Archive | September, 2013

The Bachelor: Prick From a Rose

16 Sep

“Will you accept this rose?”

Damn straight I will!  Why?  Because there is nothing I love more than watching 25 single, desperate women with enough botox and fake tan to put Heidi Montag to shame, competing for the affections of an eternally shirtless ‘chiropractor’.

Come on, we all gave a little snigger when pensive Dr Tim explained how hard it was being a ‘chiropractor’ and having no time to find love, all the while running down the beach in little more than a loin cloth.  Seriously, the producers of ‘The Bachelor’ must have v expensive water bills considering all the bloody beachside showers that man is having!

But despite all of this I am totally and utterly digging on this show in the most shameless way.

Not so much because of Dr Boardshorts, but more because of all the CRAZY BITCHES TRYING TO MAKE HIM FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM!  It really is just the most hilarious concept for a TV show and I just cannot help but love it hard.  I used to think eating a large packet of peanut M’n’Ms in my underwear was a good day, but this is way better.  And much better for my ass.

As you would know, the premise is that Dr Chisel Face spends time getting to know these nutcases by taking them on individual and group dates, and then at the end of the episode, he hands out a single red rose to the ones he wants to keep around; the ones he believes are one step closer to being ‘Mrs Fake Doctor’.  Can you just hear the Celine Dion soundtrack in the background?

At this early stage of the competition it is very hard for me to pick a fav.  However, there are some obvi standouts who are already giving Kimberley from Melrose Place a run for her money and crazy pills. And she is not even a real person.

First of all there is Ali, or as she is called in my house, Doe-Eyed Crazy.  Seriously, the girl couldn’t be in a more perpetual state of awe if she was sucking on laughing gas.  The poor pet got a little too eager on the first night and tried to plant one on unsuspecting ‘chiropractor’ Tim.  And he awkwardly pushed her off.  For reals, you couldn’t MAKE better television!

My other fav is Bianca.  Or Sav Blanca.  In a word, she’s a drunk.  And for that reason alone I like her.  I feel like the ‘Fitness Model’ thing is a lie and she’s really just a recovering junkie doing her community service on national television.  But she’s got some serious tude.  And a speech impediment.

Mention must also go to whiny Laura whose damsel in distress act is starting to get really old.  Almost as old as Penny, the 35-year-old fitness instructor who likes to salsa and wear terrible hair extensions.  Gosh, it’s like this show was made just for me!

I think the other reason I like this show so much is because it also makes me angry.  It’s just a Naomi Campbell bitch slap in the face to feminism (and every other remotely independent woman-type movement ever made).  I mean, these 25 women are COMPETING for a man to fall in love with them!  And they all live together in the same house while they do it.  I mean, it’s the first rule of multiple dating, bro – keep those bitches separate!  But I realise this is the whole premise of the show and, consequently, a moot point.

And while we’re on it, what the shit is going on with host Osher Gunsberg?  No no, I haven’t had a momentary episode of dyslexia, the man previously known as Andrew G slash Andrew Ginsberg has gone on some spiritual and professional quest to America and come back with a wanky name change.  Don’t worry, I looked it up online (I totally research) and evidently he met some wise shaman while holidaying in Israel who told him his name had bad energy around it and he was heading down a path of ‘destruction and sadness’.  Very ‘Eat Pray Love’! Look, I’m no expert, but I think this had more to do with the fact that he’d been working on some of the worst television shows ever created and someone was pissed.  But I digress.  The point?  Osher is actually ridiculous.  Only Prince can get away with that shit.

The other thing I love about ‘The Bachelor’ is the ridiculous ‘acting’.  Like last night, when seven unsuspecting bitches were taken out into the Australian sand dunes for a group date.  When Dr Wet Hair made his big entrance over the top of the dunes like Indiana Jones, GOSH it was dramatic!  They were all so shocked and impressed that it was him!

WHO THE EFF ELSE DID YOU EXPECT IT TO BE?!

But again, it may seem like I am bagging on this show, but quite the contrary.  It has allowed me to truly understand the meaning of guilty pleasure. It’s like when you go off carbs and get a cheat meal on Sundays.  It’s that massively greasy pizza and tub of ice-cream you shove down your throat.  Bloody good for the soul.  Because watching it reminds me that I am actually an awesome person with half a brain cell and natural breasts.  Mind you, the women on this show haven’t had a pizza or ice-cream since they were in nappies, so you gotta shed a tear for them in that regard too.

And I urge you to watch it.  Just prop your eyelids open with a couple of match sticks and force yourself to witness the excruciating drama unfolding.

Then come and gossip about it with me like we actually know these people.  It’ll be amaze.

And stay tuned. I don’t imagine this will be the last time you hear of me, Dr Used-To-Be-A-Stripper.

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Ode to My Father

1 Sep

“Some people say I look like me dad!”

You said it, B*Witched.  (And if you don’t know which circa 1999 Irish girls group I’m referring to, YouTube that shit immediately.)

There is a common belief that most girls end up looking like their mothers.  And from observation I have found this to be true.  But not for me.  I thought by this age I would have started appreciating cane furniture and shopping at Laura Ashley.  However, this does not appear to be the case.  Despite the fact I sometimes bear an uncanny resemblance to him in photographs (which is a little disturbing when you’re a 29 year-old woman) fate and genetics seem to have decided that my future is heading directly towards Fathertown.

And since a) today is Father’s Day and b) my father works in some random part of buttf&*# nowhere (also known as Western Australia), I have created this blog post as a dedication to daddy dearest (who will most likely never read it, as he does not have sufficient internet access or possibly internet knowledge.)

10 Reasons Why I Am Turning Into My Father:

1.  I yell at the television.

This was originally restricted to State of Origin matches. ( Yes, I am an avid QLD State of Origin supporter and don’t even start.)  This kind of behaviour is acceptable in a live-to-air football match.  However, a few months ago, I found myself screaming “SHE’S LYING TO YOU, HAYLEY! STOP LYING TO HAYLEY LEWIS!!” during an episode of Biggest Loser.  On my own.  Give me a recliner lounge and a rum, and I’m Dad.

2.  I fall asleep in an upright position.

Don’t tell me your dad didn’t doze off in front of the telly.  My dad even did it with his cup of coffee still in his hand.  And I would watch with gross fascination.  But now that I have a real job and have been practically forced into taking multi-vitamins for Energy & Vitality I TOTALLY get it. I do it at work, on the bus, in the movies, on my couch, at the doctor.  I even drool sometimes.

3.  No parking space is ever good enough.

We used to live within 5 minutes of one of the biggest shopping centres in south east Brisbane, if you don’t hardly mind.  Any mum’s dream.  Any father’s greatest dread.  Dad never came to the shops except at Christmas and birthdays.  And it took him an hour to find a space, because “everything was too bloody far away.”  Mum would park in the next suburb if it meant she had access to the Myer Stocktake Sale.  But not dad.  And not me.  It’s a prime spot or I turn that car around.

4.  I have to turn off all electrical points in the house.

I cannot leave the house without double checking that everything with the remote potential for catching fire is turned off.  At the wall.  Things like the heater.  The kettle.  My hair straightener.  The TV.  Now I understand why it took us half a day to leave the house for a holiday and why my mother had to have a scotch and orange in the morning. Whatever, when YOUR house burns down from electrical failure, don’t come crying to me.

5.  I like beer more than a lot of things.

Cheap beer.  Even at 58, dad will still take a XXXX over a Corona.  Before you judge, I do not drink XXXX.  In Victoria, you can get assaulted for that.  But I would take a VB.  Or Carlton.  Whichever.

6.  I laugh at my own jokes.

It’s bad enough that I’ve been telling dad jokes since I was 17.  It’s worse now that I am the one laughing the loudest.  And I don’t even care.

7.  I wear singlets under everything.

Remember Chesty Bonds?  Mum used to pick up a two-pack for dad at Woolies because he wore them UNDER EVERYTHING.  Apparently it was a thing back in the late 80’s/early 90’s before it was acceptable for men to wear fluoro coloured muscle shirts.  Initially I thought this new habit of mine developed because I lived in Melbourne.  But the fact that I am still doing it well into Autumn and Spring begs to differ.

8. I like to watch documentaries.  And Seinfeld.

Dad’s favourite shows are docos.  I used to see docos as dead bloody boring with a few shots of old ladies with their boobs hanging out.  Not anymore.  ‘Inside the Human Body’, ‘Airplane Investigation’, ‘National Geographic’s Search for the Green-Eyed Girl’ – I’m mad for it!  I turned down ‘Bridezillas’ to watch a doco on the volcanic eruptions on Mars on a flight to Brisbane last month.  WHO AM I?!

And the Seinfeld thing?  I used to hate it.  Now I own the DVDs.

9.  I go to Bunnings.

This is a bit of a stretch.  I went to Bunnings.  Consider the fact that I had never been before in my life, I have now visited that place three times in the last year!  In my defence I was wearing a leopard print maxi and a purple cape.  But still.

10.  I’m very concerned about petrol prices.

Gosh they’re getting expensive.  It’s bloody daylight robbery!  When I got my licence, it was 68 cents a litre!

 

 

Truth be told, I still don’t know how to change a tyre properly or how to check the chlorine levels of a pool.  But give me another few years and she’ll be right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

 

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