PunkKittyDiddy

Aussie Rules Football: It's A Bit Like The American Kind (If The NFL Was More Open-Minded About Disembowelment)

I'm not a chick who is wholly ignorant about sports.  Nope.  Daddy didn't raise no debutante.  I've spent many, many years now following the Phoenix Suns (although intermittently since their defeat to the Chicago Bulls in the last second of the last game of the finals in '93, which irretrievably crushed both my soul and my ability to give my whole heart to any one team from that point forward).  And of course thanks to I.G. I'm now all too familiar with the Beautiful Game, i.e. football.  (Forgive me for my standard rant here....I'm talking about real football.  What we Yanks have for whatever reason tagged with the misnomer of, "soccer."  Which reminds me of a t-shirt that a pundit on Fox Soccer Channel was recently wearing, on which a picture of an American football was affixed with the far more ingenious label of, "throwball."  Brilliant, eh?  But I digress........)

Anyway, all that has been well and good, but the sport that has had me properly fascinated and flummoxed for the past several years is Aussie Rules football.  I freakin' love it.  I just can't claim to fully understand it.

Aussie Rules is rather hard to describe, but Wikipedia does a pretty good job of trying.  And YouTube has assembled some fine footage.   It's part American throwball, part American Gladiator, with maybe a smattering of ultimate cage fighting, volleyball and rugby thrown in for good measure. 

For starters, they don't throw the ball.  They punch it, damn it.  This is a man's game. 

And all that protective girlie padding worn in American football?  Please.  Aussie players laugh at the very thought of protective padding - and then they break it over their knees and leave it in a ditch to die.  These burly gents wear little shorts and form-fitting tank tops, the better to show off those sculpted, sweaty, chiseled tree trunks and guns.........sigh.... uh, where was I going with this......?  Oh....right!  Despite the notable lack of armor, this is no vanity sport, my friends.  Au contraire.  They still tackle.  Hard.

Mama likes!

I can very clearly and most fondly recall one of the first tackles I ever witnessed when we'd stumbled upon a game by accident while channel surfing. One guy was running full-force with the ball, and an opponent thwarted him by running just as fast from the opposite direction and attempting to remove the guy's head with a swift elbow to the jaw.  Now, in most American sports, at this juncture the commentator would inevitably say something like, "Oooooh - that foul is gonna cost him!"  Feh!  The Aussie commentator, upon watching the geyser of gore erupt from the victim's general mouth region, simply bellowed, "Nice one!" And then they replayed the carnage about ten times more in slow-mo.  After about eight or nine viewings, you realize that those small white bits flying in all directions aren't foamy gobs of spittle - they're teeth.

What's not to love?

In real football/soccer, a mild breeze generated by, say, a gnat's fart will often send a player diving to the pitch and writhing in agony in an attempt to have a nearby opponent carded.  Hey, I still love that game too, but Aussie Rules separates the men from the boys - whilst also separating the men from their spleens.  In a world in which most professional sports have been overrun by preening, overpaid dandies, it's just refreshing to watch athletes who aren't afraid to take it on the chin (and everywhere else) without worrying about risking their off-season gigs modeling whitening toothpaste and Calvin Klein undies.

Somewhere along the way, real football/soccer was adoringly nicknamed, "The Beautiful Game," but Aussie Rules could easily hijack this title. 

Not that it's all that pretty a game, but........ who's gonna stop 'em?

Rollin' With My Peeps

For your perusing post-Easter pleasure, here is a compelling, highly scientific study that was done to measure the effects of smoking and alcohol on Peeps. 

If you know a Peep with a problem, please show it this cautionary site.  A little tough love won't kill it - but clearly throwing it into a beaker filled with 190 proof ethyl alcohol and a lit cigarette will.

Fishing: Once the Exclusive Domain of the Leisure-Minded; Now Accessible to the A.D.D.-Stricken Masses!

Over the weekend, I saw a commercial touting the miraculous fish pen!  Hey, look, it's a ballpoint pen!  Wait, I misspoke....hang on just a goshdarn minute.......why, it's a FISHING ROD THAT FITS NEATLY INSIDE YOUR POCKET! 

And here I'd been wondering what the next leap of technological evolution was going to yield.

Mind you, I don't fish, so maybe I need a seasoned professional in the field to explain to me the appeal of this particular product.  Since when was fishing an impulse activity?  At least to the extent that you have to carry your equipment on you at every moment just in case......well, in case what?  In case you're having lunch at a trendy Japanese restaurant, and you walk by the koi pond, and are struck by an overwhelming urge to fish right there that very second, and you don't want to waste five valuable minutes walking back to your car to retrieve a real-sized fishing rod from the trunk, lest you be distracted by a bird flying by overhead, and then find yourself struck by the urge to hunt instead?  I mean, there are only so many hours in a day.  Carpe diem, for godssakes!

Has fishing ever been a sport for the time-pressed?  Even if you do have the foresight to carry the amazing Fishpen in your pocket all the time, barring the accessibility of trendy Japanese restaurants in your neighborhood, don't you otherwise generally have to drive somewhere - to, say, a pond or lake - where your oxygen-adverse scaly nemesis resides?  And what about all that sitting around, waiting for them to take the bait?  I've heard that hours, days....hell, even entire weekends....are devoted to this particular phase.

Gunmakers might want to contemplate courting this niche market of harried fisherpersons.  Because who has time to wait for the damn fish to bite, anyways?  In fact, screw all this manual labor crap altogether! Just hit the freezer section of your local grocer.....Gordon's has kindly minced the suckers up into mush (scales, eyeballs and all), squeezed this concoction into a rectangular mold, and coated them with a delicious, golden batter! 

Mmmmm, the taste of progress is sweet indeed!

The Boneless Chicken Method of Circumventing Parental Despotism

In clashes with authorities, one of the more favored methods employed by peaceful protesters is to simply let their entire body go limp when being arrested.  I've seen footage of anti-war sit-ins and love-ins from the 60s, as well as more current scenarios in which this tactic is utilized, and I had naively wondered how imitating Gumby could be all that effective in wearing down the opposition.   

Fast forward to present day.  Somehow this anti-war footage found its way into Z's tiny little hands, and she's studied it diligently.  Well, this is the only explanation I can come up with, at any rate, because seemingly overnight, Z. has developed an uncanny boneless/rubber chicken impersonation.  (The first time she pulled this ace out of her sleeve, I was immediately reminded of my very favorite Far Side cartoon, at left.)  She usually wields this strategy when I am attempting to move her against her will from Point A (say, the candy aisle of the supermarket) to Point B (the far-less-festively decorated slum-like outskirts of said supermarket, where all the grotty, pungent mounds of broccoli and green beans are being peddled).

I no longer smirk at this deceptively pansy-ass-looking tactic of psychological warfare.  It's damn effective.  In fact, when faced with moving one solitary, twenty-something-pound toddler whose entire skeletal structure has suddenly turned to jelly, I become highly anxious.  The very idea of having to clear an entire city block of flaccid pacifist vegans in such fashion makes me feel like sobbing uncontrollably whilst beating myself into submission with a policeman's baton.  I get it now.  It works.

Now, the tear gas chucking and body checking methods generally used by the authorities to disperse of your standard anti-war protest crowd is clearly an unlikely option when dealing with a beloved toddler. Any of you more experienced parents out there have any effective, appropriate remedies for the whole bowl-of-jello stalling tactic?  Will be waiting with baited breath in the candy aisle for your texted suggestions.

Thanks in advance. 

Lap Dance Costs Securities Trader More Than His Dignity......Awwwwwwww!

I am almost resplendent in my predictability.  I kind of hate that about myself.   

Seriously, I am one gullible lab monkey.  If a tempting shiny object is dropped into my cage, wrapped up in a big red bow, with a gift tag that reads, "TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!," I will inevitably pounce on it.  Even if I can see the wires leading from the shiny object to some gadget in the hand of the guy in the white lab coat......a gadget on which there is a button clearly labeled, "SHOCK THE MONKEY!" - a button over which the scientist's thumb is twitching all too readily - I will still pounce.  That's how easily manipulated I am.

In perusing assorted online news stories this morning, I realized I would really like to be the kind of blogger who is compelled to comment on how the Dalai Lama (you know, the Nobel Peace Prize winning one) is being accused by the Chinese government of orchestrating violent protests against them in order to ruin that whole big party they're throwing for a bunch of people in track suits and leotards come August.

But noooooooo.  Why would I blog about something significant like that when the Associated Press has seen fit to drop this shiny, red-gift-bow-festooned gem through the bars of my cage into my hot little typing monkey fingers instead?  See, it turns out that some Wall Street guy is suing a titty bar for injuries he sustained during a lap dance after the stripper's shoe whacked him in the face.

Oh, hell - why not?  This is America, damn it!  A man is well within his rights to expect that when he forks over good money to have his leg humped, he should not have to suffer the indignity of having his personal space (not to mention eye socket) pierced by a four-inch stiletto!   What was that stupid stripper thinking, anyway?  That just because he shoved some slimy 10-spot into her G-string earlier that night, he was a man who didn't have feelings, or moral standards, or the right to enjoy a lap dance sans bruising?  You know, I really hate it when over-exploited sex workers get all sloppy and impertinent like that!  I bet she got lube all over his $5K Armani suit, too.  Maybe we should all pool our resources and establish a fund to help him get back on the road to recovery.......yeah!  That would make me feel a bit better about this whole sordid mess! 

Thing is, I was just now surfing the web, looking for survivor support groups that might be able to assist in this endeavor, but when I google, "Wall Street Moguls Who've Survived Lap Dance Injuries," the results are pitifully sparse!

What's this country coming to, anyway?

Hope Floats

I don't remember life before the internet, really.  I have vague recollections of having to get in an automobile and drive (or be driven) to a mortar-and-bricks library if I wanted to look up certain information, like how to become certified as a paranormal investigator, or for how many days Barrow, Alaska goes without sunlight annually, and where and how one can purchase blood-sucking action figures to recreate a vampiric siege of that aforementioned arctic village.   

But I seem to have blocked such traumatic, pre-net, library-visiting childhood memories from my consciousness, for the most part.  OK.........I kind of miss visiting the library, but it's so satisfying to be able to find the answer, in mere minutes, to whatever trivial and random question enters my head, without even having to get out of my crusty pajamas and comb my hair.  I know the internet has its downsides and detractors, but I think it's pretty damn cool that the information superhighway allows for the free-flowing exchange of thought and creative expression from every corner of the globe.  It's inspiring that people from all walks of life can so easily share their dreams, their thoughts and ideas, and their songs about crude bodily functions.  Check it out:

Coco Bidet

If potty jokes aren't your thing, just look away for a minute.  Go read The Economist or something. 

This delightful nugget comes courtesy of the vibrant and vivacious C.R., who always seems to know how to make me smile.  (I mean, she sent me the link. She is not actually featured in the video.)  I was having a rather blah day, and then these two anonymous clowns on YouTube go and cheer me up by doing something as simple as rapping about poo.

The world is a funny place indeed.  And thank god, huh?

The Road to Greatness is Littered with Crayon Shavings, and the Occasional Patch

It turns out I've been a geyser of ground-breaking artistic expression since waaaay back.  Since 1978, to be specific.   

My hometown newspaper likes to do a retrospective feature - an "On This Day In Our Wee Little Cowboy Town 30 Years Ago" sort of thing.  (Mostly because there's not a lot of current news to report back home.)  So yesterday my brother called me up, and in between howls of laughter, he informed me that I personally had contributed to hometown history "On This Day 30 Years Ago"! 

Me?!?  A trailblazer whose actions actually shaped the history of an entire town?! 

Alas, my recollection of whatever trailblazing I'd done during the Brady Bunch era has since grown foggy....I mean, I carry with me an impressive plethora of noteworthy accomplishments, after all.....so many to choose from......like.....uh......well, I once managed to walk and chew gum at the same time.  And.....um.....I'm pretty sure there's some other stuff.  Maybe.

Anyway.....couldn't resist.  Nope.  Had to look.

The unearthed evidence revealed that I once participated in a poster-making contest for the local rodeo.  (Look, I told you it was a cowboy town.)  Anyway, my singular masterpiece - along with seven other singular masterpieces - was selected for a highly distinguished honor.  How was I so deservingly lauded, you ask in breathless anticipation?

I was awarded a certificate and a patch.  Oh yeah.  A PATCH, suckers.  Tell me, are you now slowly feeling yourself overcome by a sinking sense of inferiority?  Is the crushing force of my infinite track record of formidable feats bearing down upon you, and with malevolent stealth extinguishing your personal sense of accomplishment, however impressive in its own right? 

No?  Not even a little?  Oh well.

But seriously - this explains so much.  Clearly I was one of those child prodigies who peaked early, and, having tread such a hyper-ambitious and glorified path at such a tender age, the extravagant luster of my early overachievement de-sensitized me to any even slightly less illustrious future accomplishments, eventually poisoning my soul with ennui and apathy, leaving me doomed to shrivel in the shadow of my own greatness.

That's one theory, anyway.

But just so you don't spend the rest of your day feeling insignificant in the wake of my sizable historical influence................beyond the eight of us in this picture, there were maybe four other kids in the whole school.  It was pretty small.

Now, I'm gonna go relive the glory days by sitting down with Z. and whipping out the crayons.  I'm pretty confident her future will be chock full of actual accomplishments - maybe even big honkin' ones - but regardless, I'll be wickedly proud of every single patch of hers along the way.

Ode to Urban Spring

It's a gorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgeous Monday today.  I walked out into the sparkling sunshine, took a whiff of that fresh spring goodness, and then found a fifty-dollar-parking-ticket-shaped souvenir to commemorate this day forevermore. 

(Must! Remember! To! Move! The! Damn! Car! On! Streetcleaning! Days!)

There goes that fat $12.00 tax refund.  Worse, it poached an unexpected additional 38 super-delegates that had previously been pledged to the campaign to increase my personal net worth beyond the double digit mark.....

Upside is that I now have a prime parking spot on the correct side of the street in anticipation of tomorrow's street cleaning.  Went to the car this morning because we had a small errand to run, but I changed my mind upon seeing the ticket.  I mean, f*** it - that parking spot cost me $50.  We're not going anywhere today.

Adventures in Netflixing: "30 Days of Night"

I'll be damned.....this actually did play like Hamlet after that whole Shoot 'Em Up fiasco.  Well, maybe not Hamlet.....but a really decent episode of X-Files, at least.

Also, it's such an ingenious concept, I can't believe this hasn't been attempted before in another vampire movie.  (Maybe it has.  I can't claim to have watched every one.)  What better setting for a vampire movie than the northern-most tip of Alaska, in a small town called Barrow?   Sooooooooo north, the sun sets for well over a month every year.  Actually, I looked it up on Wikipedia, and it sets for 65 days.  But I suppose the title 65 Days of Night isn't as catchy, and besides, the beset-upon townsfolk in the story would have even more laughable odds of survival with those kinds of figures.  Talk about shooting fish in a barrel.  Or maybe they're just leaving room for the inevitable sequel, 35 More Days of Night.

I.G. now thinks I'm weird because I would really love to visit Barrow and check out how 65 days of night actually plays out.  I'm a night owl, so it sounds really cool.  He assures me there are probably some dirt-cheap timeshares available up there.  And he's suggesting separate vacations from here on out.  But I digress......

This movie was really fun.  Good, mindless, blood-soaked fun, and not overly stupid........as much as a movie about the walking dead can avoid being stupid.

It helped that the vampires in this picture actually look like heinous blood-sucking monsters, instead of, say, Brad Pitt with fangs.  Don't get me wrong.......I loved Interview with the Glampire.  But Brad Pitt with fangs whining about what a vile, detestable, hideous creature he is?  Please!  Did you notice all the women (and more than a few men) ripping their bodices open and issuing a Disney FastPass to their jugulars?  How To Tell You're NOT A Scary Vampire - Chapter 1, Page 1.  In 30 Days of Night, on the other hand, the vampires don't wear ruffled shirts and whine about being hideous and moreover, morally conflicted, while tickling the ivories of a baby grand piano and sipping port.  They simply open their yellow-toothed dentally-disadvantaged-in-an-inbred-hillbilly-kind-of-way pieholes (complete with advanced stages of gumrot on display) and do an uncanny impersonation of a rogue tiger at a Siegfried and Roy show.  You can almost smell the halitosis. 

Definitely scarier.

Actually, the scenes in which the toothy troublemakers stalk their foodsource made me a bit nostalgic - all that growling, gulping, head-shaking and residual splatter reminded me of Z.'s first attempts at breastfeeding.

P.S. - in looking for a movie still to use in this entry, I discovered that 30 Days of Night action figures are available for purchase.  OK, look, I liked the movie and all, but, uh....... I don't feel the need to re-create the experience via three inch tall plastic figurines.  Thanks, though.

Fun flick, if you like this sort of thing.  I give it an A.

Adventures in Netflixing: "Shoot 'Em Up"

I only rented this because I have a thing for Clive Owen.  His big, sweaty, limey man-hands never fail to send waves of lust crashing upon the beach of my soul.  Only problem is, lust is one of the seven deadly sins. 

Boy, did God smite me good for this.

This movie was about fifty different kinds of awful.  I know, I know....what did I expect?  The movie wasn't entitled Meaningful Conversation in a Small Cafe, or Poignant Recollections of An Elderly Coal Miner As Played by Sir Anthony Hopkins, or even Atonement.

Sure, I get that the filmmaker obviously graduated from that whole derivative, ironic spoof, tongue-in-cheek, over-the-top school of filmmaking at which Quentin Tarantino is the dean and Chuck Norris has tenure and Bruce Campbell sweeps up on the weekends.......even so, this bid for a varsity letter just felt strained.  And yes, pointing out the flaws of such a work is a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

One of my favorite sports!

They work so hard for the puns in this movie, it's painful.  Clive at one point stabs a guy in the mouth with a carrot (and actually kills him), just so he can say, "Eat your vegetables!"  (It's not even the only time a carrot makes a star turn as a deadly weapon in this flick.)  Oh, and there's Monica Belluci as the lactating (don't ask) hooker with a heart of gold whose accent is nearly as pointed as the produce.  And the usually well-nuanced Paul Giamatti?  It's like he was channeling Larry Flynt through some sort of Elmer Fudd filter. 

Ugh.  30 Days of Night might actually play like Hamlet after this one.  I'll let you know.

I give it a D-, only because I'm feeling generous.