenge, and the following morning the Taragos take the girls to Fox Studios to meet JP and producer Travis to shoot the promo for the show that we've all now seen a thousand times. So often, in fact, that we're calling it The Smoke Comes Out Of Her Boobs Show. Each girl has to dress in a spy-related costume and be filmed for five seconds doing spy stuff. Highlights:

o Bec as Jungle Girl is wrapped in a giant constricting snake that seems to be magnetically attracted to her vagina.

o Belinda as Snowboarder, who with every new sentence assures us she's clinically insane, trips over her own feet and stacks face-first. In case you're new to this game: models falling over = funny.

o Kristy is Girl On Roller-Skates With Smoke Coming Out Of Her Boobs. I love this show.

o Alamela as Ninja Schoolgirl (I know, I know), has to shout, frown, and brandish an oversized mascara stick as a weapon. She's uptight and has trouble with the shouting, prompting Demelza to comment "A big stick – she needs one", and Alamela to plead "I've never had to go 'HA!' before". If only they'd asked her to shout "Twenty seconds to comply!" – she would've aced it.

· Back at Casa De Scrag, the bitching starts, and not before time. Variously, there are issues with the following matters of intense political importance:
a) evidence of someone crapping in an upstairs toilet;
b) Alexandra commenting that size 10 is fat, and all the size 10 girls getting understandably miffed;
c) Alexandra commenting that clothes made in Bali smell cheap, offending most of the other girls;
d) Alexandra commenting that she distances herself from people who shop at Westfield.

In a nutshell, Alexandra endears herself to nobody, accepts that she's not making any friends, juts out her masculine jaw and takes the criticism on the prominent, stubbly chin. Unfortunately, whilst a she-man mouthing off about shopping and fabric quality to a room full of offended willow branches should be interesting, I'm momentarily distracted by ear wax.

· Photo-shoot time, and JP, Vogue editor Kirstie Clements and photographer Jason Capobianco meet the girls at a studio for a group shot for the Vogue website. Don't get too excited – this is like drinking instant coffee from a mug emblazoned with the Moet & Chandon logo. For those of you unfamiliar with Kirstie Clements, she is a Woman With Large And Swiftly Delivered Opinions, and a little terrifying. Whilst Kirstie tuts about tan lines, bad skin, braces and Band-Aids, the girls don Collette Dinnigan frocks and drape themselves over ladders and crates for their photo. Some summary:

o Despite not being able to get one frock on due to her broad shoulders, Leiden looks surprisingly elegant for a champion belcher. As she says, "I think I showed all those long-haired bitches".
o Kamila looks as vacant as a vacant toilet cubicle that's recently been demolished to make way for a vortex.
o Belinda transforms completely into a gorgeous blonde. It's like she's able to Photoshop herself in real life. I don't want anybody else. When I think about you, I retouch myself.
o Emma, whilst pretty, is to modelling what partially-set concrete is to animal husbandry.
o Everybody else looks nice. Blah-di-blah-di-blah.

· After what seems like a fortnight, we're finally in the Elimination Barn, ready to boot someone out. Alamela sings like Snow White to break the tension. I just know I'm going to wake up one night with her standing next to my bed, offering to comb my hair or something. Creeps. Me. Out.

· Joydhi, reading constantly from a production-budget-breaking plastic orange clipboard, introduces Charlotte, Shiny Alex Perry and guest judge Kirsty Clements, and then lists the prizes, which actually do include a year's contract with Priscilla's model management, a trip to New York, a year as the Face Of Napoleon (because lord knows his own face is like a slapped arse), and a Ford Fiesta. So, really, a job they don't get paid for, and an over-sized roller skate. Stiffed.

· Each girl has to come forward and tell the judges who they think the three front-runners are in the competition, and Kristy seems to be the it girl. That's what happens when smoke comes out of your boobs. The group photo is analysed whilst I try to figure out the outfits the scrags have chosen to wear to meet their fate, like Demelza's too-frou skirt and Caris' high-collared neckerchief. Each girl's name is called until only Emma the Boring and Kamila the Vacant are left, and it's like they're playing tumbleweed tennis, such is their overwhelming charisma. They're both lied to (you both sparkle in person), then told the truth (you both suck in photographs), and then the Orange Clipboard Of Doom kicks Kamila out on her tiny, tiny arse. Bye Kamila! Don't do or say anything remotely interesting on your way out!

Next week, the girls walk the runway on a navy ship, cry on the 'phone, and indulge in a bit of lesbo pashing. Sailing. Wailing. Nailing.

Scrag Lag

Usually the Universe and I have an understanding.
We leave each other the hell alone.
Today, however, the Universe had a little chat to my computer and turned my Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag notes into adorable little hieroglyphics. The Universe and my computer are now hiding around a corner, pointing and giggling.

Fuck you, Universe.

The recap will be up tomorrow. And yes, I'll be mentioning the teeth.

In the meantime, kiki has tagged me for a thingy-whatsit. Apparently I have to:
1) Write my own six word memoir
2) Post it on my blog and include a visual illustration
3) Link to the person that tagged me in my post
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.

Anyone else think that's lame? Whatever. I've never done one of these before, and it's probably because they're stupid. Knock yourself out:

Jeez. Enough about your arse already.

You. The undersigned. You're tagged.
1. Red
2. Felix/Zosia
3. Tim
4. Rach
5. Non-Blondie

How Much Is That Hardcore Porn In The Windows?

My mum was babysitting my year-and-a-half-old nephew, Mitchell, on the weekend.
As it was rainy and cold outside, Mum found various indoor ways of entertaining Mitchell – drawing, reading to him, singing songs, and of course the equivalent of kiddie drugs – turning around and around quite quickly.
Soon she had an idea – she sat Mitchell on her lap in front of the computer, opened up the Google Image Search, and typed in various words to entertain him with pages and pages of pictures.
"Truck", she would type, and a bunch of shiny, colourful trucks would appear on the screen, to Mitchell's delight.
"Bus", she would type, and pictures of buses would appear, to enthusiastic toddler noise.

On and on the game went, until Mum made the mistake of over-estimating the innocence of the internet and the efficiency of filters.

If you have a small child on your lap and an image search-engine open, do not type in the word "Doggy". Trust me on that.

The Diagnosis Poem

(Whilst temporarily swamped with things professional and personal, I'm plagiarising myself from the depths of the defunct Snarkeology. Because I can. Shut up.)

A's for Alopecia, and I'm leaving all my hairs
On my pillow, clothes and lounge room, and a couple on the stairs.

B's for Botulism, and I'd do some more analysis,
But I can't seem to hold my pen with muscular paralysis.

C's for constipation, and although I'm eating fibre,
I can't get things to move from my intestine to my Khyber.

D is for Dyslexia, I find it hard to write
Without mixing words my up, and hence not looking very bright.

E's for epilepsy, and no matter where I'm sitting
You never know when I'll begin a-foamin' and a-fittin'.

F's for Frotteurism, and I simply can't refrain
From rubbing up against you on a crowded peak-hour train.

G's for Gonorrhea – I gave in to sexual yearning,
Now I have a yellow discharge, and I can't pee without burning.

H is Halitosis, and I'm finding, through my day,
That the more I talk to friends, the more they seem to move away.

I's for Indigestion, and the cake I had at four,
Is sitting just beneath my ribs, repeating evermore.

J, of course, is Jock Itch – it's as if a thousand ants
Have bitten, simultaneously, the parts around my pants.

K's for Kidney Stones, and no – the medicine's not helping -
I find it hard to pass my latest lager without yelping.

L is Lyme Disease, and now I'm feeling pretty sick,
Because I played too long with pigeons, and got bitten by a tick.

M is for Mad Cow Disease, and now I really wish
Instead of the Beef Wellington, the waitress brought me fish.

N's for Narcolepsy, and it's really hard to keep….
AWAKE! Because the bastard always sends me off to sl…

O's Osteoporosis, and the chalky, crumbly way
That it creeps into my spine, disintegrating vertebrae.

P's Psoriasis, and you can tell where I've been lying
By the flaky bits of skin – it's almost like my scalp is crying.

Q's for Quadraplegia – I cannot move, of course;
My limbs are just as useful as a siren on a horse.

R's Rheumatoid Arthritis, and it's useful joints I'm lacking;
When I'm standing up or sitting, you can hear my bones all cracking.

S - Somnabulism – I can go and get a cup
Of coffee and a biscuit, without ever waking up.

T is for Tinnitus, and my ears are always ringing,
It's like a choir of tone-deaf angels in my head, all singing.

U is for an Ulcer, deep in my oesophagus,
Spewing forth its gastric juices just like Mount Vesuvius.

V's for Vaginismus, and I'm left with little doubt
That, despite attempts at foreplay, nothing's going in or out.

W's for Whooping Cough, I don't know what the fuss is;
I've completely come to terms with my developing pertussis.

X is just for X-Ray, disappointing, yes – but true.
It's all that I can think of, and it looks inside of you.

Y is Yeast Infection (not the stuff you mix with wheat),
And I'm itching, and I'm burning, and I'm squirming in my seat.

Z isn't for anything. What am I – a doctor?