Cirque Du So-Lame Part 2: The Lamening

Update: Being fifteen different kinds of idiot, I posted a link to this blog on my facebook page. It didn't occur to me that Gemma the absent-but-on-her-way-home-whose-room-has-just-been-turned-into-the-most-pissweak-circus-in-history might see it on her phone.

Dammit.

Flex Chong and I received a polite text from Gemma exclaiming that it looked like we had a busy long weekend (lol) but that she wasn't feeling great and if it's not too party-pooperish could we tidy her room.

ALRIGHT FINE.

Welcome home, Gemma. Please be as quiet as possible when approaching the front door.

Cirque Du So-Lame

So it's a rainy public holiday, and housemate Flex Chong and I are bored.


We've never even been to acting school.

When suddenly we suddenly had a sudden idea!

Seriously. Never had one lesson.

Of course! While our other housemate Gemma was away, we'd turn her bedroom into a circus! It was all  so clear.
In the past, whenever Gemma had declined joining Flex Chong and I on a night out, we'd always make sure we brought her home a present to show her that we'd missed her. This is almost certainly the reason she once found a bag full of leaves, menus and real estate flyers outside her bedroom door. Rumour has it that it also has something to do with the shopping trolley that rumbled swervingly down our hallway one evening.
So now, with Gemma away for four days, we had to do something special. Sort of more special than the big piece of bark and number-six-painted-on-a-board that we'd already brought her that weekend, anyway.


Although to be honest, it could be a number 9.

In case I've never made my feelings regarding discount stores known before - I frickkin' fricky love discount stores. If it wasn't for discount stores, how could I possibly sustain my lust for plastic crap I'll never use again? Come on, now. You're not using your brain.
Now, the availability of circus props is unpredictable in discount stores. We expected to find clown masks, but failed.

Carnival and Big-Bird's-About-To-Eat-My-Soul masks, though? No problem.

We didn't expect to find gigantic novelty clown shoes, but voila!

You should've seen his underpants.

Granted, we had trouble justifying the purchase of window-rat...

But we more than made up for it with a line of questionably-positioned circus animals...



They're all in a 'lion'. No, wait! That one's riding 'bear-back'. No, wait! I've got a billiion of these...


A foam head and a clown hat...



And, of course, your nightmares taken care of for the next fortnight

...a welcome home banner...



As seen in circuses across the nation

...and plenty of that garish multi-coloured popcorn, the thought of which makes you gag like you're a python swallowing a tractor.



And you always get a bit stuck in the back of your throat like a pu... er, like a church hymn.

But, whether or not the rest was circus-y enough, I think where we really excelled was in the balloon department. One hundred and fifty of those static-charged bad boys. Seriously, I've never been that puffed out around that much latex before. Shut up. Keep going. Shut up.




Like the prettiest and most severe case of bed-hemorrhoids ever.

Gemma gets home tomorrow. I'm pretty sure she'll be delighted. Who doesn't love a lame, half-arsed circus?


 

Every Day For A Year #16

( Really? It's part 16 and you still don't know what's going on? Alrighty, then - go have a wander around over here and the rest of us will cop a squat under a tree and wait for you. And maybe listen to the most compulsively annoying electronic cat song ever here. )

I'm feeling all creative, so I thought I'd kick off this latest batch of Frosty's photos with a poem. Try not to explode with like, awesome overload and stuff. Maybe sit down.

Ahem.

Frosty's got no shower
'cause the plumber's fixing leaks
So he hasn't washed his armpits now
For six or seven weeks.

Despite his unbecoming funk
And film of dark'ning grime,
He's still recording imagery
Rectangular, sublime.

From ties to textures pebbly
On to statues, glass and tin;
There's barely squares of picture
That he's not an expert in.

The last one's of a shower
Wishful thinking, one might say
Because our Frosty's smelling quite a bit
Like corpses mixed with hay.

If any of you plan on getting that poem tattooed on yourself, I'd really appreciate credit. And I think you should get it on your arse. 

Enjoy!

Shebagabang's Next Top Model Series Two #13 - THE FINALE

You know what happens when you write a whole introduction to a New Zealand’s Next Top Model recap, including references to shoulder-pads, rainbows, journeys, and seeing Chris Sisarich’s nipples down at Bondi, and your computer chucks a distinctive and unrestrained wobbly, eradicating any changes you made?



This. This is what happens.

So basically, now I’m cross. And, naturally, a little bit drunk. Cross and drunk. Let’s see what that does to the quality, shall we?


The Judges

Sara Tetro

Oh, Sara. If I had a couch with cushions as big as your first outfit’s shoulders, and with fabric as couchy as your second outfit’s couchy, couchy fabric, I’d never leave the loungeroom.*


Chris Sisarich
If the Hulk up there saw your grey waistcoat, do you know what he’d say? He’d say:
HULK NO LIKE GREY WAISTCOAT. GREY WAISTCOAT HIDE NIPPLES. MAKE HULK SAD.

Of course, the Hulk is totally gay in this scenario. He’s a big green gay man who likes nipples and hates waistcoats.


Colin Mathura-Jeffree
I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. You keep me waiting for the WHOLE SERIES. That’s EIGHTEEN HUMAN YEARS. Waiting.
Then, in the very last skerrick of the very last episode, you finally get your hairspray out.
Wait – I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

Yeah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really concentrating.

The Icksint
You do realise that after this, you’re on your own don’t you? That no-one will be here to guide you through the ups and downs (hulls end villeys), the convolutions (uns end outs) of the Kiwi accent? HOW WILL YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE EXECUTIVES IN THE BOARDROOM ARE SAYING??

Sinsutuv Skun = Skun whuch gits pumples and reshes end thet.


A But Too Sun-Sear = This finale episode. See also: Borung.

Whuttle Ut Down To Two = What the judges have to do.

Puck-nuck Blin-kut = What Colin Mathura-Jeffree makes most of his suit jackets out of.

Dulimma = What Sara Tetro pretends she’s in right before she kicks Nelza’s arse out on the street

Shutballs = An expression of surprise common to wunners of modellung competushuns.




Budgetirry Lumutations
Let’s not kid ourselves. The whole episode, nay, the entire series can be summed up with Michaela’s parting words:
“I’m gonna keep modelling and make my own money, and get my own Ford Fiesta”.
You hitch that wagon to a star, Michaela.




Bist Buts


• According to Danielle, there are three different cultures – Maori, South African, and Ranga. It’s so cute when some people can’t tell the difference between a culture and a disability!


• Nelza is gone. This is the bist but of all the bist buts. Bye, robot retard who puts full stops at the end of every syllable! We’ll miss you. Kidding.


• Spoken ads for Cover Girl: Woeful.


• Still shots for Cover Girl: Woeful.


• Stadium wearable-art catwalk thingo: Woeful.


• Caged toy tigers in hip-embellished dress: Get me one immediately. If there’s a matching unicorn-bra, I may just explode. And sort of achieve world domination at the same time. Whilst exploding. I know. It’s not a coincidence that that’s your dream too.


• Michaela is wearing hooves, and there are dogs dressed as elephants. THERE ARE DOGS DRESSED AS ELEPHANTS. These are the best goddamn mushrooms I’ve ever eaten. The only thing that could make this better would be to hear someone with a Kiwi accent say “psilocybin”.


Aaaaaand Danielle wins.


What? That’s supposed to be amazing or awesome or something?


There were dogs dressed as elephants, dude. Git some perspicktuv.


(Congratulations, you tops freckled scary thing, you).




*Reports that I do not, in fact, ever leave the loungeroom are inherently false and clearly spread by vicious rumour-mongers who have never seen me dance.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model Series Two #12

What? This thing is still going? It’s like the longest series of Top Model ever. It feels like I’ve been sitting in my loungeroom taking frenzied notes for eight and a half years. I’m tired. It’s a good thing I get paid for this sh... oh. Oh, I see. No, you’re right, that is sad.



The Judges
Normally in this section, I’d look at each of the regular judges in their own individual paragraphs, and say something about how Sara Tetro should avoid ruching around her boobular section, or how even in a god-awful driving cap Chris “Touch Me In The Morning And Then Just Walk Away” Sisarich speaks fluent underpants, or how Colin Hyphenated-Surname only just saves himself this week with a saucy pert curl in his coiff.
But this week will be different, because I only have eyes for one judge – guest Francis Hooper.
Or as I shall call him:


There’s A Man In A Little Hat On My Telly.


Sure, he also has a sequinned bow tie, a metallic-sheened waistcoat and the word ‘gothbag’ in his vocabulary, but none of that matters, because you know what?


THERE’S A MAN IN A LITTLE HAT ON MY TELLY.


Wait – I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

Seriously, there are a LOT of pictures of chimpanzees wearing hats on the internet.

The Icksint
They say that Latin is the language of enlightenment, and that French is the language of love. I say that the New Zealand accent is the language of sounds like you’re sucking on a chess piece.

Diabolluckle Prenk = putting chocolate in a fake crocodile’s mouth to lure models to the pool edge and then pushing them in.

Obviously Scrupted = putting chocolate in a fake crocodile’s mouth to lure models to the pool edge and then pushing them in.

Dye-rick-shuns = what you give to a driver of a Ford Fee-yista if you want to get to a go-see on time. See also: U-Turns.

Unstunct = a gut feeling that is less effective than a street directory by about eight hundred percent.

The Jum = a stupid, stupid place to hold a go-see.


Tin Munnuts = how late you need to be to git dusqualified from a chellunge.

Wunner Wunner Chucken Dunner = I have no fucking idea what this means.

There’s A Men Un A Luttle Het On My Tilly = I know, right? Awesome.



Budgetirry Lumutations

Actually, it probably costs a hell of a lot to pay people to pretend to be excited about Ford Fiestas.

Not so much to give one away as a prize, though. For a year. On loan.
As Nelza would say: “Holla”.
As Nelza would also say: “I’m fine thanks, how are you *click* you *click* you *click* Error 404 Personality Not Found


Bist Buts


• Courtenay gets lost during the go-sees. Honestly, for a girl whose eyes are so wide-set she can see around corners, her sense of direction is tirra-bull.


• The obligatory on-screen countdown clock causes Danielle to run around in a bra with one shoe. Which is totally fine because I’m still a little frightened of her.


• Courtenay is still lost.


• Danielle sees five designers and makes nine bookings. Even maths is scared of her.


• Courtenay is still lost.


• I feel all funny during this week’s photo shoot. Not upset like Michaela, or insecure like Courtenay, or lobotomised like Nelza. Just an odd sensation that I can’t live another day without a pink Harajuku wig,a candy-striped pillbox hat, a marionette, and a tattooed stomach. Ut was all the fun of the fear!


• Courtenay is still lost.


• Apparently Nelza loves this week, and she loves going on go-sees, and she loves Auckland, and photo-shoots, and saying “thank you”, and air, and unicorns. Which is such a coincidence, because I love smacking people.


Courtenay is still lost. Oh, no wait – she lost. I always get those two mixed up.

E haere ra, Courtenay! I actually think you’re a little bit amazing, although to be honest, you always had one eye on the door. FINAL WIDE-SET EYES JOKE, PEOPLE.



Maybe.

Every Day For A Year #15

(If you feel like this is a party you weren't invited to, see where the party started back here. If you've been at the party for a while but you feel like hating yourself by giggling at a dog singing the Batman theme, you're drunk, and here it is.)

Either I'm drunk too, or this particular batch of Frosty's photos reek of good. Reflecty, close-up, moonlit, motion-blurred, music festival good.

Have a look, but remember that if you buy a ticket to Sierra Fin's album launch first, they automatically turn 3D and every fifth photo shoots out beer straight into your mouth.