Wednesday, December 24, 2008

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Twelve groups a-crowbarred

People who ride those horizontal bike things, and especially when they ride them on the road. These tools are always in my blind spot when I’m driving, and due to the stupid shape of their bike things, are about as high as the gutter. Don’t blame me when I run you over. Get a real fucking bike, you idiots.

People who hawk gym memberships at shopping centres. I know it’s your job, but you can surely get a better one. I’ve got a good one, and I’m a fucking numpty. If I’m wandering around killing time for my lunch break, I don’t want to be harassed by some idiot trying to get me to sign up to a gym, or I’ll be doing more than killing time, if you get my drift. I’ll be killing them. Did I over explain that?

People who use television as a personality should be put into a horizontal bike and run over. Congratulations on memorising entire seasons of sitcoms, and thanks everso for repeating them back to me. I will allow a “Did you hear what Chandler said on Friends last night?” but I will not allow a “that reminds me of an episode of Will and Grace, where Will was worried about his job, and he said to Grace, who was worried about her boyfriend, that if you cut a starfish into many pieces, each piece will grow to become another starfish.” This is especially not welcomed when the topic of conversation was Voltron vs Power Rangers, and the entire convo is then worked not to starfish, but to motherfucking Will and Grace.

Busking children come out at Christmas as surely as Christmas beetles will hang on my flyscreen window when it gets hot at night. Note to busking children – a recorder is not an instrument, stop pretending it is one. You could be playing Mozart’s Unfinished Symphony in G, and it would still sound like a shit version of ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ The best kid busker I saw was this little dude who had a boom box (that’s right, a motherfucking boom box) and some awesome 80s music blaring out of it. The kid danced to the music like a key-tar player in an electronica band and didn’t let up for about an hour. He earned my twenty cents, I’ll tell you.

Spammers have been flooding my email box of late. Apparently I’ve won myself quite a handsome amount from the UK lottery, I’ve got some goat-herding millionaire in Namibia who wants me to look after a couple of mill for him while he sorts out his taxes, I’ve been selected to buy some cock expanding pills and some spanner I’ve never heard of wants me to buy some medicines from Canada. The best thing about spammers is their email address. I’m fairly sure that the UK lottery has a better email address than I can’t wait to get that money though.

I hate advertising campaigns that use models that look a little bit like celebrities. It’s not the model’s fault, but it annoys me when I have to do a double take because I think the guy posing for a Just Jeans ad is the guy that used to be on Buffy.

Motherfucking voice recognition phone line system things are shit. Vodafone are arseholes purely because of this. Useless pricks, keeping me on hold for a fucking month before I get put through to someone in Bangladesh who informs me that the customer service line is closed. A customer service line that’s always closed doesn’t help me pay a bill, tigers. It's also fairly impossible to order a pizza these days as well. I'm glad their new high-tech bullshit thing is saving them from paying a 15 year-old kid to answer the phone, but it's also costing them a trillion dollars in pizza orders. And they never remember the fucking chicken wings anyway.

Banks are shit as well. I understand that they don’t want me to use another bank’s ATM so they ping me with some exorbitant fee (they should really put a St George ATM outside every pub in the world; I’d be a freakin millionaire), but they also find it ok to charge me to use their ATMs, their internet banking site, their tellers and their accounts. Sorry bank, but you’ve kind of put a fee on everything, and you’re closed whenever anyone needs you. And none of your pens work. I should fucking charge you a fee for making me use my own pen. Excuse me for hating you.

I don’t understand why celebrities feel the need to give their kids shit names. Nicole Kidman and Keith Kidman-Cruise squeezed out their puppy and named it Sunday Rose. Yes, we understand there’s a story about an artist and a prostitute in there somewhere, but it’s still a stupid name (and the story isn’t flattering, just quietly). The Beckham astronauts keep fucking up names (Romeo, Cruz and Mr Sheen), which inspired Lleyton Hewitt and Bec Cartwright to name their latest Cruz as well – when did Cruz become a fashionable name anyway? But the winner of the Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Retarded Celebrity Couple Of The Year (Even Though I’ve Never Heard Of One Of Them) (MEBAFRCCOTY[ETINHOOOT]) goes to Ashlee Simpson (surprise) and Pete Wentz, who had some secks and named their cabbage patch doll Bronz Mawgli. I’m assuming they were playing Scrabble and started throwing tiles at each other to come up with that sucker. People with more money than brain cells should be forced to get a licence to procreate. I just googled Pete Wentz and found out he’s in Fall Out Boy. Ride that emo wave, Pete.

Bums in the city who will beg for $2 for a sandwich or a bus ride. Seriously, piss off. I need my $2 for my own sandwiches and bus rides. If you tell me what it’s really for, I might help you out. Ask me for a few coins to buy some cheap booze or some Horizon Filter cigarettes and you may just find a couple of silvers coming your way. Honesty is the best policy, underage drinkers, smokers and junkies of Canberra.

This one’s a bit generic – I hate idiot drivers. I got stuck behind a fucking stupid Renault the other day. I’ve never been in a Renault before, but I’m assuming that it has, you know, pedals at your feet to control speed, a big wheel thing that you turn to change direction, some dials on the dash to tell you all kinds of interesting things... why then, did the one I was driving behind suddenly stop in the middle of the road? Was it because the driver was a pelican? (yes) If only there was some kind of test that people had to pass before they were allowed to take control of a motor vehicle, huh? Life would be sweet.

People who complain too much about everything – people, places, TV, movies, some fucking football team that never fucking wins and then write a shitty blog about it... seriously, just get over it. It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake. Cheer up. Also, people who move to Canberra and then bitch about it because they go to a pub and can get to the bar within the hour, can hear what their friends are saying and live a maximum of 30 minutes by car from home to work... sorry, go back to Sydmelbelaide if you’d rather spend your life in queues.

PS. Merry Christmas.

Twelve groups a-crowbarred, eleven words of awesome, ten ads-a-crapping, nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Eleven words of awesome

The English language is full of shit words and phrases like “at the end of the day”, “tummy”, “bi-curious” and “emoticon”. I have written some new words and phrases that have received the Mister Evil Breakfast Stamp of Approval for Being Awesome (MEBSOAFBA).

Humping the calcium turtle: A way to describe events that you can't really remember due to extreme alcohol consumption. ("I was humping the calcium turtle on the weekend." / "How did you get your fridge up on the roof?" "I was humping the calcium turtle.")

Badger in a wetsuit / whore in church / goat on a pole / ferret in a disco: These are all expressions of heat and give the impression that you are sweating. (“Mate, it’s a bit warm today; I’m sweating like a badger in a wetsuit.” / “I was so nervous, I was sweating like a whore in church.”)

Aussie cricket team: To get the job done, albeit poorly and past the due date. (His report was a bit Aussie cricket team, but he was happy it was over.)

1. An extreme measurement. ("I was as sore as a goat." / "It's as hot as a goat out here." / "The stockmarket fell a goatload today.")
2. An undisclosed part of the human body. ("I'll punch you in the goat." / "My goat is as sore as a goat.")

S M Mess: The state of inebriation where you can no longer use text-messaging, but dammit if you aren't going to try.

Twenty bucks: The right price to make a bad story interesting. ("I saw a red car... and then I found twenty bucks.")

Eggs for breakfast: Something that sounds like a tempting idea, but from previous experience, is known to be fairly dicey. (It was that time of the night when the idea of another beer was eggs for breakfast.)

Mahoosive: Extremely large – this is like the word ‘massive’, but bigger.

Alpha sheep: Person who unexpectedly leads people to action. (The buffet table was untouched as the guests waited for the arrival of an Alpha Sheep).

Four day arse: An offensive smell. (After the road-trip, the boys smelt like four-day arse).

Bediddle: A car with one headlight brighter than the other. Is also an alternative for the classic “punchbuggy” game.

Eleven words of awesome, ten ads-a-crapping, nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Ten ads-a-crapping

There’s some shithouse ads on right now – apparently the fact that we have no good TV shows on during summer means we don’t need any decent commercials either.

The shit car ad with the cats. Fucked if I know what car this is for, but it’s shit and I’m not going to buy one ever. Not that I can afford it anyway. The ad starts off with some kind of thieving heist, by people with cat heads. What follows is a Matrix-style kung-fu extravaganza, followed by one of the cats driving away. Get fucked, stupid cat ad.

The GIO ad with the retarded couple annoys the piss out of me. The husband drives his new, bright, shiny sports car into the driveway. Wifey says, “What the motherfuck is this?” He says, “It’s an investment.” She says, “Give us a drive then.” He says, “Nein. What about our insurance? What if you crash? We’ll lose our fucking premiums, bitch!” She fights her way through all the great aspects of their insurance before he finally hands over the keys. This couple would be a hoot to do grocery shopping with. “Let’s get Corn Flakes.” “But Nutri Grain has five vitamins… AND iron!” “I don’t like Nutri Grain.” “It’s 30 cents cheaper.” “I’m allergic to it and it will make my neck explode.” “You also get 12 grams more in Nutri Grain.” “I’ll die if I eat it.” “...” “…” “…” “…” “Fuck it, just buy your fucking Nutri Grain.”

Foxtel ads are apparently saving people money. It still actually costs money to have Foxtel, yet the savings you’ll get are seemingly astounding. I’m not sure how much more affordable it is than, say, free-to-air television, but some people honestly need to save money on free TV by installing a satellite dish with monthly charges.

Those AAMI ads with the ginger ninja kids shit me. What is wrong with AAMI at the moment? I liked the ad with that chick who was trying to get engaged to Todd and go to Paris on a honeymoon for $233, despite my hatred for its flawed mathematics. All of a sudden, we’ve got these evil rangas telling their mum to stop dressing them alike. People who make ads for AAMI need to stop smoking crack. Creepy fucking kids.

Napisan or Omo shit – I can’t remember which cleaning goo it’s for, but there’s a kid who keeps asking “why” to his mum about everything in the world. Eventually, the questions turn to why she uses Omo or Napisan or whatever the fuck it is. “Because it cleans shit.” “Why?” “Because the enzymes work like fucking madmen to get rid of stains.” “Why?” Mum is stumped. Enter Napisan/Omo person. “The enzymes work like fucking madmen to get rid of stains,” she says. The kid seems pleased with that answer, despite the fact that it was the same one his mum just gave! STUPID FUCKING NAPISAN/OMO SHIT. Go to hell.

Most McDonalds ads these days automatically go into the “shit” category. Some of them have a scrap of potential, but they fall flat with poor acting or direction. I know, I’m talking about the direction of McDonalds ads, but seriously, it’s an issue that needs to be sorted. The one that comes to mind is for the new Seared Chicken Burger. Looks as dry as a desert goat, just quietly. Random Cool Guy sits down with his burger and sings, “Chicken!” as he is quite pleased with his lunch. I often sing about my lunch, too. If you ever hear a melodious, “Human entrails!” you’ll know it’s me. Anyway, Random Cool Guy looks to his mate for some back-up. His friend is busy trying to look like he doesn’t know Random Cool Guy, and is intent on staring at his burger. Random Cool Guy keeps staring. Friend keeps avoiding the look. Eventually, before Friend’s hair catches fire through the sheer power of Random Cool Guy’s gaze, he gives him a half-hearted, “Yeah, funny,” kind of smile, even though it wasn’t funny. Still, when one of your mates goes out on a limb and sings to their McDonalds burger, you really should cowboy up and support him.

Tampon ads are always cringeworthy. Yes yes yes I understand that they’re important; I use them all the time, you know, just in case. It could happen. But are women so fucking uptight about it that it robs them of security, confidence and personality? “I can’t go out, I’ve got my period.” Suck it up, princess. If men had periods, we’d be doing even more crazy shit when we had our rags. “Did you see Johnno the other day? Drank fifty-seven beers and juggled three steam rollers!” “That’s amazing!” “And… he was having his period!” See how much cooler that is? Girls, get over it. Seriously, if your confidence and security are hanging by a thread (see what I did there?), you might need more than a Libra maxi.

Advanced Medical Institute commercials appear late at night, like a kebab, but are not half as tasty. The Advanced Medical Institute are apparently more concerned with blokes cracking boners than they are of, say, curing cancer, which would be a more worthwhile pursuit of ADVANCED MEDICINE (in my opinion, of course). The ads are either of two blokes who play a piano with their wangs, a guy who roots his missus in the back of his car for about 12 hours straight (I don’t think that would be good for anyone, just quietly), or more recently, a yellow screen with the words “who wants better sex?” I guess the Advanced Medical Institute ran out of money for advertising… they probably blew it all (see what I did there? I’m on fire) on buying a piano and ruining it with cock-juice. Gross.

Toilet paper ads. Somewhere back in the 80s, Sorbent introduced a cute puppy who played with toilet paper. They haven’t let go of that campaign, and continue to use it to this day. The dog chases around sixty-three rolls of toilet paper per commercial, which is cute and all… but it begs the question – what is that family going to use to wipe their bums with? It is also more economical to buy a pillow rather than fill a sack with toilet paper.

Bunnings ads feature Bunnings employees spouting endless joy about the goods that Bunnings stocks. For those unfamiliar with Bunnings, it’s a motherfucking huge hardware shop that sells everything from bits of timber, hammers, plants, water features and electrical tin openers. If you need something to re-create an episode of Home Improvement, Bunnings is the place to be. Anyway… the people they get to ‘host’ the ads aren’t always what you’d call “TV Pretty.” Some are missing teeth, some haven’t had a haircut since 1934 and some are packing a bong while the cameras are rolling. That’s not my beef – I think it’s good to see regular people doing regular things in their place of business. No-one’s convinced that the hot chicks on McDonalds ads work there, so why even bother to hire a looker when you can just get Stan from the barbecue department to give his two cents? The problem with the ads, dear reader, is that the spiel that Stan gives about his barbies doesn’t have anything to do with the specials that are coming up at the store.
“We’ve got all your barbecue needs here; we’ve got barbies to cook snags, barbies to cook goats, we’ve got barbecue tongs, gas bottles, outdoor seating arrangements and barbecue aprons. Bunnings’ barbecues are fucking tops,” says Stan. Thanks, Stan. Now, voiceover man, tell me more about these barbecues. “Leaf blowers for $200, vanity units from $150, ride-on-mowers from $300.” I might be doing something wrong with my barbecues, cause I have never needed to leaf-blow my snags, or ride a mower to create a salad. Sauce goes in the cupboard, not the vanity unit. This makes no fucking sense. Stupid Bunnings.

Ten ads-a-crapping, nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Monday, December 22, 2008

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Nine nerds a-rofling

The sounds of the internet will now be heard loud and clear across the world thanks to a group of chatroom enthusiasts who will literally be LOLing and ROFLing their way through cyberspace.
“It occurred to me one night when I was chatting on MSN,” said James Banks, otherwise known as Agent_Smith932. “My friend Cerebus was pnwing this newb and it was really funny, so I typed LOL to keep him going.” LOL is an internet acronym meaning ‘Laughing Out Loud.’ “All of a sudden, I realised that I wasn’t LOLing at all. I wasn’t making any noise, except for my fingers on the keyboard, and my asthma and my flu. But I wasn’t laughing, at least not on the outside.”
When Mrs Banks went upstairs to say goodnight to her son, she found him in hysterics on the floor. “I was scared out of my mind,” Mrs Banks said. “I thought he’d had a fit. I jumped on top of him to stop him moving and he suddenly came to and told me to get off him.”
“I was trying something out,” James says. “I was seeing how it would go if I could increase the LOL to a ROFL – Rolling On the Floor Laughing. It was going fine until I was attacked by my mum. Everyone on the internet knew about how my mum tried to save me, it was embarrassing.”

While it would be a stretch to say that ‘everyone on the internet’ knew about it, there were four people in the chatroom at the time, and at least one made a quip about it when told of what had just occurred in James’ bedroom.
“Everyone was all like, 'Smith where r u’ and shit,” James explains. “And I was all like, ‘Fck man, ull neva gess wot jus happened I was literally ROFL n my mum comes in n sees me n shes all ova me cuz she thinks im havin a fit or sumthing!!!”

According to his internet logs, a user named Dry_Tears chimed in with “Dude, your mum is hot LOL I’d go there LOLLL!” which almost caused James to stop his literal use of internet phrases. “Nah I’m going to keep going,” he says. “I’ve mastered the LOL and now my mum knows not to freak out if she sees me ROFLing. My friends are all doing it as well – one guy, RigidBoy4U, says he’s going to attempt a LMAO (Laughing My Arse Off), and at least three people I know claimed to have LSHIPMP (Laughing So Hard I Pissed My Pants). They said that it really happened, but who knows? It’s pretty gross. If I'm somewhere where I can't literally LOL or ROFL, and especially not LSHIPMP, I'm going to give LOTI (Laughing On The Inside) a go. I think LOTI could be the next big thing."

All I know is that the future of the internet should have a VBS (Very Big Smile) on its face, as people like Agent_Smith932, Cerebus, Dry_Tears and RigidBoy4U continue to make chatrooms a better place.

Nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Eight cancelled shows

Lipstick Jungle – this attempted to cash in on the popularity of the Sex and the City movie. Strangely, the fact that people enjoyed one tv show about 40-year old women who have sex in New York didn’t necessarily mean they’d like another show about 40-year old women who have sex in New York. Perhaps the writers shouldn’t have just changed the characters names, and actually written a show. Odd concept, that.

90210 – it was cancelled until Channel 10 had no choice but to cut their costs and put it back on the air... and then cancel it again. It’s so close to falling into the “so bad it’s good” category, but is hovering around the “it’s just bad” bin at the moment. Again, it shows that TV and Hollywood producers have the imagination of a sock by rehashing ideas that were good... twenty years ago.

Big Brother – I guess it was inevitable. The mighty BB juggernaut came crashing to a halt fairly suddenly. The four people who watched it were devastated. It was probably about time for this one to be put to rest (you’re next, Idol), but I have no doubt that this puppy will come back in a couple of years.

The Starter Wife was promoted fairly heavily at the beginning of the year. It was about a chick who was starting her life over following the break-up of her marriage. It wrapped up fairly quickly as she found a new love in the third episode. There was cheering in the street when that happened, I tell you. Or at least, there would have been, if anyone had bothered watching it.

Taken Out – this show wasn’t half as bad as it should have been. Some bloke from Foxtel hosted thirty singles who voted themselves in or out for a date with another single as pieces of their life were slowly revealed. Trashy, tacky and completely watchable; mainly due to the snide comments from the host and the complete bitchiness of the contestants.

Women’s Murder Club – just what we need; another fucking crime show. This one has a twist though – it’s all about chicks. If you’ve just finished watching an episode of CSI, just pop this program on and you can watch it again as it would be if it was performed by a troupe of all-female amateur actors. Don’t just take my word for it; ask the three people who watched it for more than thirty seconds - they would have told you it was shit too.

Canal Road was doomed from the get-go. For one, it billed itself as a ‘gritty Aussie drama series’, which means that it’s going to die really quickly. This was later confirmed as it went to the ‘gritty’ timeslot of 9:30pm on Thursday, then the ‘even grittier’ 10:30pm Tuesday slot, then it popped up at randomly gritty times when the movie of the week finished early, then it just grittily disappeared. The show itself had about as much grit as a cheese sandwich, but good on ‘em for giving it a bash. One day, Australia will actually produce a decent television show.

Out of the Blue at time of writing hasn’t been cancelled, but it can’t be too long before it is. Holy fuck this show is bad. The most entertaining part is trying to work out which ads the actors have appeared in, rather than try and work out who killed who. It’s poorly written, and seems to have an emphasis on getting people who look like they should be on Neighbours to say ‘shit.’ Another fine example of an Aussie TV show that’s made purely to keep the domestic content on track.

Eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Seven bumper stickers

Frangipani stickers are everywhere. I have no idea where they sprung up from all of a sudden, but they’re here, and when they’re stuck to your car, it means they’re there forever. I’m surprised no-one’s started selling other flower bumper stickers to compete with the monopoly created by frangipanis. I’d put a geranium sticker on my back window, but I like driving a car that doesn’t look fucked.

Magic Happens is possibly the best sticker in the history of the world. It says everything that you can’t quite find the words for, especially if those words are “magic” and “happens”. I guess this sticker is really popular with David Blaine and David Copperfield. Possibly other Davids as well – it might not just be a David thing (who knows? It’s all part of the mystery and magic of the sticker). I’ve known people to buy a car simply because it has a “Magic Happens” sticker on it.

Bitch stickers are always helpful as well, just in case you were thinking about trying to pick up the chick next to you at the lights. You look over; she gives you the eye and a suggestive smile. You wind down your window to have a quick chat, and then you see it: “Bitch”, written in gothic font across the back of her car. You wind your window back up and take off quickly; that was close. You almost talked to a bitch, man.

I love cars with a good Jesus fish sticker as well. I think it’s the idea of Jesus protecting that car from other non-Jesus-fish stickered cars that appeals to me. If you have a car with a fish sticker, I’m going to drive really close to you, just in case there’s a meteor shower or an escaped rhinoceros or Godzilla has risen from Lake Burley Griffin. Protect me, Jebus fish!

Some people are proud of their local footy team; I’m all for that, I love my Raiders as much as I’d love an illegitimate red-haired stepchild. Some people are so proud that they fill up their whole car with praise for their heroes. The most fanatical of the sporting team bumper sticker brigade are people from Victoria; in particular, Collingwood Magpies supporters. I don’t really know too much about AFL at all, except that the Adelaide Crows are the kings of the sport, regardless of where they finished on the ladder, and Collingwood fans love bumper stickers. They don’t stop at one “Go Pies!” sticker on their car – they’ve got the whole collection. Everything from “The Magpies give me CollingWOOD!”, “I support the Magpies – deal with it or I’ll headbutt you!”, “The Pies Fly High In 05!” and the inevitable “Don’t follow me; I’m on my way to a Collingwood game!” Don’t worry tiger, I’m not following you; your “God loves Collingwood” bumper sticker is the next best thing to a Jesus fish.

If you can read this, you’re too close! Clever. Very clever. I read the first five words, but I had to get a bit closer to you to see the rest. Now I feel foolish for falling for your elaborate prank.

Political cars are always a treat. I love seeing a car who votes Green, or a “No war in my name” bumper sticker. This way, I know that the driver of that car isn’t Howard the Duck, it’s not Warwick Capper, Dionne Warwick, it’s not Warren Beatty, Shane Warne, or Andy Warhol. I like to know the owner of the car before I start ramming into them.

Seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Friday, December 19, 2008

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Six Ponting problems

It’s no secret that I don’t like Ricky Ponting, and people often stop me in the street to ask why. Well, they don’t really stop me, and I’m not in the street. Normally I go around to random houses, or ring people up and tell them why.

No, Ricky. I do not have a gun in my pocket, nor am I happy to see you.

Whenever Australia has a loss, or Ricky P is out for a low score (which happens quite a lot), there’s always an excuse. In the 2005 Ashes, when Australia lost the urn to the old enemy, Ponts was run out attempting a suicidal single. He immediately started yelling at the umpires and English players because he was run out by a substitute fielder. Girl. His latest excuse is that he has some kind of wrist injury. I’m not going to be crude about that, but I assume that he got it from wanking too much. Well he didn’t fucking get it from batting too long, did he? His other excuse is that he “received a jaffa” (an unplayable delivery). He gets a lot of this kind of delivery – pretty much anything that lands within the same state as him will be too much for Captain Ponting to handle.

No grit
When the pressure’s on, Rick will quite literally poo his pants. Rather than try and nut out an innings of determination rather than flamboyance, he’ll just lamely chop a ball onto his stumps and walk off the field, smash a beer and light his pipe. He can play on a flat pitch against Bangladesh though, make no mistake. His 100 in the game against the Indians was also priceless, especially considering we’d already lost the series.

His name is ROOTING in predictive text
When sending a short sms messaging service text message about my hatred of Ricky Ponting, I’ve noticed that my predictive text flashes up the word ‘rooting’ instead of ‘Ponting’. This has led to me sending a few texts out that say “I hate Rooting”, “Rooting is fucking useless” or “Shane Watson is better than Rooting.” It’s just sending out the wrong message (see what I did there?)

Too much spit
I’ve been through this before, but I’m still struggling with Ponting’s whole hand-spitting thing. It’s just gross. Shaking his hand would be like holding a fish that had been in a fat guy’s arse crack for about eighteen hours while he eats month-old curried cabbage sandwiches, and I don’t think I need to explain why they don’t sell those fish at the Belconnen Markets.

Still can’t play spin
I’m not the only one who’s noticed that for someone who has managed to somehow bash out a career of playing cricket, R.T. Ponting is still incapable of playing spin bowling. It’s like an English teacher being illiterate, or a pool cleaner being allergic to having a moustache. With Matty Hayden still in the team (not for much longer though), teams playing against Australia know that they’ve already got two wickets as soon as the Aussie openers take the field. Ponts might as well stay in the sheds and spit on his hands some more. Off-spinners, leg-spinners, left-arm orthodox, chinamen... spinners the world over must be lining up to have a crack at Ricky when he waddles out to the pitch. I’m surprised he even bothers to bring his bat with him these days.

Has ruined the name Ricky for everyone
The following people named Ricky would be better at cricket, make a better captain, and not look as much like a chipmunk as our current Aussie captain:
Rick Astley had some hits in the early 90s and then faded away. In the last few years, he has become famous again, thanks to YouTube and emails and all kinds of internet-related stuff. Ricky Ponting never had any hits ever, and yet refuses to go away. It’s bad manners.
Ricky Gervais, creator, writer, director and star of The Office is pretty fucking funny. Ponting has yet to do or say anything remotely amusing. Also, Gervais has a goatee like the one that Ponting had when he used to go out drinking and fighting; you know, back when he was almost cool.
Ricky Walford used to play rugby league for St George. He retired without a huge hurrah, and instead of catching up with him for a beer and a chat to find out what he’s been doing, I’d like to be able to flick on the telly and watch him lead Australia in cricket, and know immediately: he’s doing better than Ponts.
Rick James was a popular singer during the 70s and 80s (which already beats Ponting, who can't even spell 'popular'). Even though he’s dead, I think the Aussie cricket team would appreciate the ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style of cricket that Rick James’ inclusion would allow.
Ricky Martin would work on bringing style and sex appeal to the game of cricket. I believe the Australian Twenty20 uniforms have actually been lifted from his closet (and probably not the only thing to come out of the closet, either. Eh? Eh? Yeah).
Ricky Bobby is the world’s greatest fictional Nascar racer. He’s even better than whoever Tom Cruise played in Days of Thunder, which is a fair achievement in itself. Hmm. Oh yeah, and Ricky Ponting sucks.
Ricky Stuart was recently fired, sorry, quit, from being the coach of the Australian rugby league side, so I guess he has some free time at the moment. Welcome to being captain of the cricket team, Mr Stuart. For the record, R. Stuart is angrier, swears more, and is slightly pudgier than R. Ponting, hence he would make a better cricketer. Also, he has an awesome kicking game and in my opinion, was a better half-back than Allan Langer.
Ricky May was a regular on Hey Hey It’s Saturday until his death in 1988. He was fucking massive, and could belt out a tune or two. This may not seem to add much to the case of him being better at cricket than our current captain, but since he’s not Ricky Ponting, he already wins that contest.
Ricki-Lee appeared on Idol a few years back, and is now in a tidy little hosting job. Apparently she sings, but that’s neither here nor there, because I think she’s also fairly attractive. I’m pretty sure Ricki-Lee wouldn’t get out to Indian spinner Harbajhan Singh as easily as Ponts does. I think I saw a game between New Zealand and England where Harbajhan was credited with Ponting’s wicket.
I haven’t seen Christina Ricci since the indie film Buffalo ‘66, but I do plan on renting Speed Racer when it comes out. I miss Christina Ricci. I saw Ricky Ponting today (on tv) and realised that I haven’t missed him at all.

Six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Five drinking games

Some people have a habit of drinking too much over the festive season, so in the interest of promoting binge drinking, I’m adding to the cause.
These posts are getting really long. Can't wait for the twelfth day of Christmas, huh?

Drinking for Athletes
This one’s a classic and is guaranteed to get you all kinds of messy, pretty much regardless of which sport you choose. The idea is to get a group of friends around to watch a sporting event – football, soccer, Aussie Rules, cricket, lawn bowls, whatever. Everyone is assigned a player participating in the match to keep their eye on, and they must drink every time that player is mentioned by the commentators or handles the ball. I would advise against enforcing both rules, as there’s only so much alcohol a person is meant to consume, and if your sporting choice is rugby league, union or cricket, try and avoid picking the hooker, scrum half or wicket-keeper. Some players in a team touch the ball way too much. If the commentators mention the team name (i.e. Raiders, Australia), then everyone who is drinking for a player on that team (Alan Tongue, Ricky Ponting) must drink as well.

You might also want to grab a pie or something before the kick-off, because you’ll need some kind of stomach lining. Maybe two pies; sometimes one pie just leaves you with a need for more pie.

“Marshall (drink) kicks ahead, Billy Slater (drink) collects the ball, looks to go the short side, runs into the shoulder of Adam Blair (drink), Slater’s (drink) in trouble now as New Zealand (group drink) drag him towards the sideline… OH! Billy Slater (drink) has thrown the ball away, and Benji Marshall (drink) has picked the ball up as easy as you like and scored the simplest of tries. Billy Slater (drink) has had a brain explosion! Australia (group drink) are gone, this game belongs to the New Zealanders (group drink) tonight!”

Beer Jenga
Beer Jenga was invented sometime in the 4th Century. In the mid 1900s, it was reinvented using wooden blocks. Most of the fun was lost.

What you will need is a lot of bottled beer and some ground on a slight slope. Arrange your beers lying on the ground (stacking them is asking for a lot of lost beer and a sober night) so that they are not rolling anywhere downhill, but precariously balanced to do so. Each player takes a turn to remove a beer from the ‘tower’, slot an empty bottle somewhere in the tower, and try not to cause an avalanche of bottles. Note: If an avalanche does occur, players are free to grab as many beers from the tower as they can, including any from the person who caused the jenga to fall.

Thankfully, with the current popularity of forensic science on television, you can’t really escape CSI in any of its variations. I’m not exactly positive how different all of the location shows are (seriously, a murder in New York is surely a bit similar to a murder in Miami, right?) One good thing about CSI though, is that it’s not Bones. Why is Bones on so much? I’d rather watch Gordon Ramsay. No I wouldn’t. I’d rather force a live scorpion into my eye.

Anyway, this game requires a television, some alcohol (your choice), and a little TV show called CSI. Let’s roll.
  • 1 drink whenever anyone uses the term “DNA.”
  • 1 drink whenever anyone is swabbed for DNA.
  • 2 drinks whenever the forensic investigator finds a microscopic piece of evidence in a large, dark and cluttered room by instantly honing their torch beam onto it.
  • 1 drink when a computer is used to perform complete bullshit data analysis.
  • 2 drinks when a photograph segment is blown up beyond all proportion without blurring or loss of detail. Bonus drink if that photo comes from a mobile phone.
  • One drink whenever “The Lab” is shown – Jesus, can someone please turn on some fucking lights in there? If you’ve ever been in a real forensics lab checking semen samples (I have pretty quiet weekends), then you know that they’re actually fluorescent lit, horribly uncomfortable places. Not the CSI labs; hell no. Their headquarters was designed by robot versions of the guys from Queer Eye.
  • 1 drink whenever one of the investigators offers way too much information on a particular subject, as if they’ve been studying it their entire lives (eg. mating rituals of bees, car prototypes from the 1960s), so what sounds like a forensics lecture gets incorporated into what's supposed to be casual conversation. A bonus drink if they give a reason as to why they know so much. (“I spent a lot of time with my uncle, who had a beehive.” “My ex-boyfriend was a car nut.”)
  • 2 drinks when anyone gets a DNA result done in the time it takes another character to get a coffee.
  • 1 drink whenever a CSI member leads the SWAT team into a building.
  • 2 drinks when a CSI chick beats up a way bigger guy with CSI-brand ninjitsu. Bonus drink if the beating is preceded by a smug remark regarding the fact that she has a vagina.
  • 1 drink whenever sunglasses are put on or removed (danger: this could get messy, as apparently Miami fluctuates between being the brightest and darkest place on earth every fifteen seconds).
  • 1 drink whenever someone suddenly becomes overwhelmed by the spirit of Mr Miyagi and spouts some bullshit philosophy about “feeling empty when you’re at your most full.” Bonus drink if it’s NOT Horatio, Gary Sinise or the guy with the beard.
  • 1 drink if you’re either still awake or still have alcohol left.

Action Drinks
This is a generic drinking game for those nights in when you’ve got some mates around and you’re watching a rubbishly good action flick on TV or DVD. The dodgier the action movie, the better. I would recommend anything from the 80s or 90s.

  • 1 drink when the main character displays a fatal flaw. 2 drinks if this flaw is alcoholism.
  • 1 drink when the main character is seen smoking a cigarette.
  • 1 drink whenever the main character draws his gun.
  • 1 drink when the main character drops his gun.
  • 1 drink when the main character gets shot. Bonus drink if he limps for the rest of the scene but is fine thereafter.
  • 1 drink whenever the romantic interest chick shows disdain towards the main character.
  • 1 drink when he shares a touching personal story about his past with romantic interest chick. Bonus drink if this leads to them having the sex. Two bonus drinks if you see boob.
  • 1 drink if the main character is a cop. 1 drink whenever he gets his arse chewed by his boss. 2 drinks when he is inevitably “taken off the case.”
  • 1 drink whenever the geeky sidekick comes in handy for hacking computers. A bonus drink if his hacking ability is shown by him typing “download secret file” or something equally stupid.
  • 1 drink whenever shots are fired from moving vehicles.
  • 1 drink when two bad guys’ cars crash into each other.
  • 1 drink if there’s a conveniently placed ramp that allows a car to become airborne and flip over.
  • 1 drink every time a car becomes airborne. Bonus drink if it creates sparks when it lands.
  • 1 drink if a car is driven the wrong way down the street. Seriously, this would not be as easy as they make it seem.
  • 1 drink if the main character knows how to ride a motorbike. Bonus drink if he ever takes control of a helicopter or plane.
  • 1 drink for an over-the-top explosion.
  • 1 drink if a bad guy comes back from the dead. Bonus drink if they come back to shoot one bullet into the sidekick. Another bonus drink for the soliloquy that the sidekick then gives before dying.
  • 1 drink every time the bad guys shoot at the main character, only to have the bullets deflect off a thin metal rail in front of him.
  • 1 drink if the bad guys have the main character backed in a confined space (alley, hallway) and yet still can’t shoot straight.
  • 1 drink whenever the main character outruns machine gun fire.
    1 drink for any sequence of slow-motion action (caution: avoid movies directed by John Woo).
  • 1 drink for a decapitation. Bonus drink for a bad one-liner following the death of a bad guy.
  • 1 drink if there’s a bomb with a generous timer involved.
  • 1 drink if the main guy runs after a car or other vehicle and manages to catch it.
  • 1 drink for a catchphrase.

Christmas Drinks
It’s beginning to look a smidge like Christmas – so grab a can/bottle/glass of whatever is being dished out at Christmas this year and deck the halls with holly and shit and stuff.

This is a covert game that should be played by yourself or with a single partner. It’s always fun to get loaded in front of your parents and pretend that you’re not retarded.

  • 1 drink when you arrive at your parent’s house. You should have a beer in hand before you kiss your mum.
  • 1 drink if you sit down under the tree to find out if you have more presents than your siblings do. Have a bonus drink if you do. Have two bonuses if you don’t. Count again if you’re all even – don’t trust your parents when they say they love all of you equally.
  • 1 drink at each sign of a fight between your parents. You should also continue to offer drinks to your parents; it will either calm them or infuriate them further.
  • 1 drink for it being ridiculously hot at Christmas time in Australia (except for last year; that was ridiculous in a whole new way).
  • 1 drink for each relative/neighbour who pops around for a “Christmas drink” or “to say hello.”
  • 1 drink each time you see or hear the neighbourhood kids riding brand new bikes in the street or playing with remote control cars. Bonus drink if you hear them stack it. Two bonus drinks if they cry. Three bonuses if you caused it.
  • 1 drink each time your mum sings along to the Christmas carol CD she insists on playing every year. Where do people get these CDs anyway?
  • 1 drink per present you get (two drinks per present if you don’t get that many).
  • 1 drink for each price-tag that’s left on your gifts. That’ll teach mum for wrapping presents after a few wines.
  • 1 drink when your parents aren’t sure what to do with the present you got them. Bonus drink if it requires more than one explanation as to how it works/what to do with it.
  • Another drink if it dawns on you at that moment that it’s really not such a good gift after all.
  • 1 drink if your mum buys you a pair of pants and then insists that you try them on. 1 bonus drink if they fit; 2 bonus drinks if she decides they need to be “taken up”. 3 bonus drinks if she does it within the day.
  • 1 drink if you suspect your dad of joining in your drinking game.
  • 1 drink per Christmas cracker that has shit toys in it. To save time, just have twelve drinks now.
  • 1 drink when your dad offers the inevitable, “Well, that’s Christmas for another year.”
  • 1 drink for when your parents nod off in armchairs.
  • 1 drink if your parents are trying to make you grow up by giving you bedsheets and saucepans instead of video games, CDs and action figures.
  • 1 drink because it’s Christmas.
  • 1 drink every time someone has to head down to the shop for more ice, more beer, or some bizarre sauce that only ever gets used at Christmas.
  • 1 drink for each Christmas special that you watch on TV. Bonus drink if it involves snow. Two bonus drinks if it’s Australian and involves snow. Three bonus drinks if you watched that same special last year.
  • 1 drink if you make it through more than 20 minutes of a religious special on TV before tuning in to ‘A Very Smurfy Christmas’ or ‘Alf’s Christmas.’
  • 1 drink per generic “Merry Christmas” text message you receive.
  • 1 drink for each take-away container of leftover food your parents try to send you home with.

Merry Christmas and don’t drink and drive – it’s double demerits, stupid.

Five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Four random reviews

Wall*E was my favourite movie of the year. This little gem from the masters of all things awesome, Pixar, is a story about a horribly polluted future where the Earth is unsuitable for human habitation. Everyone on Earth is piled into a spaceship to live, while thousand of little robots to clear up the mess back home. 500 years later, there's only one robot still trucking away to clean up all the shit that's been left behind.

This flick is unbelievably gorgeous to look at, is smart, funny and moving. If you don't choke up with emotion at one point during this film, you should head into the nearest crowbar store (or even a crowbar museum, if one is available) and beat yourself up a bit. The fact that the first hour or so of this film has dialogue that could quite easily be written onto an ant's left testicle in the middle of winter and still have room for the shopping list (bread, milk, cereal, dim sims) doesn't detract from the story, the characters, the atmosphere or the humour one iota. This movie should win every Academy Award ever; it's just that good ("and the 1926 Oscar for best costuming in a period drama, musical or comedy goes to... Wall*E!"). If I had to pick a flaw in the film, I'd say that it doesn't have any dinosaurs in it.

I'm gonna fucking marry Wall*E one day

Hungry Jack's Angry Whopper promises so much. So damn much. And it delivers little. I'm sorry, HJs, but you're never going to be at the top of the "Mister Evil Breakfast's Awesome Fast Food Places To Have A Snack At" (MEBAFFPTHASA) list, and this burger isn't helping your cause. Let's get into the nitty gritty of it - they've taken a Whopper and added spicy sauce, deep-fried onions and jalapenos to create what should amount to something that will burn your face off and evaporate your blood the second you unwrap it. The guys who make it in the kitchen should be handling the ingredients with giant tongs and welding masks. In reality, what they've done is create a "fiery" Whopper burger that is somehow less spicy than a regular Whopper, despite the addition of chilli. Congrats, Jacks.

The flames on the bag are printed. The ice in my Coke was mild compared to the spice of the Angry Whopper

Kath n Kim: American Version. I'm not going to lie to you - I'm not really much of a fan of the Aussie Kath n Kim. How they ever managed to stretch out three jokes for eight years (or however long the show's been going) is beyond me. Oh look, she's got bum-crack sticking out. Hilarious. She can't pronounce 'chardonnay'. Brilliant. That guy has shit hair. Classic. The US version of our "foxy morons" (side-splitting) has taken our show and ignored everything about it that made it popular. Aussie Kath n Kim is a parody of middle-to-low socio-economic life. US Kath n Kim seems to be a parody of a television show. Not only did the writers (and I use that term loosely) omit the three jokes that made the original series funny, they decided to remove absolutely every element of humour altogether. I watched one episode, and had to set fire to my television afterwards, for fear of having the urge to watch it again next week. The storyline (another loose term) consisted of Kath trying to book a horse-drawn carriage for her wedding, while her fiancé created a new sandwich in his shop for her - wait for it, it's TUNA and SAUSAGE. LOL ROFL those foods don't go together! In other parts of the show, Kim wasn't sure whether to break up with her boyfriend, until he tells her that he's going to breed his dog and receive seventeen shit-tins of money for it. So she doesn't break up with him after all. LMAO she is such a scammer! I feel sorry for everyone involved with this show, including the viewers - perhaps the loosest term in this review.

The one thing less funny than Kath n Kim is Kath n Kim: America

I recently went to Hoyts cinema. The movie that I saw was James Bond Quantum of Solace – but this review is not about that. I went with my dad, but this review is not about him (he’s tops, though). This is a review of my cinema experience at the Woden complex.

I was greeted by a trillion people in line to buy tickets, and only one person (who looked to be celebrating the onset of puberty) serving at the ticket booth and candy bar. I can’t really remember when the two booths became one, but if you’re not after popcorn, drinks, ice-creams or choccies, it’s annoying while the twelve thousand people in front of you debate whether to get M&Ms or Maltesers, and what size Coke to get. Just get a fucking large, and step aside - I’ve got some James Bond to see here, and all I want is a fucking ticket. The 14-year old ticket kid advises that the movie has already started, and I should make my way straight inside. Thanks, genius. Although I wouldn’t have been late if you didn’t ask me if I wanted each individually item this place has to offer. “You want these M&Ms?” “No.” “These ones?” “No.” “These ones?” “No. Wait. No.” “This popcorn?” “No.” “This popcorn?” “Yes.” “Really?” “No.” I don’t want your fucking popcorn - I’m here with my dad, and he doesn’t appreciate it when I spill popcorn down his shirt or stick it in his ears. Actually, no-one I’ve gone to the movies with appreciates that, but I think I can get away with it more.

So there’s a flunky who rips my ticket (secretly, I want his job) and sends me to Cinema 3. “Second door on the left,” he tells me. AKA the door with the big “3” above it. The kid at the ticket desk said the movie had already started. It hadn’t. I could have actually watched six other films before James Bond really started. Previews, previews, ads, previews, ads, ads, ads (it seems to be a rule that you can’t create a decent commercial for the cinema audience), preview, preview, preview, ad, ad for Hoyts (which is always handy in case you thought you were at Dendy or something), ad, preview, ad, and fucking finally the movie starts. I don’t want to sound old here, but there were too many previews (and I love previews). And none of them were for good movies. So James Bond comes on and it’s all well and good until my eardrums literally exploded and everyone around me was covered in ear-blood. I tried to call for help, but no-one could hear me. It really was quite a loud movie.

If a movie has to rely on having “awesome sound” to be good, the chances are that it was a shitbox of a film to start with. I’m not putting Quantum of Salsa in that category, but it kind of made me hate it more than I should have. The stupid thing was that despite the volume, the dialogue was still hard to understand; possibly because of some feedback, possibly because of my melted eardrums and possibly because there was none worth listening to.

And then they turned on the air-conditioning, despite the fact that it was about 5 degrees outside. They should have handed out promotional beanies or given everyone a hip flask with whiskey in it. Or they could have left the air-con off for a bit. I dunno, maybe I’m just being radical.

Hoyts Woden Cinema 3: You get one gold star, and I’m going to steal something from you next time I’m there.

The "If it's hot, it's Hoyts" campaign was wrong in so many ways

Four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Three ways to get rich

There’s been a disturbing amount of money being won on TV game shows for doing absolutely fuck all lately. I’m talking about The Rich List, Deal or No Deal and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? The average punter walks about with about $30,000 that they didn’t fully deserve. If you’re struggling a smidge with Christmas expenses, here’s a way to fill some stockings:

The Rich List (which I’ve reviewed before) is a piece of piss. You name groups of things and earn money. Countries with a ‘Y’ in their name. Movies starring Harrison Ford. Songs by the Beatles. Things found on an Eight-Meats Pizza. Fucking easy. Anyone who doesn’t walk away from this show with a billion dollars should be taken to Steve Irwin’s animal park and fed to a giant squid. Also, Steve Irwin’s animal park should get a giant squid.

Deal or No Deal (also discussed on here at some point) apparently has an allergic reaction to not giving money away. The game is pure luck, but hey; play it halfway smart and you should walk away with a veritable goatload of cash. When did receiving $15,000 from a half-hour show become commonplace? I’d fucking love $15,000 right about now. I’d buy a ninja with it.

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? is possibly the worst one on this list. Is the world getting stupider? When a grown man who presumably holds down a $50,000+ a year job can’t identify the verbs in a sentence, there is something seriously wrong with humanity. The worst part of this game show is that you don’t actually have to do anything for the first three questions due to the generous “lifelines” that are given to each contestant. Let your fifth-grade partner answer for you, and bingo – you’ve just won somewhere near $20,000. If I ever get on this show, I am going to play Nintendo while the kids answer those three questions for me. Then I’d take my cheque, thank everyone for their time and buy a shitload of cheese. I fucking love cheese.

Three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Monday, December 15, 2008

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Too many beers

T’is the silly season once again; the time of year where drinking will take a higher priority than usual and meeting friends for a Christmas beer is the order of the day.

It all starts with a call from your mate on Monday; “Let’s grab a brew after work,” they say. Sounds harmless, you think, and when the final whistle is blown in the office, you rush out the door and find yourself with a frosty beverage in hand and a friend or two at your table within ten minutes. Mmm tastes good yes. Your phone rings in your pocket – it’s another invite for a “quick Chrissy drink.” Before you know it, you’ve got a fresh drink in front of you and more people at your table. Halfway through your new schooner, you’ve received another call, two text messages and bumped into at least one more of your mates. Since Christmas is about giving, your friends will present you with more beers, to which you should return the favour. Soon enough, you’ll be so full of Christmas cheer that you won’t mind the fact that it’s now officially Thursday, nor the fact that your sentences will go a little bit like this: Nah nah nah nah nah just shhhh for a sec, shhhh shh shhhhh ok? Yeah, nah, it's like you know how it's like when you're like ah I dunno like umm... nah nah shhhhh I'm getting there ok shh. Yeah, so ummm. Yeah nah, shh hang on. Ah fuck it, I don't know. Whatever man. Let's just keep drinking. Shhh. Drink. I love you. No, shut up. I love you. Shut up, fuckhead. I – LOVE – YOU. Fuck. Just shut up.

Too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

A bright, shiny new crowbar.

With all the shenanigans that have occurred during the year (dodgy Australian cricketers, little spastics having parties, rugby league players who don't play rugby league, shit ads, spiders and Big Brother just to name a few), my crowbar is looking a bit worse-for-wear, and blood is not an easy stain to remove.

*Note: Recent addition to the Crowbar List is a partridge, especially if it's in a pear tree. I don't know what a partridge looks like, but if I look into a pear tree and see something other than pears in it, that particular something will christen my new crowie.