Death By Myopia

I was on holiday in Sydney with my cousins about a month ago when we decided to hit Bondi Beach for some surf, sun, sand, and other clichés that start with the letter “s”. Little did I know that, after I left the beach, I just missed another thing that started with an s: “socialite” (or to some people, “skank” or “slut”). See, when I tuned in to a news program that night, a report said that Paris Hilton was in Bondi that same day.

We didn’t see her because of temporal/ spatial discrepancies (i.e. wrong place, wrong time). Anyway, when she heard the report, my 12-year-old cousin expressed an almost melancholy regret over not catching a glimpse of Ms. Hilton. I was surprised by her reaction because most people’s attitudes towards Paris are mild disgust, red-hot hatred, and all shades of sentiments in between. That got me wondering why people, tabloid editors excepted, hate Paris Hilton so much. I figured some people may have had a bad experience in a Hilton hotel and were taking it out on her, some may have had their boyfriends stolen by her, and some may have had the misfortune of acquiring rabies from her pet rat Tinkerbell. Mostly, though, I think it’s just plain and simple jealousy that’s the main motivation. I don’t hate Paris Hilton. In fact, I love her. Here are some reasons why.

She first became a household name because of her work in film. Because of this, the celebrity sex tape industry boomed, raking in loads of cash from horny middle-aged men who have nothing better to do at their desks during lunch time. Score one for the independent film industry. On a lesser scale, she inspired stoned-out losers to submit film clips of their buddies dry-humping an emu to YouTube in the far-fetched hopes of gaining pop culture recognition or, at the very least, a cult following. Another point for the indie filmmakers.

She does her part in ending world hunger. How? By eating less. (Wait, I think that’s Nicole Richie. Bah, who cares?) She is a major proponent of the “resources-as-pie-slices economic model” which, in a nutshell, states that “less for me, more for them.” Sadly, her generosity and economic astuteness are rewarded by society with accusations of not providing a realistic self-image for young women. Whatever. At least she doesn’t hog food so that starving Somalian orphans would have more. How’s that for putting things into perspective? Speaking of being a role model, some parents say that she sets a bad example for children. Why the hell would you set a standard for your kids’ behavior based on the actions of a twenty-five year old party animal? If you really want your children to be good, tell them not to emulate people like, oh, I don’t know, Adolf Hitler maybe. Save your venom for people like him. I’ve never heard anyone call Hitler a “bad example.” “Evil bastard” maybe, but never “bad example”. Where’s the outrage now, huh?

She has enriched the musical world by releasing an album. Sure, like her, it sucked, but how many people can brag about having their first album released by a major label? Besides, I don’t see Shannon Noll copping the same amount of vitriol as her.

She has provided a lot of people, mostly her boytoys, with their 15 minutes of fame. Who can forget Paris “Hey-look-we-have-the-same-name-how-cute” Whatshisface? In a way, she’s like “Big Brother”, only easier on the eyes. Only a few people have managed to pull off this fame-by-association phenomenon, and Ms. Hilton has been one of the most successful. While some may argue that getting 15 minutes of fame is not necessarily a good thing, I would have to disagree. Here are examples of not necessarily good things: getting mauled by a hungry Kodiak bear; getting sodomized in Cell Block D by a 250-pound convicted drug trafficker named Ramon; getting sodomized by a horny Kodiak bear; drowning in a public toilet urinal. Fame doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?

Here’s the thing about Paris Hilton: secretly, girls wanna be her and guys wanna do her. No one just likes to admit it. While the ladies may not want to live her kind of life 24/7, there is something to be said about living the high life of partying with famous people, travelling around the world, and throwing around money like only heiresses could. As for guys… well, we don’t turn down a free root. After all, Paris has been known to raise a few “Eiffel towers”. So, in spite of everything that’s been said or written about her, she still manages to capture our attention. Whether she irritates the hell out of people or gives them trouser tents, she is guaranteed to get reactions. That is the reason why, as her detractors increase, her popularity (or notoriety) rises. You definitely have to give her props for that. While other public personalities have to do stuff to stay in the limelight, she simply has to BE Paris Hilton.

*Image is used for review and commentary purposes only. Paris Hilton image from Wikipedia.

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"I Like My Coffee Like My Women..."

December 17th 2006 04:35

You may be familiar with this scene from a movie.

Dashing, debonair hero lounges around in a café. Waitress comes over and asks him, “How would you like your coffee, sir?” With a cool, suave glance, he turns to her and says, “I like my coffee like my women…” Cue witty punchline. In real-life, however, this line does not function quite as well. I recently decided to try it in a Gloria Jean’s coffeehouse. I stood in front of the counter gawking at the wide variety of beverages they offered, looking very much like the idiot I am, until the barista came up to me and asked, “Can I help you with anything, sir?” Show time. “I like my coffee like my women,” I said soto voce. “Excuse me, sir?”, he asked with a puzzled look. “Oh, um, I’ll have a medium mocha latte, thanks,” I stammered. Yep, very debonair. In hindsight, I realized what happened was actually a good thing, since I did not have a punchline ready. If he had heard me and asked “And how do you like your women, sir?”, I would have probably answered him with “Er… um, sipped from a Styrofoam cup. Ehehehe.” After that incident, I decided to come up with punchlines for the aforementioned statement. I came up with several decent ones and realized that these can be categorized into various types of men who are most likely to use these. Here, now, are various ways on how to effectively conclude “I like my coffee like my women…”

FOR THE CASANOVA:
“…dark as night, sweet as sin.”
“…strong, robust, and full-bodied.”
“…smoking hot.”
“…tempting and steamy.”

FOR THE CHAUVINISTIC PIG:
“…it must easily come off clothes.”
“…with a cherry.” *wink wink*
“…on my lap, then in my pants.”
“…it must keep me up all night.”
“…with a lot of brandy – to make it less boring.”
“…dehydrating.” Insert “bodily fluids” joke here.
“…with a spoon.” *wink wink*
“…creamy brown and low in fat.”
“…free.”

FOR THE CAPPUCCINO AFICIONADO:
“…short and Italian.”
“…frothing at the mouth.”
“…with lots of milk.”

FOR THE STARBUCKS CONSUMER (God have mercy on your commercialized yuppie soul):
“…expensive and pretentious.”
“…with my name on it.”
“…covered in whipped cream.”

FOR THE GAY TEA-SIPPER:
“…I don’t.”
“…away from my cup.”

FOR THE JADED SMART-ASS:
“…cold and bitter.”
“…cheap and tasteless.”
“…tepid and bland.”
“…weak and timid.”
“…caffeine-free.”

FOR THE BRAIN-DEAD DUMB-ASS:
“…through a straw.”
“…desiccated and granulated.”
“…with donuts.”
“…poured from a pot.”
“…shaken, not stirred. No, wait… stirred, not shaken. Hmmm, that doesn’t sound right…”
“…freshly brewed.”
“…in a mug, please.”

As you may have noticed, the sexist remarks are the most numerous. That’s not really surprising since even the beginning of the statement (“I like my coffee like MY women…”) is not exactly music to the ears of feminists. That, however, was not the point of my exercise. I just wanted to show that droll statements can be achieved by comparing people to caffeinated drinks.

*Image is used for review and commentary purposes only. Coffee image from Wikipedia.

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Dr. House, Meet Dr. Cox (Part 2)

November 23rd 2006 01:48

ROUND 4: Again, bedside meeting for the Scrubs team.

“I think I know what’s on our patient’s face,” reports JD. “I thought it was fungal growth at first, but at a certain angle, it suddenly came to me. Make-up! More specifically, Avon True Color Blush Compact Classic Aura. Boy, she really applied it on thick.” Everyone stares at him and Cox asks, “Why, in the name of all that is holy, do you possess that kind of information?” JD quickly thinks, Uh-oh, busted. You mustn’t let them know that you peruse catalogues of feminine products because you like the smell of the paper. Quick, what’s something vastly different from cosmetics? Penguins! “They waddle like tuxedoed pendulums with feet,” he says wistfully to no one in particular. Weird look from everyone again. Cox says, “Helpful information there, Cassandra, but maybe Old Pegleg has more useful findings. It’s a pretty long shot, of course, but we’re running out of options. Also, I’m getting pretty sick of this place.”
In House’s office, the team is looking at the pictures from the album. These all show a woman in her 30’s posing with different children in various tropical-looking locations. Chase suddenly comes into the room and explains that he cut his vacation short because “some kid on Australian Idol who was singing a song by Ryan Cabrera had the gall to call himself a ‘rocker.’ That was it, mate. My whole holiday was ruined.” Seeing the pictures on the table, he says, “Hey, I know her. Her name’s Naomi Robson. She’s a famous journalist back home.” Suddenly, there is a loud clap of thunder from the heavens. Chase looks sheepishly upwards and says, “She’s a famous TV reporter back home.” Another clap of thunder, but not so loud. “She’s someone on TV.” No thunder. “Great,” says House. “A TV personality. They spout off all sorts of rubbish onscreen but they don’t have the decency to tell us what’s wrong with them. Well, I guess it’s time for a doctor-to-doctor with Moptop.” WINNER: Naomi Robson’s disease

ROUND 5: House goes to Cox’s room with one of the pictures. “This is Naomi Robson, my… OUR Jane Doe. Other than that, I have no other information,” he says. “Well, we’ve also got nada, except we know she wears a LOT of make-up,” replies Cox. JD, who was looking at the picture, suddenly says, “This is a fascinating photo. See, here in the background, you can see the silhouette of a flying bat, but this is no ordinary bat. Based on its size and wing shape, I’m thinking it’s a moss-forest blossom bat, located only in Papua New Guinea.” Cox glowers at him and says, “What are you, some kind of expert on… wait a minute, did you say Papua New Guinea? I think I know what’s wrong with our patient.” A nurse comes into the room and tells Dr. House that his patient has regained consciousness. They all go to her room and begin to ask her questions. “Naomi,” says Cox. “Have you been to England and eaten their beef in the past twenty years?” “No,” replies Naomi. “OK, next question, and be honest now,” says Cox. “Have you ever eaten human flesh, especially from South Pacific tribespeople?” Naomi hides her face in her hands as if weeping, but when she removes her hands, her face resembles a vampire’s, and she begins to sprout bat wings. “Yesss,” she replies. “I have lived for over two hundred yearsss. I retain my youth by consuming the souls of innocent children. Recently, I have feasted on a child, Wah-wah, who I pretended to save from cannibals. The irony is delicious, yesss?” The doctors just shrug their shoulders, and The Todd is faintly heard in the background asking if it was more delicious than “this” and if she wanted a taste. Dr. Cox says, “That’s nice, Naomi. Unfortunately, you have kuru. It was first discovered in cannibals from Papua New Guinea after they have ritually feasted on human brains. It is a rare disease, but very fatal and there is no cure.” Naomi looks around and says, “Eh, what can you do?” Then she turns into a bat and flies out the window. WINNER and CHAMPION: Naomi Robson. God have mercy on us all.

POST-MATCH EVENT: Dr. House and Dr. Cox share a bonding moment by beating up a visiting doctor from Seattle Grace Hospital. Exclamations of “Dr. McDreamy, my ass!” and “Issues with an ex-wife? How original!” are heard from the fracas. After the dust has cleared, the Scrubs team says goodbye and leave. House looks into the distance and says, “He needed an attitude announcement, but he was one good doctor. I like Cox.” The Todd appears out of nowhere and says, “I bet you do. Gay five!” Everyone just ignores him except House, who pummels him with his cane while the credits roll.

*Image is used for review and commentary purposes only. John C. McGinley image from Wikipedia.

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Dr. House, Meet Dr. Cox (Part 1)

November 23rd 2006 01:41

Have you ever tried imagining a cross-over between your two favorite TV shows? I know it’s stupid to ask a television viewer to use whatever’s left of his imagination, but humor me on this one.

The 4th season of Scrubs was released on DVD a couple of months ago and that triggered my own fantasy sequence on what would happen if the two crankiest doctors on the tube – Dr. Cox from Scrubs and Dr. House from, uh, House – ever met face-to-face.

“In this corner, wearing a permanent scowl, using the metric system (but speaking with an American accent) and weighing in at 70 kilograms, from the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, he put the “cane” in “Cain and Abel”! He’s the Pimp Daddy with the Limp… Daddy! Heeeeere’s Dr. Gregory Hooouuuse! In the other corner, weighing in at 180 pounds of pure muscle and ego, from Sacred Heart Hospital, he’s the top dog with the mop top. The Great Syllable Elongator… Dr. Perrrrry Cox! Let’s get ready to rumble!” *ding

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Flogging a Dead Horse (or, Not Another List!)

November 8th 2006 03:54

Another Melbourne Cup has come and gone. Another race that stopped the nation, another day of glitz and glamour, another “I-don’t-give-a-damn” holiday for me. (Hey, give me a break. I was studying for my exams.) Previously, I wrote a list on horses to commemorate the Spring Carnival. Now, it seems the time is apt to do another list, this time on the “athletes” of the track: the jockeys. Since time immemorial, jockeys have fired up the imagination of both old and young. OK, maybe not really “fired up the imagination”, but at least they are an inspiration to children everywhere who have given up hope on ever achieving their growth spurts. To honor their achievements (and because I’m too lazy to do a real blog post, AGAIN), here is a list of the most famous jockeys in history. What’s that? You say there aren’t any famous jockeys? That’s bull. Why, off the top of my head, I can mention, um… well, y’know, that guy, and… um, well, that other guy. OK, fine. So jockeys aren’t nearly as popular as horses. Instead, I’ll just do one on “vertically-challenged” persons (VCP). (Incidentally, am I the only one who’s sick and tired of these PC terms?)

1. Mini-Me:

This little man entered the realm of pop culture when he appeared in the second Austin Powers movie. No other VCP has captured the public’s imagination the way he did. I bet in any culture, when you say the name “Mini-me”, people would understand who you’re referring to. The amazing thing was he shot to fame by playing a character who hardly spoke. The only other personalities who managed to do this are Charlie Chaplin, Lon Chaney, and Karl Rove

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My Kingdom for a Horse: Another Top Ten List

October 28th 2006 05:18

The Spring Carnival is in full swing once again in Melbourne. Of course, I could make a wisecrack on how the fillies and stallions are out in full glory, and that the horses don’t look bad either, but I won’t. Every newspaper columnist in the country who thought they were so witty when they wrote that should die a horrible death, preferably one involving enraged equines and flying hooves. Anyway, the Cox Plate is on today, and I really should give a damn except: 1) I know jack about horse racing, and 2) “Cox Plate” reminds me of a sausage appetizer. What I decided to do, instead, was compile a list of the ten most notable horses in history, literature, and entertainment. It’s also an easy way to make a post without thinking too much.

Mr. Ed:

A horse is a horse, of course, of course… Unless, of course, that horse was eating peanut butter to make it look like he was talking. How true this legend is, I have no idea. I do know that if you ask George Bush to hold a book right-side up, it will look like he was intelligent

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Expecting a Baby? Here, Have a Cigarette!

October 25th 2006 03:09

“About one in three Melbourne mums-to-be believe smoking to achieve a smaller baby will make their labour easier. The disturbing trend follows news that pregnant UK teenagers take up smoking in the hope of having smaller babies and a less painful childbirth.” (mX, 24 October 2006)

When I first read this, I thought “Hmmm, that makes absolutely perfect sense. Not!”

My next appearance is on Rove's "What The...?"

Now, I won’t pretend to be an expert in childbirth since I haven’t given birth yet and, in all truthfulness, I probably never will (since I’m a guy). In fact, the only childbirth experience I’ve ever had was my own, and I can’t even remember what happened then. Maybe I was drunk or high, I don’t know. I have to take my mother’s word that I came from her womb and didn’t spring from the blood of a Gorgon. The point is, even an idiot like me knows that pregnant women should not smoke. An unborn child is not an extra organ that you can abuse with your vices, like your liver or your lungs. It is another person, and you are responsible for that person’s well-being, if not his/her life

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A Chivalry Dilemma

October 20th 2006 05:32

Here’s the scenario. I’m sitting in a train, and a group of passengers gets aboard. There are no more empty seats, so they just stand and hold on to the handrails. They’re mostly guys in their 20’s or 30’s and a few schoolboys, but one of their number is a lady who looked like she just came from work. I grew up in a country where it was customary, if you’re a guy, to give up your seat to a lady regardless of her age, physical condition, or baby bump size. Here in Australia, I’ve learned that things are done a bit differently. So now, I was faced with a dilemma. If I give up my seat for her, I might be viewed as a condescending, non-progressive-thinking relic from the Middle Ages. If I don’t give up my seat for her, I’m going to feel like a weasel.

Fortunately, I was saved from my predicament because, with all the time I spent trying to resolve my inner conflict, I realized that the next station was my stop, so I left the train feeling guilt-free. However, that got me thinking, what if it happens again some other time? Do I follow my instinct and risk humiliation or do I conform to the mores of the society I currently live in? I have finally come up with a solution. I don’t sit down in public transport unless the train is really empty and there is no chance of it filling up during the duration of my trip. Yup, I Am Weasel.

So here’s a question I want to ask (especially the ladies): if I give up my seat for a non-handicapped, non-pregnant, non-elderly lady, is that considered chivalry or am I stepping on the ideals of feminism? Because to tell you the truth, my feet are killing me from all that standing

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Damn Good Pizza at Toto's

October 19th 2006 08:19

If you’re ever in Melbourne and you suddenly get attacked by a craving for pizza, I would have to recommend Toto’s Pizza House on Lygon St. Last night, my sister and I went here for my birthday dinner. The first thing I noticed was that our waitress was really nice and friendly. Of course, it may have merely been due to my boyish good looks *cough cough* , but somehow, I doubt it.

She was so bubbly and attentive to our needs that I was wondering if she was high or something. But no, her pupils weren’t dilated, her hands weren’t shaking, and she wasn’t babbling incoherently. I talked to her for a bit and found that she had been working for 10 hours straight and had about 2 more hours to go. Holy Red Bull, Batman! I asked her if she wasn’t even feeling tired and how the hell she still managed to stay so perky at 9:30 in the evening. Again, images of narcotics flashed in my head. It turns out that she was feeling a bit cranky and slumped earlier in the day, but once she got over that hump, she was Little Miss Sunshine again.

So we ordered a Mexican pizza and, uh, some sort of pasta. I forgot its name (I’m stupid that way) but it was Italian and had cream sauce with bacon, chives and mushroom. The pasta was good, but the pizza was excellent. It was delicious and they didn’t skimp on the toppings. Special mention goes to the crust. It was one of the tastiest crusts I’ve ever had. Except for that time I ate the crust from a leper’s sore. Hah! I kid, I kid. I expected I would have to wait for a while before they brought out the food. Boy, was I wrong. Those two dishes we ordered were brought out within just 10 minutes. The best thing about the menu was the price. In a nice place like that, I would have expected to shell out around $40 for what we ate. Instead, for a medium pizza, a large plate of pasta, and drinks, the grand total was $25.30. Here’s the best part. I went to pay the bill with a $50 note, and my change was $25. Where else in the world would you see a restaurant tip its customers

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So You Think Your Parents Suck?

October 10th 2006 05:32

“BILOXI, Miss. — Leann Real promised her husband, an avid sports fan, that if they ever had a son he'd get to pick the name. ESPN Montana Real was born this week at Biloxi Regional Medical Center. Rusty Real, of D'Iberville, chose ESPN (pronounced Espen) after the sports network and Montana after football legend Joe Montana. Baby ESPN isn't alone. Three others were cited in a 2005 report on tivocommunity.com about the network's 25th anniversary. They are Espn Malachi McCall in Pampa, Texas; Espn Curiel in Corpus Christi, Texas; and Espn Blondeel in Michigan. "We were the talk of the hospital," Rusty Real said. "The nurses kept asking my wife if she was really going to let her husband name him ESPN. She said, 'Oh, yes.'" (FOXNews.com, 07 October 2006)

There’s actually two pronunciations for the baby’s name: “Espen” and “Good-God-You’ll-Be-Scarred-For-Life.” Honestly, what kind of a parent names his child after a television channel? Not only that, no matter how you say the name, it’s still going to sound stupid. I think that Daddy Redneck has some residual childhood trauma issues that he needed to pass on to Junior. He wasn’t too keen on his own name so he decided to share the pain. I can just imagine the roll call in class. “Parker, Peter. Rabbit, Roger. Real, Rusty. Hahaha! Hey, everybody. Let’s laugh at him. Not only is he not the sharpest tool in the shed, he’s also real rusty.” The other kids named Espn aren’t any better off. The kid from Pampa is cursed with a stupid first name and a Biblical second name. Yup, that should make him really popular with the other kids at school. Especially Bruce, the toilet-dunking, nerd-hating homophobic man-child. The parents of Espn from Michigan must probably loathe him. When you’ve got a last name of “Blondeel”, you should have a normal first name like Joe or Sam or Frank. The last thing you need is sentient blobs from the Alpha Centauri star system kidnapping you because you have the same name as their dead king who is foretold in legends to be reborn in another body and in another world. However, if you really really REALLY need to name your child after a TV station, here are some other suggestions to make his or her life a living hell

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