Friday, April 29, 2011

Mithter Evil Breakfatht'th Thor Review

All bow down to MIGHTY THOR!

It has been a while since I reviewed a movie on here – it’s actually been a long time since I decided to shell out some coin to see a flick at the cinema – but I can happily report that I was sober enough to see Thor last week.

Thor is the first ‘superhero’ movie to come out this year (by my hazy recollection), and will be closely followed by Captain America, The Green Lantern and a new X-Men film that’s set about 40 years before the first X-Men film. Then we’ll have the new Spiderman movie (which takes the place of the old Spiderman movies), a third Batman flick, another Superman film (taking the place of both the first and last Superman movies) and then The Avengers film, which combines the Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America and Thor movies into one gigantic roll of film.

Got it? Easy as fucking pie. Not literally fucking pie though. That would just be weird (and a waste of a pie… or is it?).

Even Thor himself would probably admit that he isn’t as well known as superheroes like Batman and Spiderman, but is slightly more recognisable than guys like Deadpool or Cable. So don’t feel too bad if you don’t know who Thor is down to the last hair on his pretty little face. Let’s just say that he’s the Norse God of Thunder who lives in a world called Asgard; otherwise it gets confusing and all the fanboys crack boners about inconsistencies and oversights from Issue #592 where he finds out he’s not a god and is actually an alien. It’s stupid, so let’s just say he’s a god.

Here’s the movie in a paragraph:
Thor adopts the policy of “a good offence is the best offence” and duly goes on the offensive against a race of other beings called the Frost Giants who threaten Asgard’s safety. It doesn’t quite go to plan, and everyone is angry when the peace treaty between the Giants and the peeps of Asgard is jeopardised. To teach Thor a lesson in humility, his dad (Odin) banishes him to Earth without his super strength or his super hammer, Mjollnir (and you learn how to actually pronounce it, which is nice. I still prefer my own way, which starts with “M” and ends with me mumbling into my hand while I cough). On Earth, Thor meets Natalie Portman, eats some eggs, learns a few lessons, goes out drinking… you know, much the same as anyone else’s weekend.

And it all goes pretty fucking well, in my most humble opinion (it’s not humble at all). Asgard looks cool, Earth looks the way I imagine it looks, and the performances are all very decent, which is the one thing I was slightly worried about from the trailers and nerdblogs that I had been haunting prior to the movie’s release.

Chris Hemsworth plays the titular character (I only wrote that so I could say “tit”), who people may remember as “that guy from Home and Away.” Apparently since leaving Summer Bay, he has been busy eating rice, chicken breast and small planets, as he seems to have become (and I quote) “the world’s largest individual.” I thought he did a good job as acting like the God of Thunder without coming off as a massive loser – probably better than I would have done – and actually gets to show a bit of emotion (the Mjollnir scene at SHIELD headquarters was a standout). Some of the dialogue is a bit tacky, but when you’re dealing with this kind of story, you get that. I also spent a lot of the movie thinking, “Fuck that guy looks like Lubers,” who is a bloke I went to school with. I never realised how attractive Lubers was (sorry Lubers).

There were also enough nods to the Marvel comics geeks out there (hello!) to keep them happy (although no real nerd is ever happy enough with anything to keep them off the forums for long), with the introduction of Hawkeye, mentions of Thor’s original alter-ego Donald Blake, the obligatory cameo from Stan Lee and a bigger role for the SHIELD crew who have been working for a couple of movies now to assemble the Avengers (some people will see what I did there).

As is everything in the year 2011, there’s a 3D version of Thor out there. I saw the movie in 2D, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss anything by seeing it with a missing dimension. 3D movies are all fucking stupid anyway, and they give me headaches. Plus, those glasses are expensive and I’m working on a budget here.

If I had to nitpick anything about the flick, I’d say that there probably needed to be a few more fight scenes, and maybe a bit more of Thor learning some Earthian shit; I mean, the guy has come from a place where everyone wears leather armour and ornamental helmets in their day-to-day, and suddenly he’s in a place with skinny jeans and mobile phones. But these are minor quibbles, and any movie that makes me speak like a Norse god with a slightly British accent for hours after I’ve left the cinema is never a bad thing.

This was a good movie. NEXT!

Pew pew pew!

Thursday, April 28, 2011

NRL 2011 Round 8: Coaches and dinner and that

I have to admit that I didn’t really pay attention to the footy over the Easter ANZAC break, so I’m just going to assume that Todd Carney got pissed and started strangling kittens with panda intestines (and not in the good way). You know, just business as usual.

However, in real news according to the googlebox, St George coach Wayne Bennett has been signed by Newcastle, Penrith coach Matt Elliot was fired by the Panthers who are chasing Tigers coach Tim Sheens, and Raiders coach Dave Furner is sweating like a badger in a wetsuit about his future. Because if a coach can’t make his team catch the ball, who can? The players? You must be kidding.

“Overpaid League Player, you dropped a lot of ball out there today.”

“Yeah we did, Stating-The-Obvious-Journalist; it just wasn’t in our game plan.”

“Catching the ball wasn’t part of your game plan?”

“Yeah. Our coach went through the plan and that with the boys and that before the game, you know, in the sheds and that, and he mentioned tackling and getting numbers in defence and that, but you know, he didn’t say anything about catching and that. And at the end of the day, I reckon that was probably what was missing in our game.”


“…and that.”


“I’d just like to give a shout out to my girlfriend Sharon, who’s giving birth for the first time today. Thanks to Channel Nine and Toyota.”


“…and that.”

“…thanks Overpaid League Player, better luck next week.”

So it seems that there are some coaching shifts afoot, which always throws a bit of chilli into the chicken when it comes to picking your footy tips. Are the teams happy to have the fat trimmed off the bacon? Do they realise you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette? Or are they trying to turn a pork chop into a t-bone? (sorry, just thinking about some dinner options for tonight) Whatever the case is (probably spaghetti, to be perfectly Francine), teams always perform unpredictably when a coaching change occurs.

Except the Raiders, they will still suck.

Broncos v Bulldogs

Rabbitohs v Sharks

Titans v Roosters

Cowboys v Sea Eagles

Storm v Knights

Warriors v Panthers

Dragons v Eels

Raiders v Tigers

The more astute among you will probably have noticed that I have tipped all home teams this week… except the Raiders. The most astute of you will have noticed that I used the word ‘astute’ and didn’t have to look up its meaning. I like you guys.

What’s left to talk about with the mighty fucking Raiders? They have a strong team on paper, a good record of playing at home and a lovely green jumpie to wear, but it’s just not coming together at the moment. If it was going to come together, it probably would have done so against Newcastle last weekend, when the Green Machine sputtered to a grinding, noisy, messy halt after about 60 minutes and let the match slip between their slimy webbed fingers. With each loss comes more pressure, and with more pressure comes more mistakes. I don’t see this week as being a good one for us (again).

Once the team starts looking at giving it up for the year and begins planning for the 2012 season, we might even win a few games.

And that makes me a sad Raiderfan.

This is about as scary as the Raiders have been this year

MEB cumulative score: 27

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

it's such an honour to be nominated, so winning makes me a fucking wizard

OMG what a week it is for A-list celebrities!!!!!1111

First of all, there’s the Royal Wedding between Prince Harry’s half-brother and that hot chick who looks a bit like a cross between Katie Holmes and the good looking Spice Girl (if there is one). Unfortunately, my invitation to the wedding was lost in the mail, so I won’t be going to that one. But that’s ok, cause I’m fucked if I’d know what to get them for a present anyway – probably a casserole dish. He looks like a casserole kind of guy.

The Royal Wedding can now be enjoyed as a pizza topping

Secondly, we’ve got the Logies. For those not in the know, the Logies celebrate achievements in the field of Australian television entertainment, with way too much pretension and self-importance than they really deserve. I’m not saying it’s the actors fault (I am a little bit), but sometimes you have to admit that being on Home and Away really doesn’t require wearing a $100,000 pair of earrings and talking about a hideous dress that some billionaire designer got a couple of Asian kids to stitch together for you.

In any case, I am a proud Aussie and therefore it is my God-given right to cut some people down to size, even if they’re not being dicks about anything. It’s all part of being a tops Australian; if you’re good looking, you’re probably too good looking looking. If you’re not good looking, you fucking well should be better looking. Aussies are tops at bitching about pretty much everything.

Oh, and Justin Bieber is coming to hand out an award to someone he’s never heard of for an achievement he doesn’t understand. I’m sure it will be a great honour for him to meet Daryl Somers. He might even be taller than him (but probably not). By the way, Biebs only has one more album than I do at the moment. I am expecting a call up to the Logies next year.

This is what Australia is fighting for - an alien holding a box of TV Week magazines.

I’m only going to look at the big award for the Logies this year – the GOLD LOGIE, which is so grand that I will write it in uppercase all the time. The GOLD LOGIE is given to Australia’s favourite television douchenozzle, regardless of how talented or not they may be. Actors face off against hosts who fight amongst personalities who are competing against oldies who are about to be fired from their particular program. Let’s look at the nominees for the GOLD LOGIE this year:

Adam Hills
Hillsy is a pretty funny bloke actually, which always helps in terms of popularity. Also, he only has one foot… so that might work in his favour, depending on how he plays it. Or if he even plays it at all. He's a smooth operator.

Hillsy appears on two shows, one of which I haven’t actually seen; I’m pretty sure I watch documentaries about rhinos when it's on. His other show is pretty good, but is running out of steam. If Hillsy doesn’t win it this year, he won’t get it til he’s about 70 and still hosting Spicks and Specks from his loungeroom.

Asher Keddie
Asher really isn’t a name, so she shouldn’t be allowed to win in case she inadvertently inspires some bogans to reproduce and give out fake names to their children.

Asher probably won’t win, because no one has ever watched her tv show, Offspring, for the two seasons it has been running. I’ve seen some promos for it, and it reminds me of Secret Life of Us just as it went really shithouse and they tried to make Stephen Curry the main character.

Chrissie Swan
Swannie’s inclusion in the list was met with some raised eyebrows (except from Bert Newton who hasn’t been able to raise his eyebrows since 1983) seeing as she’s on a day-time chat show that no one watches because, you know, they have jobs to go to or documentaries on rhinos to watch (and no, that’s not a fat joke about Chrissie Swans… or is it?). She won’t win, but at least people know she exists now. Expect her to get a Guernsey hosting the Biggest Loser once Hayley Lewis goes in for personality surgery.

Jessica Marais
I first misheard this chick’s name as Jessica Mauboy, which wouldn’t have surprised me – Mauboy will turn up to the opening of an envelope and bore everyone shitless with her shit song with Snoop Dogg. But then I heard her name properly and realised that I had no idea who she is (apparently she's on Packed to the Rafters). I’ve never watched it - I don’t know when it’s on or even what channel – even though it is Australia’s most popular program and had people pissing in their Kleenex-filled pants when a character on the show died. If it was Jessica Marais’ character who died, it would be nice for her family if she won. Except her family aren’t real and she didn’t actually die.

Fuck it, I’d rather Jessica Mauboy wins instead of Jessica Marais. At least I know who she is.

Rebecca Gibney
Gibbo is probably front-runner to win the GOLD LOGIE this year – she’s been around for a long time and isn’t terrible to look at for a middle-aged duck. She’s another one from the Packed to the Rafters crew – I am just going out on a limb and saying that her character is probably not entirely dissimilar to Rebecca Gibney, much like most of Rebecca Gibney’s other roles. It would be better if her character killed people and hid them in wheelie bins. Actually, if I made that show, it would reach such great heights of success that they would rename the Logies the WHEELIE BINS FILLED WITH DEAD PEOPLE AWARDS. If anyone else makes it I’ll be really angry and will probably cry (so don't do it).

I’d prefer if Gibbo didn’t win the GOLD LOGIE this year, as I still haven’t forgiven her for appearing in those shitty Wii ads.

Karl Stefanovic
Everyone loves Karl Stefanovic, even if you say you don’t. In fact, the more you say you don’t like him, the more you actually do. Karl’s greatest achievement is turning up to host the Today show after a massive night on the piss and falling asleep while staring at his co-host’s tits. It was a great moment for Australian television. Karl has since reinvented himself as a professional journalist, and has perfected his ‘serious’ voice for stories involving tragedy, death and new exercise equipment.

In a piece of trivia, I thought his name was Kyle when I first saw him on telly.


No one


Thursday, April 21, 2011

NRL Round 7: Blasphemy and worms

Hands up if you had a massive improvement on your tips for last round. Everyone?


Hands up if you’re still bottom of the ladder. Just me?


This weekend’s rounds have opened up many, many cans of worms regarding each team’s form, injury toll, depth of interchange and who has been arrested during the week. Will the Roosters be able to put a turbulent few days behind them for the much-anticipated grand final replay? (no) Will the Broncos' defence continue to hold out wave after wave of attackers running one-pass off the ruck? (yes) Do the Eels really suck that much? (yes) Exactly how injured is Josh Dugan? (not very) Are the Bulldogs seriously that arrogant despite not being very good? (YES) It’s statistics like this that make this great game as great as it is, which is just great.

Sea Eagles v Panthers
Tigers v Broncos
Sharks v Cowboys
Bulldogs v Rabbitohs
Eels v Titans
Roosters v Dragons
Storm v Warriors

Raiders v Knights

Seeing as it’s Easter, it’s fitting that Jesus is a card-carrying member of the Raiders, because if anyone needs to resurrect their season, it’s the mighty Green Machine, and I believe Jesus has had some experience with that.

“…and Jesus did go unto Bruce stadium to watch the Raiders play the Knights that day in the afternoon. With just seven minutes to go, Canberra had only scored six points to Newcastle’s fourteen.
‘Jesus,’ implored Peter, who had pie pastry on his bottom lip that no one had told him about. ‘There is not enough time for the Raiders to win. Six points is not enough to beat the Knights.’
So Jesus did kneel down and pray and pick up another can of beer that was resting on the ground, gave thanks and praise and tied his sandal.
Through the power of God, Jesus took those six points and turned them into thirty, defeating the Knights and restoring a bit of pride to the for-and-against differential.
‘My Lord,’ said Peter. ‘That is enough to beat the Knights and whichever losers we play next weekend!’
‘Fuck yes,’ replied Jesus, finishing his beer. ‘Let it be known that through the power of God almighty, the Raiders will use this victory to forge towards the top of the NRL ladder. Spread the word.’
‘Isn’t it cheating though, lord?’ asked Thomas.
‘Thomas, why are you such a fucking little bitch all the time? It’s your shout, hurry up and go while they’re still serving.’
And Thomas did as Jesus had asked, because he snuck into the stadium anyway, and didn’t really like rugby league in the first place.

This is the word of the Lord.”

Poor Matt Orford. But this is funny.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

I swear a lot in this blog

Please put a shirt on

A lot has been written about rugby league this week, from assault to drunken assault and offender to repeat offender. Apparently there were a few games that were played as well - “Dragons win in boring match” and “Raiders still suck and are happy to have their shithouse performances overshadowed by a couple of fuckwits” all got minor write-ups in the media.

And that’s the problem with rugby league in Australia at the moment – there are too many fuckwits playing.

Let’s ignore the main concerns with the game - no one seems sure about how to pack, feed or negotiate a scrum; there’s debate about how to pronounce Isaac de Gois’ name; and teams are swapping coaches, players and tattoo artists mid-season – and let’s concentrate on fuckwits.

The latest fuckwit to have one shandy too-many and beat seven shades of shit out of a woman is Anthony Watts, a bloke I hadn’t actually heard much about before the weekend, when he announced himself as a genuine fuckwit contender by punching a woman. I don’t think we’ll be hearing too much more from him actually, so I won’t waste too much brain space that could be better served remembering characters from Saved by the Bell.

The other fuckwit – probably my current favourite fuckwit - is Todd Carney.

The Raiders kicked him out of their club a few years ago for being a fuckwit, so he spent a year perfecting his drinking and fuckwittery in North Queensland before signing with the Roosters under the tagline of “fallen angel”. He did a round of press where he announced that he had given up the plonk and the pills and was concentrating on nursing orphaned orang-utans back to life and curing cancer in his spare time. That was a year ago.

Now he’s mumbling his way through 2011, squinting at the world, licking windows, dribbling on himself and spending the weekend at the Coogee Pub after telling his team that he was visiting his mum in Goulburn. Not only did Carney not visit his mum to piss it up at the pub, he wouldn’t have been able to if he tried, seeing as he is actually banned from entering Goulburn. While there’s not a lot to do there (the Big Merino is pretty impressive though), being banned from your home town is a pretty good sign that you’re a massive fuckwit, kind of like being denied a UK visa. It’s a special accolade for such a special brand of fuckwit.

In keeping with the rules of league, the NRL gave Carney six chances to get his fuckwittery in order. By my count, he’s up to nine tackles and he’s still a long way downfield. But knowing this fuckwit, he’ll make a break, chip over the top and recollect it to score under the sticks, giving himself the lead and earn himself another six chances.

Carney has not broken any laws in his latest fuckwit escapades ("I haven't done nuffin wronk, but!" Todd grunted). He hasn’t beaten anyone up, pissed on them or been involved in a high-speed car chase while drunk; he was just out on the turps.

His club has told him several times in the past: “Todd, please stop getting on the turps.”
Todd said: “Ok," and went back to staring at the fridge.

Todd got back on the turps in a big way. He is one of Sydney’s most recognisable fuckwits and it’s common knowledge that he isn’t allowed to be on the turps.

If my boss told me to stop thieving stationery from work, I would. I wouldn’t go into Officeworks and load myself up with Sharpies and Post-it notes while their CCTV caught me rubbing myself with those spongey wrist protector things for your keyboard. I wouldn’t try and excuse myself by saying that I suffer from a disorder or an illness that requires constant highlighter stealing.

Todd Carney isn’t sick. He is just a fuckwit. He is a fuckwit who piffs a ball around a field once a week. I’m sure the NRL can find someone else to piff it around instead of Toddy (I'm available for about $30 000; I am shit at footy, but I am a good bloke).

Get well soon, TC. Say hi to Matthew Newton for me in pretend rehab.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

How to go to the bar with $20 and come home drunk with $30

It’s getting a bit brisk outside, eh? This phenomenon of cold weather is called “not summer anymore” and usually happens around this time each year. However, it doesn’t mean that you can’t still head out to the pub for a couple of schooeys with your mates; if anything, you should embrace the chill and piss it up as much as you can, as other thin-skinned idiots will opt to stay at home and watch repeats of Birds of a Feather on telly, meaning you won’t have to line up for twelve hours to order a beer while some clown in front of you tries to decide whether he should get a Victoria Bitter or a Melbourne Bitter.

As always, there are a few things that you need to keep your eye out for when frequenting a bar, pub, club or underground liquor dealing establishment. What follows is Mister Evil Breakfast’s Follow Up To A Previous Guide That Also Had To Do With Drinking Beer But This One Is About Tight Arses Especially (MEBFUTAPGTAHTDWDBBTOIATAE). Thank god for acronyms.

Statistics prove that in 71% of regular drinking groups, there’s one member who doesn’t always play by the rules and may benefit from each round of drinks more than his or her friends do. I can’t seem to lay my hands on the volumes of scientific research that went into this statistic, so you’ll just have to take my word on it. I daresay the Vatican has got its hands on it by now… sneaky Vatican. No one ever suspects the Pope. On a side note, I wonder what kind of undies the Pope has?

Archaeologists like Indiana Jones and other people who aren’t entirely real have dug up proof that cheapskates at the pub have existed since prehistoric times.

The Drinkasaurus Rex was a dinosaur who lived in the Triassic Period in what is now the Gobi Desert. Fossils have shown that this six-foot scavenger would readily group with other species of dinosaurs including the Myshoutasaurus, Haveabeermateritops and the Ucanbuythenextroundadon. The Drinkasaurus Rex’s most recognisable characteristics were that its arms were not long enough to reach into its pockets, and therefore relied on other dinosaurs to purchase beer. It is ironic then, that palaeontologists have theorised that the Drinkasaurus would consume any available liquid, but was either not able or not willing to provide it for himself.

A more recent example of cheapskate drinking is the Disappearing Coin phenomenon, whereby the cost of each round of drinks changes, either by bartender error, order differences or some underhanded tight-arse tactics in which you time your move right and order a round of light beers and hope that no one notices. More confident Magicians of the Disappearing Coin may opt for the “I’ll go if you pay” theory, and keep a certain amount of the change without telling the payer of the shout.

Other strategies of thieving some money from your mates under the guise of beer provision is to announce yourself as the next shouter and casually stroll up to the bar. Order your drinks and call upon one of your friends to help you carry the glasses back to your group. At the point of paying for the beverages, feign surprise when your wallet is empty. To avoid complete embarrassment, ask your mate to spot you, and swear you’ll go to the ATM and pay him back. If, during the night, he asks if you have that money, tell him that the ATM is “rooted” and it looks like “some bastard” has shoved an old Video Ezy membership card into the slot, and you will pay him back “later” or “as soon as we leave this place”. “Later” is a vague description of the future, and you should both know that the only way you’ll leave the pub is when no one has any more money.

By the way, it’s your shout, tiger. I got the last one.

Friday, April 15, 2011

NRL 2011 Round 6 – I have my serious face on

There comes a time in every tipster’s life when they have to stop tipping games with their heart, and start using their head. This week is such a time for me. I have grown a beard for this occasion; it gives me a look of wisdom and gravity. I can also stroke it thoughtfully as I ponder the outcomes of each game this week – who’s in, who’s out; whose groin is sore, whose groin is not sore. Honestly, it keeps me awake at night, thinking about all those groins. Well, that and dinosaurs with nightvision goggles. We cannot escape them… and that’s awesome.

I reckon that it’s right about now that Souths are wondering if Inglis was worth the money, Hindmarsh is wondering why he bothers turning up at all, and Todd Carney’s wondering who he has to blow to win the Dally M again this year.

Eels v Bulldogs
Titans v Tigers
Sea Eagles v Warriors
Roosters v Broncos
Knights v Sharks
Panthers v Storm
Rabbitohs v Dragons

Cowboys v Raiders
Sorry Raiders, but you’ve had enough chances. You’re playing shithouse all over the park. Everyone’s blamed Matt Fucking Orford for your fucking awful performances so far, but it really has been a full team effort to have sucked so much this season.

Morford is out this week after pulling his groin (that joke never gets old) and Sammy “the great white hope” Williams gets another chance to impress my socks off. It won’t be an easy game for him though, as the Canberra pack look like they’ve all swapped their beef jerky injections for non-fat chai lattes, and might leave Sam fighting a lonely, uphill battle.

I have no idea how the Cowboys are playing this year, but I think it’s safe to assume that they’re doing much better than Canberra at the moment, so they’re getting my nod for the week.

Go fuck yourselves, Raiders, you fucking fucks (PS. I love you).

MEB cumulative score: 16

This guy is so pissed off at the Raiders, he cut the head off their mascot and made a suit out of his skin

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Seasoned with salty tears

My Kitchen Rules is over for another series, and congratulations to whoever the fuck won. I couldn’t tell any of the contestants apart to be honest; all crying fuckwits look the same to me.

I did not watch a whole lot of this show, because it contains two things I hate quite a lot: pretentious foodies and crying fuckwits who want to be pretentious foodies.

According to, the winners knocked up a five-course dinner which featured:
raw kingfish and cuttlefish cerviche, porcini mushroom risotto, pan fried Blue Eye, stuffed quail wrapped in prosciutto and pear and almond tart with saffron ice cream.

If anyone knows what the fuck that is all about, let me know. It must have been a real challenge for them to serve raw kingfish though. I’m no expert (I am really), but raw kingfish sounds like a fairly easy thing to knock up:
Step 1: drink a bottle of wine.
Step 2: put fish on a plate.
Step 3: give plate to pretentious foodies and await praise for the fine texture and spiritual journey that your food has sent them on.
Step 4: drink more wine, tell pretentious fuckwits to leave because you need to vomit.

My real problem with this show (and most reality shows at the moment), is that there are too many people crying about too much useless rubbish. I know it’s a competition and all, but there’s really no need to break down because you burnt your pistachio-coated walrus balls. If anything, the walrus is the one who should be crying. But he’s not, because he’s awesome. The phrase “this is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done” was uttered by a contestant through a hitching throat and free-flowing tears as they attempted to MAKE PASTA.

Is cooking that much of a passion of yours, crying contestants? Really? It’s all you dream about; it’s your “creative outlet”? Then why did you spend four years studying accounting and the next twenty years being a fucking accountant? Here’s an idea – enrol in a culinary school (feel free to use the phrase “I’m sick of ‘cooking the books’ as an accountant” on your application) and get your snotty face away from my quail. And get your quail away from my chicken; this isn’t a Roald Dahl story.

If I was going on Sooky Bitches Kitchen, I would knock up my specialty:

La Nouille du Triomphe
A bowl of delicately boiled ramen noodles seasoned with a subtle blend of chicken or beef and served floating in a natural jus.

Les doigts du poisson et rouge
A mouth-watering arrangement of oven cooked seafood with sweet tomato-based dipping sauce.

Fromage avec pain
A lightly toasted, seasoned bun with double layers of individually wrapped cheese and topped with another slice of bread.

Le Plat du Lait et de la Céréale
A satisfying end to the meal, this dessert consists of a bowl of Fruit Loops served with fresh milk. Served with a side order of peanut M&M’s.

And if I burn the bejesus out of my fish fingers, I’m not going to curl up into the corner of my kitchen and cry. I’m going to eat them anyway, because they’re actually not that bad when they’re a little crispy.

Nom nom nom. Don't pretend like you don't want them

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

With a little understanding, we can blend them all perfectly

It has been a long time since my last Neighbours update – to be perfectly francis, I haven’t been watching it with my usual hawk-like intensity, as the happy hour times at the pub have changed to finish at 6pm. So when I order 400 drinks at 5:58pm, it sometimes takes me a while to drink them by myself, and then even longer to remember where I live or how to walk.

I have managed to catch a couple of episodes here and there, so I will give a briefish run-down of the trials and tribulations of our favourite (I use that term loosely) television neighbourhood as best I can (also used loosely).

Ins and Outs:
Ringo died, apparently. As is the standard punishment for not going to Charlie’s, Harold’s or school, Ringo attempted to cross a non-Neighbours road and was run over by Steph. His life was celebrated by people sitting around Harold’s Café for a while, listening to his latest single and drinking milkshakes. In a strange act of mourning for the loss of a bromance, Ramsay Street then divided themselves amongst Team Steph and Team Ringo for the ensuing court case.

Donna decided that she would pack up and head to New York after finishing the first year of her TAFE fashion course. It’s what Ringo would have wanted, after all. Well, that and not dying.

Steph went to jail after running Ringo over and killing him. Toadie was pretty busy that day, being the lawyer for the prosecution as well as the defendant whilst struggling with his own feelings about the case (being married to the defendant is a good way to get really involved), plus dodging death threats, new romantic interests as well as allowing himself sixty-four trips to Harold’s for a coffee while trying to organise custody of Steph’s thousands of children. I’m pretty sure someone took Charlie, put him in a drawer somewhere and forgot about him. We can only hope.

Karl and Susan are, unfortunately, still around. Karl finally accepted my Facebook friend request though.

Rebecca took off to Prague following the break-down of her marriage and affair. I think she might have taken Declan’s baby with her; I’m not sure. I have a sneaking suspicion that in about three months, baby India will return to Ramsay having aged about 15 years and join the rest of the Erinsborough kids in whatever grade at school they’re perpetually stuck in.

Natasha the Ugly Bogan Chick pretended she was pregnant with Scottish Rob Farnham’s baby after discovering that he had been spending time with Summer. She decided to make him prove himself as a decent father-figure by forcing him to give up a high-paying job so he could spend more time at home with her and the kid, instead of, you know, providing for them. Rob was obviously distraught at having missed this opportunity, the likes of which only come up a few times each week for high-school students in Ramsay Street. He was even more pissed off that he spent $2000 on a stroller for a kid that never existed, meaning that he blew his entire coffee budget in one sitting.

Toadie has found himself a nice young lady to help create the nuclear family mirage for his adopted son, Callum. Unfortunately, it seems that the Neighbours curse of “no matter what you ever do in your life, it will fuck you up on Ramsay Street” has struck her down as well, and it appears that she is actually Callum’s birth mother. Oh the irony. It does however, fit in quite well with the fact that her sister appears to be of a completely different ethnicity than her, so it makes sense that her kid would look more like Carl Williams than an eight year old kid.

Kate’s relationship woes have continued as her policeman boyfriend broke up with her for lying in court. In some places (the world), this is known as perjury and is an actual crime and punishable by serving jail time. Having her relationship end because of this is probably not the worst thing that could have happened. It’s a pity, because Constable Kate’s Boyfriend was the closest thing that Ramsay Street has ever seen to having a likeable, honest and believable character. I mean, the guy drank a beer at the pub for fuck’s sake. No orange juice and decaflattechinos for him.

Rivers from Heartbreak High is still hanging around and seems to be moping about all the women in the Neighboursverse, both past and present. He signed up at a Policeman’s Information Booth at the local Ramsay Street Fete, so I’m assuming he’ll be making detective fairly fucking soon. He will also tap Toadie’s missus’ sister. I wish I could remember her name, or care enough to look it up.

MEB’s predictions for the Neighbour’s universe:
- Lou will make his standard one appearance per scene per week as he makes a snide comment about Lynne’s cooking.

- Susan will have another bout of some kind of mental disorder, giving her another chance to perfect her “No no, I’m fine, I just need some air” line.

- Zeke will either die in a car accident, receive an offer from London to DJ there (and die), or get someone pregnant (and die before the girl gives birth). Either way, Zeke is fucked.

- Natasha’s dad will either have a complete mental breakdown or develop a drinking problem. He will definitely drive his car over someone (look out, Zeke!). He will be counselled by Rivers from Heartbreak High.

- A new family will move into the street and while everything appears normal, it’s painfully obvious that they are running from something. They will all either move away or into someone else’s house within three months.

Friday, April 08, 2011

Round 5 – Do we really suck?

They say a week is a long time in rugby league, but they are wrong – it’s really just seven days. It’s the same as a week in kickboxing, or a week in the backstreet underwater tennis tournaments that are creeping up all over Germany.

Round five of the NRL is upon us like a couple of streams of urine cascading down a shopfront window and I’m as excited as a policeman who’s just moved next door to Todd Carney about a couple of games this week. Seriously, does Carney have beer-flavoured nipples? Can’t we just put him on a rocket ship and fire him into the sun or something? While his sudden departure from earth may put a couple of tattoo parlours and nightclubs out of business, it will free up the cocaine trade and halve general fuckwittery around Sydney.

Darren Lockyer is about to tackle himself quite unawares

Cowboys v Titans

Tigers v Rabbitohs

Warriors v Roosters

Sharks v Sea Eagles

Storm v Eels

Dragons v Bulldogs

Broncos v Knights

Panthers v Raiders

Oh hello there, underachieving teams. How are you both going? Shithouse? Quite right. This game will sort out the contenders from the pretenders – not the band, although I’ve often thought that Chrissie Hynde would make a decent five-eighth. Who am I kidding – she’s a girl, so she can’t pass or catch (oooh sexist); just look at Matt Orford (ooooh controversial).

While Morford (or Matt Orful as he has been dubbed by the media) has yet to hit his straps this year… or last year… or possibly any year since 1996, Canberra coach Dave Furner has given him another chance to prove his worth, as he is currently sitting at about $8 in Italian Monopoly money, and he refuses to sell Old Kent Road. Meanwhile, Sam Williams continues to destroy all-comers in the Toyota Cup as he serves his suspension for playing well in first grade in Round One.

If the mighty Green Machine don’t win this week, I am officially getting rid of all of my merchandise, which means I’ll either have to sell/cut off my balls, which I have named Noa and Kenny. And no one wants that.

MEB cumulative score: 12

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Dear Mr Cricket Australia...

Click to read the small print

Dear Mr Cricket Australia,

I am writing to apply to the position of ‘Bowling Coach’ as advertised on the internet somewhere at some stage during the last few weeks. I believe I am well suited for this position due to my experience and passion for cricket, particularly in dealing with the development of more effective bowling techniques.

I have a clear understanding of the technical aspects of each variation of bowling style. I have been an avid student of Channel 9’s Wide World of Sports from an early age (and more recently, Fox Sports 1, 2 and 3 when I am at my brother’s house) which has granted me access to slow-motion cameras and improved technological advances such as Hawkeye, as well as expert opinions from former cricket players, journalists and Mark Nicholas on the art of bowling.

I have a strong understanding of the tactics involved in cricket (Test cricket, ODI and T20 forms) moreso than our former captain, Mr Ricky Fucking Ponting. I have watched first-hand as Australia’s recent tactics of allowing opposing teams to hit as many runs as they deem necessary have failed to win many games, and believe that there are better options available.

Whilst in attendance at a recent ODI match, I had the bright idea that the Australian bowlers could “ping the ball at the three sticks at the other end” and for the next eight overs, yelled out this exact message after each ball was delivered shorter and wider than the last. After those eight overs, during which Australia’s bowlers induced the number nine batsman into hitting several boundaries, the crowd around me declared me a genius tactician, however drunk I was, and many began yelling their own advice to the Australian team. It soon became clear that my voice was beginning to fail me, as I had been offering advice to the Australian team since the beginning of the game, and I was grateful to have this support, as my passion has been recorded as “drunken, rambling and incessant abuse” in the past by several members of the constabulary.

My ability to develop individual player plans are second-to-none, a skill which can be verified by my neighbours, who have complained to the police on several occasions due to my loud vocalisations while watching cricket. I was the first to advise Ricky Ponting to retire (in about 1994, I believe), and have worked out flaws within the batting of new captain Michael Clarke, previous captain Ricky Ponting and newcomer Steve Smith, which mainly involves landing the ball in the general vicinity of the pitch. This is the same plan that Shane Warne used to dismiss Darryl Cullinan during the 1990s.

The current Australian attitude to bowling tactics relies heavily on the Skeletor Principle. The Skeletor Principle (as you know) is based on the villain in the He-Man cartoons, who would invent a magical weapon, and through the use of said magical weapon, have He-Man and his allies tied up and powerless, only to have Orko break free from a non-guarded, non-secured jail cell, free the heroes and thwart Skeletor’s evil plan. While this attempt at defeating the most powerful man in the universe was deemed a “failure” by Skeletor and never spoken of again, the plan had potential to succeed at a later time during a future skirmish. If Skeletor were to repeat his scheme, but alter it slightly, such as introducing Mer-Man (or a second gully fieldsman) to ensure Orko did not escape, I believe success would follow quickly.

Recognising weaknesses within opposition batsmen has been difficult to ascertain recently, although it seems that they are able to play wide half-volleys and short legside deliveries without concern. If successful with this application, I would focus on improving the accuracy of our bowlers with a one-point plan, which would incidentally save Cricket Australia about $800,000 per year. It’s a plan that I have named “Operation: Drop Mitchell Johnson” which is a title that I think explains the crux of my idea fairly succinctly. I am prepared to go through the plan with Mitchell several times, as I understand he is originally from Queensland. I will also explain it to Ian Chappell if necessary.

I have used my knowledge of bowling mechanics in practice, and have played under a range of conditions to test my bowling theories. My first foray into bowling began as a child when, armed with a tennis ball covered in gaffa-tape, my brother and I would play epic cricket contests in our driveway, using the unpredictable swing, bounce and seam movement to our advantage. This is also the time that I perfected my “bean ball”, which uses the element of surprise, pace and a wicket that is at least three times the height of the current stumps. The bean ball should be released whilst aiming for the batsman’s head, and when done correctly, will hit them in the forehead/bridge of the nose on the full. The next delivery will be the same, but should have the batsman ducking, therefore exposing his stumps and losing his wicket. Should the batsman counter this tactic with a hook shot, it was the bowler’s duty to climb onto the roof (including neighbour’s roof, if accessible) to retrieve the ball and to “stop bowling like a fuckwit.” It is evolutionary tactics of the game of cricket such as these that keep bowlers’ minds fresh, and also why I can climb walls like Spider-man.

As were the rules of driveway cricket, each over had to be bowled in a different style, and since there were only two of us playing, this necessitated learning new deliveries. Over the years, I was able to incorporate bowling aspects from Merv Hughes’ run up, Damien Fleming’s outswinger and Glenn McGrath’s stump-to-stump, while later preferring the subtlety of Tim May’s arm ball, the Colin Miller mix-up and Steve Waugh’s slow-ball.

It was during an over of unleashing Shane Warne’s armoury on my brother that I discovered that I could bowl a googly with good accuracy and flight; a delivery which bamboozled him for three balls, until he realised that he could easily predict the spin of my ‘leggies’, as I was not able to get the ball to turn the other way. It still looks good though, and spins a fair way.

I used these tricks of the trade whilst playing several seasons of indoor cricket, and succeeded in perfecting what has been described as “gentle outswingers that are shit enough to get a wicket”. I then discovered that by bowling with the shiny side facing the other way, I could bowl “gentle inswingers that are shit enough to get a wicket”. I believe the term for an inswinger has been changed by Cricket Australia to “reverse swing”, but the concept of the ball moving through the air remains the same. I will also explain this to Ian Chappell, using diagrams if required.

I have outstanding leadership qualities, although I understand that Cricket Australia does not require anyone within their organisation to possess such skills. I am also able to utilise networks, as evidenced by a recent pub-crawl in which I was part of seven different shouts (twice) before I had to purchase a single beer. This indicates that I am able to exploit many people at once (while drinking); a skill that being the coach for any national sporting team should possess. Networking is important, especially when you’ve forgotten your wallet.

I have the ability to develop strong relationships with players, and look forward to forging a strong bond with a certain Mike Hussey. I would also enjoy the opportunity to work closely with Clarke and Ponting, as it has proven quite difficult to ensure that they are the ones who are eating the breakfast cereal laced with shards of broken glass and rat poison that I send them. I would also like to be present when I relieve Shane Watson of his recently-appointed vice captaincy role; I believe he would cry and it has been a dream of mine to see him sook like a bitch in public. I also think his missus is hot, and wouldn’t mind “meeting” her during a team function.*

*I want to have sex with her

I am willing to travel and work full-time with the Aussie lads (after the funerals of Clarke and Ponting and the ensuing coronial inquest of course), as their hectic cricketing schedule lately seems to be to sit around and enjoy a few beers while waiting for the next pay cheque to roll in. Seeing as it’s going to get what meteorologists are calling “a bit fucking nippy” in Canberra pretty soon, I welcome the opportunity to spend the winter under the Caribbean summer sun, or wherever the hell we’re going next. I would also enjoy the opportunity to visit the sub-continent and talk to local experts about bowling in difficult conditions, and how the modern game has made it so much harder to cheat.

I would work around the clock with the Australian bowlers to ensure that their fitness levels are peak, injury levels are down, and Twittering accounts are up-to-date. I have recently passed fifty tweets and still don’t really understand what it’s for.

I look forward to discussing my bowling philosophy of “we’re not here to fuck spiders” with you. I believe its ancient and mystical (and amusing) overtones will inspire the Australian bowlers (except for Hilfy; I think he needs to be put out to pasture, just quietly) and get this once-formidable sporting team performing back to its great potential.

I am willing to accept as little as $80,000 per annum (and a case of beer each week, plus my rego just for another six months) for this role. I figure this is roughly a quarter of what you would normally pay someone to undertake such a prestigious position, but I am willing to take this salary so you can afford some better players.


Mister Evil Breakfast

Friday, April 01, 2011

NRL 2011 - Round Four tips: Carn you Raiders!

Welcome to round four, punters (not you, Ponting, you fucking fuck – I’m talking to the other punters), where we delve deep into the world of rugby league and discover who has the upper hand on-field through strength of body as well as mind, who has the right tactics and who has been secretly diddling his team-mate’s wife on the side (coughcoughTHURSTONcoughcough).

Let’s see, what happened last week? Oh right, everyone I tipped sucked massive balls. I am assuming it’s a ploy by the NRL and the University of Canberra Hockey Club Tipping Competition to take my tips and make a mockery of them. Seriously, that’s pretty much the only reason I can think of as to why everyone I tipped (especially Canberra) would have sucked so much last week. And the week before. Not to mention the fact that a steroid-ridden salary-cheating bunch of world beaters like the Storm can’t even get close to a team from Queensland (the NORTH of Queensland, to make things worse), who still haven't recognised that they won that game. Oh look, I just insulted North Queensland people. Luckily it will take them until next week to understand that, and even longer for them to respond, but only a day to forget what I said.

Rotary ho, let’s tip the shit out of this week:
Rabbitohs v Sea Eagles
Broncos v Panthers
Eels v Cowboys
Sharks v Warriors
Knights v Dragons
Roosters v Tigers
Storm v Bulldogs

Raiders v Titans
They’ve been down on form of late, have the mighty bloody fucking Canberra Raiders, but it’s about time they hit their straps against the losers from the Gold Coast, who rely solely on pretty boy Scotty Prince to keep the team on track. Then again, that’s more than the Raiders have had to rely on in the past couple of weeks. But this week will be completely different, if the team got the box of lucky Spider-man undies I sent them – unwashed of course, to ensure the luck isn’t washed out of them, which will inspire our boys to a thoroughly desmolishing victory over the Coast. Thanks for coming boys, don’t let our shitty weather and lack of interesting things to do hit you on the arse on the way home. Raiders by at least 20. MEB cumulative score: 8…