Superman.

I literally ran into the bathroom and laughed for about ten minutes. Then messaged a bunch of friends, telling them about this dude. Which is mean, and horrible, but I have learned that I'm a horrible person who judges people on their love of Chad Kroeger, as well as Three Doors Down.

Sorry, universe.

A Growing Boy

While I write a review of Olympus Has Fallen, which I saw last night and which was pretty ridiculous, here's a comic!

I actually found it this weekend while I was sick in bed. Went through some old notebooks, and stumbled across a scrawled version - I think the conversation occurred in an Italian hostel/bar/club/location. I dug up some hilarious nuggets of gold over the weekend, as well as some pure, undiluted stupidity. I'm not sure what this falls under.

I am a mean and awful person...

...and this is a real, actual conversation that I had at a previous job.

Poor girl. At first I thought she was joking. Then I realised no, she's just a really, really straight-faced genuine fan of the Worst Band in the World. I am ashamed of how much my snobbery could not be quashed but shit, you try being in that situation and keeping a straight face. 

An Ode to Airwolf

Camp Ass Cobra (amidst the Bluegums) was deserted, save for Dane and I. Dane, deep in concentration, was applying some green lines of face paint. I was trying very hard to remain still and to keep my face from breaking into a line-ruining grin. It's gotta be said, there's a lot of pressure involved in applying paint to a face. I learned that later, applying but ONE pink line to Ferg's cheek. I quickly bailed and handed the reigns to Dane. After all, it's not like you can just control+Z that shit. It's a face. 

In any case, that was the happening occurring on Saturday evening at Golden Plains 2013; Dane and I readying ourselves for battle, and for attacking the party zone. I'd already put on my Obnoxious Dress, and our Battle Helmets were ready to go. All of a sudden, we hear stumbling footsteps behind us. 

"Oibro. You're like, fucking, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

He sat down in the chair opposite us. Tall, lanky, covered in dirt, wearing only runners and very, very, very conspicuously torn underwear. His eyes and a slew of scrapes along his legs spoke of a long, long day of getting very, very fucked up. 

He stared at Dane. An unfocused, Getting On It a little too hard kind of stare. 

"Bro. I'd fucking, I'd suck your dick." 

"The fuck...?" 

Dane attempted to stifle his laughter. "Hey man. What're you doing?" 

The lanky boy spat onto the ground. It was a globby, mouth-so-dry kind of spit. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Uhh. Nah, sorry." 

"Oh, come on man. Just like, a singlet or something. I'd suck your dick. I've sucked like, four dicks." He turned to me. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Nah, man." I replied, snorting with laughter. "I just brought dresses." 

He stared me down, as if just noticing that I was there. 

"You're pretty fucking hot, bro. I'd finger the fuck out of you. I'm serious bro. I'd fucking, smash you." He turned to Dane. "Bro, your bitch is pretty hot. Is she your bitch, bro? I'd fuck up your tits. I'd fucking, fuck them." He tried to spit onto the ground, but it landed on his chest and dribbled down. He was gross. 

Meanwhile, Dane and I were in various stages of hysterical laughter. Cause here's the thing about this particular guy. If you can imagine anyone, anyone else saying the truly ridiculous, mostly disgusting, probably offensive things this kid was saying, you'd most likely tell them to fuck the hell off. You'd be insulted, offended and more than a little bit disgusted.

This kid though, was just a dumb kid who'd had way too much of whatever he'd been having. Even when he admitted he needed "boys clothes" because the cops were looking for a guy in a dress (him) because he and his friends (already kicked out) been selling drugs and being general douche-canoes of a nuisance (I'm paraphrasing), he was little more than kind of scummy and very hilarious. Almost endearing. Aw, kid. You'd think. You're alright, even if you're gross and there's a giant hole in yer undies.

He peppered his speech with globs of spit spat onto the dusty ground, and with exclamations of "OIBRO" or "FUCKIIINNG". And I tell you what, I have never met a more instantly quotable person.

"I get into fights but, fucking, I never win bro."

"You cunts got any goon?"

"I'm a honey badger. Honey badger don't give a shit. I'm RELENTLESS."

"Bro. Bro. I'll tell you a story bro." Pause. "So I was fingering this chick right, and she said I was shit. So I was like, 'fuck you bitch', and fucking, I left." Pause. "Do you guys like spiders?"

"Seriously bro. Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?"

"I'm not kidding bro. I would smash the fuck out of you. Fuuuuuuuck."

"What happened to your leg?"
"I kicked someone's goonbag out of their hands and I fucking, fell over bro."

"What's your name, mate?" Dane asked.
"AIRWOLF."
"Airwolf?"
"AIRWOLF-AROOOOOOOOOOOO!. I'm a HONEYBADGER, I'm fucking RELENTLESS I DON'T GIVE A SHIT."

He paused for a little bit, to consider his surroundings. By then he was wearing a crown of flowers I had, and was sporting a definite semi-boner. Dane had finished my face, and painting his own face. Airwolf was staring at my chestular area, which was a little disconcerting.

"What size are you? C cup?" He stared some more. "D cup?"
I laughed. "Fuck no. B, bro."
"You coulda fooled me, mate. I'd fucking, fuck your tits up. Give me half a chance, I'd fuck ya." Airwolf paused. "Do you have a wide-set vagina and a heavy flow?"

With that, Dane exploded into hysterical, red-faced, crying, gasping laughter. Oh man. This kid. Fucking, Airwolf. He threw Dane's face paint into the bluegums. It hit a car. Sat back down, and hit himself in the dick with the stack of cups he was holding. He asked me again about my status re: wide-set vagina and heavy flow. He talked about relentless honey badgers. He accidentally spat on my boot, then licked it up. He licked my boot, covered in a day and a half's worth of dust, spilt beer and assorted scum.

"My mum does"

I don't think I've ever seen Dane laugh that hard. And I haven't laughed like that in a really, really really long time. If nothing else, Airwolf gave our abs a fucking workout. Thank you, Airwolf.

Eventually, the rest of Camp Ass Cobra returned to the site, right in time for cocktail hour to commence. They greeted Airwolf warmly, thinking he was a pal of ours, but almost immediately saw his ripped undies, his semi-boner, and his more-than-a-little-fucked general aura.

"Hi there" said someone "How're you going...?"

"Oi you motherfuckers got any goon, cunts?" 

If that's not an amazing opening line, then I don't know what is.

It's around that time that it became clear young Airwolf was outstaying his welcome. Dane and I had enjoyed a good ol' lol, but the jokes were getting repeated ("Why did the chicken cross the road? TO GET FUCKED UUUUUUUP!") and he was on a very, very different wavelength to the rest of the Ass Cobras. 

"What happened to your clothes?" 

"The cops are looking for a guy in girls clothes. Seriously, you got any goon?" 

He looked at me, as if rediscovering the fact that I was even there. 

"Fuck bro, give me half a chance and I'd finger the fuck out of you. I love black chicks." 

Black chicks? 

Everyone burst into peals of laughter. Young Airwolf obviously misinterpreted said laughter, because he felt the need to repeat himself. "Seriously! I'd go ya! I love black chicks!" 

It was shortly after "black chicks" that Airwolf was told by Ferg ("If you want me to fuck off, just tell me!" "Okay. Time to fuck off.") to take his leave. It wasn't before Airwolf had the chance to hurl "Fuck you, bitch!" at just about everyone in attendance, or before he had the chance to remind everyone of his "huge semi-boner". 

Man. Reading back on this, I realised how utterly gross just about everything he said really was. And it was! But there was something about him that made you want to pat his hair and tell him to have a nap. Maybe it's because I know all too well the vague memory of having engaged in some insulting word-vomit during a festival rampage. Maybe? I can't say I've ever been hunted by the cops while in drag, telling everyone within sight to get fucked, cunts. 

It wasn't just me though, because on our way back to the Supernatural Amphitheatre, Ferg turned to Dane and I. "Was I too mean to him? I felt like maybe I was mean." See? That's what I meant when I said, this kid was disgusting, awful, rude and really, really scummy but gosh-darn it if you just didn't end up hoping that he ended up getting home okay and that he ended up finding some boys clothes. Jeez, I can't say I usually act so friendly-like to someone who so RELENTLESS-ly offers to "finger the fuck" out of me. 

In any case, that was the last we saw of Airwolf. As we drove out of Golden Plains the following morning, I almost half-expected to see him lying in the middle of a paddock, or walking down the road to Geelong, yelling at cars "OI MOTHERFUCKERS YOU GOT ANY GOON, CUNTS?"

AROOOOOOOOOOO!

Being Smelly, Glorious Victory

Or: Sometimes it's the smallest and stupidest realisations that feel the most significant. 

Hair

Valentimes

Hey, guys.

Valentine's Day is a strange one, isn't it?

I was going to have a good old fashioned ramble tonight. However, I know that I'd just be adding to the many, many piles of words that already exist about Valentine's Day and that resurface on Valentines Day if I were to say any of the following things:

• Oh my gosh, pals! Valentine's Day is just one big marketing ploy! 
• Valentines is such a waste of time! 
• Just take your lady out any other day of the year! Don't make it a token gesture because you fucking have to, guys. 
• Everything's twenty thousand times more expensive on Valentine's Day! Don't be a chump! 
• Laydeez, why the fuck do you care if your SO gets you something shiny on Valentine's Day??
• HNNNNGGGHRHRHRHRHRHR. 

So I won't say any of those things, because they've been said about a million times before, in ways and words far more articulate than I can be bothered mustering up at this hour of the night. 

I will say this though, and I'll try to keep it brief. The day puzzles me. It really does. I tried to explain as much to a few of the guys I'm working with at the moment, and I got a response along the lines of, "Are you just being a grinch because you're single?" to which I became suitably enraged because my argument was reduced to being the gripe of some pissed off singleton. 

It just seems like a giant waste of time to me. It seems like the time to wheel out a token gesture from the guys, and a shitty excuse to expect something shiny from the more princess-y girls. Dude, take your significant other out for dinner any other damn night of the year. I can say this honestly - every time I've actually had someone to spend Valentine's Day with, I've not wanted to do anything. In fact, if I remember correctly I actually think I spent a Valentine's Day a few years ago not with the guy I was seeing, but with a friend, watching shitty movies. 

I actually think I declared the February 14th to be "THE WHO RECORDED LIVE AT LEEDS ON THIS DAY IN 1970, SO IT'S WHO-DAY SHUT UP" at that point. Which is silly, but you know. 

Put it this way: if I were with someone today, and they suggested we go out of a romantic dinner, I actually think I'd almost be disappointed. Why are we going out for dinner? So we can be overcharged and be amongst all manner of insufferable couples? Please. I'd rather stay at home and hang out.

This is almost an exact quote, said yesterday by a guy I know. "It's good, I only have to take her out for dinner twice a year - Christmas and Valentine's Day. After tonight, I'm halfway there." I just think that's one of the stupidest statements I've ever heard, on a variety of levels. 

And before you say it - no, I'm not just peeved because I'm single. I do have the capacity to be hopelessly smitten and disgustingly enamoured. And I do have the capacity to appreciate romance. Sure, I can't abide public online declarations of love (EVERYONE LOOK! LOOK AT ME!), but I definitely appreciate romance. Hell, When Harry Met Sally is one of my favourite movies of all time. Case in point: today on the train coming home I watched the girl sitting in front of me grinning at her phone, attempting to stifle giggles at what were obviously messages from her significant other. That actually brightened my mood immensely, especially after having to deal with the usual peak hour public transport cluster fuck. That feeling of being shockingly smitten is an amazing one, and to see it physically manifested on someone's face - that put me in a happy place. What also put me in a happy place was watching the hoards of be-suited men carrying armfuls of flowers (and one guy with a bear almost as big as he was) onto the train. That made me legit laugh out loud at one point, but that's entirely different. 

What was definitely heartening and cause for rejoicing though, was the fact that upon leaving the office I realised how genuinely excited I was for a night by myself, watching a movie and having time to cook up a storm. I'd been invited to a "I Hate Valentine's Day" party by a friend from high school, but honestly - the thought of buying a bottle of wine and turning a mass of lentils into a mass of MY BITCH was too attractive to push to the wayside. Besides, I was fairly sure Miguel and Jaz were going to be out having a romantic night, so I'd be able to do all of the above in my underwear, while listening to Glen Campbell unaffected by shame. 

They're not, just FYI; walking into the house singing along to Tears for Fears I realised Mike was at home. That fact was initially somewhat irritating, but only for a split-second. As I finished off my dinner, Mike gave me a run-down of the bazillion course meal that he planned to cook for his lady, and I congratulated him with genuine applause. His Valentine's Day romance comes from a genuine place, that much is clear. He dumped about twenty thousand shopping bags full of ingredients on the kitchen bench, and I gave him a mental thumbs-up. But you know, if we're being honest ... I'm listening to the Louvin Brothers at the moment, REALLY LOUD. If you know what I mean.

That's totally not the point of this post though. The point I'm trying to make is thus: over the past couple of years, I've rediscovered how much I really, really enjoy my own company. If I'm being honest, I'd rather hang out with myself than most people. I don't have a significant other, at least in part because the thought of spending that much time with someone else isn't the least bit attractive. In years gone by, I'll have filled my time with friends and company because I didn't want to be by myself for that sort of extended period of time. Now though, I'd rather go to the movies by myself than with most other people. Having someone else in my bed means that there's less room for me. Other people talk during TV shows, and that I just cannot fucking abide.

I've had that realisation a few times in recent months, but it was nice to have it reaffirmed today. Seeing dudes carrying bundles of flowers, and watching a guy at work scramble to secure a booking at a restaurant, and watching the cavalcade of posts on Facebook, the overwhelming thing I felt was being torn between what movie I was going to watch upon getting home. That thought makes me happier than any thought regarding a significant other, and thank god for that. I'd be a shitty girlfriend. 

I've never been good at numbers.

I'm not even kidding. I went to put more money on my damn Myki then found myself staring blankly at the numbers. You know when something's so second nature that after a while, you don't even think about it? Like walking? I find sometimes I'll think too much about walking, and I'll end up walking funny because I'm thinking about each step. Same thing here. I had to remember what actual numbers make up my PIN and suddenly -ZILCH. Nothing. Nada. 

To make matters worse, I've somehow also managed to lose my drivers' license ... either at home, or on some sort of rampage over the weekend. 

I'm obviously really good at cards, and being a responsible adult (and penning haikus, duh). 

Boxing Day Can Eat a Bag of Dicks or: I Didn't Enjoy the Boxing Day Sales

Firstly, I'd like to extend my warmest "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" and "HAPPY CHRIMBUS!" and "FESTIVUS FOR THE REST OF US!" to all of you who regularly send your eyes and your clicks over to this ridiculous corner of the internet. It's really heartening to hear how many of you get a genuine kick out of the very silly things that come out of my brain, so thanks for tuning in so often throughout 2012, this year of our anticlimactic apocalypse.

You guys.

My Christmas was a most enjoyable one, as it involved hanging with my family on the coast, watching a shitty Steven Seagal movie, getting a remote controlled helicopter and Neil Young tickets, and then eating so much food I could barely breathe (I'm not even exaggerating). It was a lovely, wholesome, fun-filled and flavorsome way to spend a few days. That being said though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't breathe a sigh of relief when I finally returned to a quiet Castle Mega, made myself a cup of tea, and watched a movie. By myself. Quietly. Silently. By myself. Perhaps observing this enjoyment of one's own company sheds an in-hindsight sort of light on how I handled the True Carnage that occurred the next day. Maybe that's why I was launched into rage and frustration and puzzlement so quickly upon arriving at Chadstone.

The correct reaction upon hearing someone
is going to Chadstone on Boxing Day.

Of course, I was completely aware of what I was getting myself into, so I probably completely deserved all of the pain inflicted on me. In fact, this wasn't the first time I'd braved Chadstone on Boxing Day. You read that correctly. Chadstone on Boxing Day. Last year I braved the carnage clusterfuck, and had a time that was equal parts confounding and rage-inducing. This year my attendance was due to two things:

First of all, my parents gave me a hefty Chadstone voucher along with my Neil Young tickets, claiming that I'm "too damn hard to buy for". Well shit, I wanted to get something good. Having gone to the sales last year, I was very aware of the rubbish-y stock that's left over after the screeching flailing of the first feeding frenzy. I suppose with that I can identify a hefty dose of FEAR OF MISSING OUT having bored its talons into my brain and while that's kind of disappointing, fuck it. I need new shoes.

SECONDLY, and far more stupidly, a morbid curiosity was growing inside me. I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew how angry I'd gotten last year, how I'd stumbled out of the shopping centre with a hatred for my fellow man at an all-time high. I'd seen the snatching and the crowds and the madness and the crazed MUST GET BARGAINS ON SHIT I DON'T NEED, and all I could think of was will it be as bad this year? I wanted to know. I needed to know. And I knew at the very least, I'd get some sort of blog post out of it.

So here you are. Boxing Day 2012. Again, I found a very kind family member to give me a lift to the carnage. And again, I think their generosity was motivated by morbid curiosity than actual goodwill towards their ill-fated daughter but you know, I'll take any free lift that I can get.

Even at 9am, it was packed. Packed. Knowing we'd never get to an actual entrance, I barrel-rolled out of the car and walked the rest of the way. I heard a "GOOD LUCK!" fade into the distance as my ride sped away. I took a deep breath, girded my loins, walked inside, and burst into laughter.

At the "intersection" of Tiffany, Burberry, Gucci and bunch of similarly shiny stores full of reflective surfaces, security guards and confounding prices, the lines snaked around and around and around. People were lining up around corners, past escalators, to go inside. Why? WHY? WHY? 

Of course, this was first thing in the morning. As the day wore on, the crowds grew and became more and more obnoxious, until it was necessary to do the "Music Festival Shuffle" through the crowd to get from SUPER BARGAIN point A to B. But of course, as the day wore on my sense of humour deteriorated and thus, so too did any thought to take photos. See all the space in the photos? The space for walking? GONE.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I stood around and chuckled to myself for a while, and played "SPOT WHITEY" in the Gucci line (there were four), before heading towards Myer. I'm not entirely sure what came over me, considering the true bloodshed and brutality that I faced there me last year, but that's where I went. Maybe it was momentary bravery brought on by having a laugh, maybe it was because I was listening to The Four Tops, or maybe it's because I was super curious. Or maybe I was just overcome by momentary insanity, because I made a bee-line for the "INTIMATE APPAREL" section, a place akin to Mount Doom to me, in that it's fraught with peril and is fucking terrifying.

Yes, the time had come to brave the battlefield of bra-shopping, an activity that I find to be equal parts intimidating, confusing and demoralising. As a result, I always put it off. I sure as shit wasn't going to go to Bras n Things, because I find that to be a Truly Terrifying Place. The sales assistants swoop down upon you, it looks like a Barbie exploded everywhere, and in between all of the confusion and terror I can barely even remember what damn size I am. So I guess that left Myer. Already, there were bras all over the floor, hangars were strewn everywhere, and the line for the fitting room was something awful. It was obnoxiously crowded. Every few seconds I found myself saying "Excuuuuuuuuse me", as I literally squeezed myself between women and racks (HEH HEH) of bras. People were plonking themselves in the most inconvenient possible places, not bothering to get out of the way, shoving past each other. It's kind of as if with the dawn of Boxing Day so to comes an unspoken rule that "YOU CAN BE A DICK TODAY, BECAUSE IT'S BOXING DAY. IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL, MOTHERFUCKERS".

I'll say this much: the next person who sees me sans shirt had better know the Saving Private Ryan-esque scene that was endured to purchase those boob-holders. I don't mean to say that there was blood and guts and khaki green everywhere, I just mean to say that it was AWFUL and it was KIND OF TRAUMATISING, and certainly after putting my headphones back on and attempting to navigate my way out of Myer (PRO-TIP: Don't go via the Cosmetics Department), I stood outside with a fair dosage of the ol' Thousand Mile Stare. Add the madness of Boxing Day to the already confusing experience that it is, and you've got yourself cause for some shopping PTSD, yo.

Returning to the massacre of Chaddy's "streets" was like attempting to get from one point to another at a music festival. I take that back. I don't get angry at music festivals. It was like walking down Swanston Street, but about ten times worse. I find that walking from one end of Swanston Street to the other is about 90% likely to make my blood boil. Too many people, not enough space, not enough people with destinations in mind. The people that walk way too slow, the groups that walk way too slow while also walking four abreast, the small children shrieking and getting in the way, the people that stop mid-walk in the middle of the path to confer about something, or take a photo, or just generally be in the way. Call me an impatient asshole, but this is what riles me up. And this time, there were trolleys involved.

I went to look at the foodcourt. It was awful. I walked down to JB Hi-Fi. The line snaked around past the bowling alley. I went down to the other foodcourt, and a disbelieving, "Oh, SHIT!" escaped my lips. I shoved my way through the crowd and into a shoe store. It was so crowded, one literally could not move without actually shoving past people. Shoes were strewn everywhere. Boyfriends stood in the corner, looking vaguely scared and clutching an array of brightly coloured bags. I left almost immediately, for fear that I'd launch into a flying rage at any moment. .

My next location was Fat, which mercifully wasn't full of yelling ladies snatching and shoving. I asked a guy working there how his day had been, and his hand immediately went to his face. "Oh god ... it's been insane. Insane. I cannot wait. Until. This is over."

I am so glad I don't work in retail anymore.

It took my ride 45 minutes to get from a carpark entrance to a centre entrance. I jumped into the car and we drove home and watched in disbelief as we whizzed past car after car after car after car banked up along Dandenong Road.

"What the actual fuck?"

The entire time I was shoving and shuffling and stumbling may way around Chadstone (I did a few laps, just to compare crowds and become ever more bemused/angry), I found myself wondering: WHY? For the love of all that is holy, why the hell BOTHER? I know that's hypocritical for me to say, because obviously I went, and obviously I used my voucher to pick up some actual savings on things I needed/wanted, but STILL. I went in the knowledge that it'd be awful, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, knowing I'd hate it, and knowing that a great deal of things wouldn't actually be on sale. I deserved all the internal pain and the barely contained rage that I had to deal with. The truly unpleasant specimens, the obnoxious children, the bitchy women, the sheer volume of duddery and jackassery and assholery.

I went in knowing that, and then spent the entire time being with one thought overwhelming all others: that this Boxing Day shopping frenzy is one of the most stupid, pointless exercises I could possibly imagine. The haggard looking shop girls, the overflowing food courts, the ruthless snatching of stock and the at times mediocre savings and the clothes strewn all over the floor. Everything I saw could only be described as a waste of time and money and effort of the highest degree of unpleasantness.

But you know, I did buy new shoes. So it can't have been all bad.

Breaking Dawn Part Two is so bad it goes past good and back to bad again.

I'm not even kidding.

Look, I know I'm supposed to be writing a long-winded post about Meredith. I definitely still am. Definitely.

HOWEVER, tonight I was ripped away from my laptop in order to partake in a strange tradition Alice and I have going: to head to a screening of the latest Twilight movie in order to laugh our asses off, choking with barely contained guffaws while pretending to vomit into our popcorn.

You may of course, remember my little rant about the last installment of the Twilight Saga ... Breaking Dawn: Part 1. 

Look, I enjoyed Breaking Dawn: Part 1. That is to say, I enjoyed it in the same way that I enjoy watching any insanely bad movie. We laughed at the inane dialogue! We gasped with terror at the atrocious performances! We cringed at the awkward attempts at "sexy" from anyone involved! We vomited at just about everything that happened!

Part 1 was truly a joy to watch, simply because it was filled with characters and plot points and performances so far beyond comprehension, there was nothing else to do in the face of it but to laugh. Of course, afterward came the bewilderment and shock that millions of young girls around the world take The Twilight Saga to be the Best of the Best as far as romance goes, but that's an entirely different story.

To re-cap, Part 1 contained the following:

• Vampire/Human sex
• Teen wolf inter-gang politics
• Half-human half-vampire spawn communicating with its folks from the womb
• Said baby being EATEN OUT OF THE WOMB by its VAMPIRE FATHER
• A teen wolf falling in love with newborn baby

Amazing, right? Yes. It is. It's ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. Can you imagine if David Cronenberg or John Waters were to direct that? Food for thought, no?

Lamentably, tragically, goddamn annoyingly Breaking Dawn Part 1's one saving grace - the fact that it's FUCKING ABSURD and therefore HILARIOUS - is the very thing that's missing from Part 2.

This means that I spent the last couple of hours or so being repulsed, bored, puzzled and occasionally slightly amused (at all the wrong moments, of course). The rest of the time, I tried to block out all sounds of Kristen Stewart's mumbly monotonous delivery in order to gaze at Lee Pace.

He does look like the slightly goth frontman of a
band of magicians, but you know... slim pickings.

To give you some context, Part 2 picks up where Part 1 left off. Revelatory. Renesmee (snigger snigger snigger) has just been born, and Bella has just been turned into a vampire. Bella wakes up and she's suddenly super hot and super strong and has super red eyes. The fact that she's so strong is basically the only place from which Breaking Dawn Part 2 attempts to glean some light moments of humour so you know, look out. Bella learns to hunt, she learns to be around humans, she meets her kid, and she finds out her furry be-muscled pal Jacob has "imprinted" on her newborn daughter. Lo and behold, it looks like our heroes might finally get some peace and quiet in their new little cottage of domestic bliss.

Bella and Edward even get to have some full-blown, no-holds barred vampire sex! Funnily enough though, full blown no-holds-barred vampire sex proves to be just as awkward and boring and un-sexy as Bella and Edward's human/vampire sex, so frankly I can't tell what all of the fuss is about. Luckily for us though, someone spots their rapidly growing half-vampire spawn and dobs the Cullens in to the vampire big bosses and so ensues the build up to a potential vampire showdown for the ages.

Of course, the build-up to a potential vampire showdown for the ages is basically an excuse to bring in some cool-lookin' vampire types from around the world. Call it the chance to put attractive faces to one-dimensional minor characters so obsessive fans can write horny teen fan-fiction to their hearts' content. Because really, that's gotta at least be part of what it is. All the promo shots floating around the internet, the token bits of dialogue, the cool powers, the fact that they're all actuall completely useless as characters ... In between gazing at Lee Pace, that's what was running through my head during most of the "GET TO KNOW THE OTHER VAMPIRES" section of the damn film. WHO WILL GET THE MOST FAN FICTION? I'm almost slightly curious. Almost.

In any case, a bunch of the Cullens' vampire pals trek over from all corners of the earth to help their brethren out. There are a pair of Brazilian Amazon vampires, who you can spot because they're not wearing much and they're tall, fit ladies. They grab a trio from India, who you'll spot because they're darker and are wearing scarves. There's another trio from Ireland and, even though they don't say anything, you can tell they are Irish because they're all have red hair. Yes, that's how layered, complex and interesting each of Stephanie Meyers' characters are. You can tell the vampires are Irish because they have red hair.

At this point in the film, I was thoroughly bored. Each moment of heart-wrenching emotional weight left me feeling nothing. Each pronouncement from one vampire to another that they'd always love them, forever forever forever, I yawned and wished Lee Pace would grace the screen again soon. Alice too, leant over at one point to say much the same to me.
"I don't think I have enough emotion for this film..." she murmured.
No, I thought, the problem is that we don't have enough shit tolerance for this film.

With solemn looks and intense pacing and vows to always love each other in place of crazy-ass supernatural antics, there's really nothing to distract from the fact that The Twilight Saga is basically filled with incredibly unlikeable characters being incredibly selfish, and is filled with actors barely acting, uncomfortably staggering through truly insipid dialogue. I say this with no hint of hyperbole: there are next to no redeeming qualities to be found in this film. 

My biggest moment of excitement (again, I'm not even kidding) actually came when out of nowhere WENDELL PIERCE of The Wire appeared as an inconsequential character that's on-screen for all of about a minute. When he appeared, I began to laugh and clap my hands with geniuinely surprised glee. That, my friends, was the highlight of Twilight Breaking Dawn: Part 2. I half expected him to throw a beer can at Bella's head.

Bunk's in Twilight? Shiiieeeeeeet. 

What should have been the highlight was the inevitable showdown between the Cullens and the Volturi. That should have been the incredible climax to the entire goddamned saga, or at the very least a somewhat entertaining distraction from the dreary bore-fest that had been the preceding hour and a half. To the film's credit, it does actually manage to muster a few moments of badassery and surprises. For instance (I don't give a shit about spoilers), a number of major players get killed off quite quickly during the snow-field battle that ensues, and in pretty grizzly and graphic fashion to boot. I remember suddenly snapping my attention back to the screen (I could see my phone lighting up and was tempted to check it) and mentally congratulating Twilight for pulling a rabbit out of its undead hat right at the eleventh hour. Cojones! Badassery! Heads being ripped from bodies! I almost felt something there! Well done!

Almost immediately after I thought my prayers might be answered though, we cut back to THE PRESENT, to see Michael Sheen (who spends the entire film attempting to be as over-the-top as possible) looking confused at the vision he'd just had.

That's right.
It was all a dream.
The entire battle did not occur.

The only good bit in the movie didn't actually happen.

EXCUSE ME. PRIMARY SCHOOL CALLED, IT WANTS ITS "AND IT WAS ALL A DREAM" BACK.

I'm not even kidding. The entire showdown was a vision, given to one vampire to another. In the end it all seems like a bit too much trouble to have an epic showdown, so everyone parts ways and lives happily ever after.

THAT'S THE END OF THE FILM.

THEY DECIDE TO CALL IT A DAY AND THEY ALL GO HOME.

When that happened, I actually began to laugh properly for the first time during the film. The theatre was silent, and I couldn't help myself from laughing at how truly and utterly stupid this film was proving to be. Yeah, cool. You can do the, "KIDDING! WE WOULDN'T KILL YOUR FAVOURITE CHARACTERS! EVERYONE'S FINE!!" right when it looked like this wasn't going to be the Worst Thing I've Ever Watched.

To make matters worse, Twilight Breaking Dawn Part 2 rambles on past the point - ALICE HAD A VISION OF RENESMEE STANDING BY SOME CRASHING WAVES WITH WOLF BOY - where any other film would have began to roll some end credits in order for Bella to give Edward a telepathic flashback montage of THEIR ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP. 

"Is this actually happening?" asked Alice, wide-eyed and disgusted.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuucking hell."

When that enjoyable recap of all four preceding films finished, and the film proper finally dragged itself over the sappy, vapid finish line, we found to our horror that it was still almost another ten minutes before we were able to leave. For it's at this point that Breaking Dawn Part 2 launches into a truly, truly awful sequence in which every minor character we've encountered throughout ALL FIVE MOVIES is shown. Even the ones that weren't even in Breaking Dawn. It seemed to last for years. Long, agonising years. Obviously, this is a film for fans. But believe me when I say this: I have never, ever seen something as equal parts ludicrous and vomit-inducing as the last twenty minutes of Breaking Dawn. Never. And I've seen some pretty shitty films in my time.

Finally, the credits rolled in earnest and the ordeal was over. The saga had ended, the curtain drawn on perhaps the most puzzling franchise that's ever managed to make millions of dollars and turn millions of girls into vampire-worshipping zombies with skewed views on romance.

Again, it was one of the worst things I've ever seen. And I admit, this is probably not one of the best things I've ever written but I just had to get all of the confusion and disgust and pure, undiluted terror out of my system before it all faded. I suppose written vomit is all that Breaking Dawn Part 2 really deserves now that I think about it, so frankly I don't feel like I'm going to lose any sleep about it. I just hope that the memory of what I just saw fades into the background of my mind quickly, because I sure as shit don't want to ever think about Bella, Edward, and their pals ever, ever again. Fans take this shit very, very seriously indeed, but if you're not a teenage girl who swoons at the very thought of a vampire then you won't be able to take it seriously in the slightest.

So shit, it goes past good and back to shit again. That's exactly how shit it is.

Birds.

That's right. Birds are hilarious. 

I think that birds are hilarious to the point that I've almost swerved my car off the damn road while looking and laughing at a bird. Such was the force of my laughter. In fact, I'd hazard to say that birds are what distract me most when I'm driving around. Apart from dogs. Birds are a close second. Birds are what distract me second most when I'm driving around. Not attractive, snake-hipped men, not the pretty girls in summer dresses, not shiny cars or beautiful vistas. 

Birds. 

I'm not distracted by birds while they're flying, mind you. What's so special about a flying birds? Nothing. That's what birds do; they fly. It'd be like saying, "Oh boy! Look at that toaster toasting!" or "Look at how that leaf blower blows leaves!" or being amazed at Charlie Sheen as he goes about a drug-fueled rampage. 

Basically, I think there's an entirely under-appreciated and oft-ignored world of delight to be had watching birds as they go about their business on the ground. In watching majestic and super cool winged animals journey from A to B using their lesser limbs.

Have you ever watched a bird walk? It's amazing. It's adorable. It's like watching the most awkward, nerdy and ill-equipped-for-life person you know wear a pair of trousers about four sizes too small, hoisting them up as far as they'll go, and then being told to march into battle.

Birds are incredibly clumsy, uncomfortable and awkward when they walk, and it pleases me no end. So graceful in flight, yet such dorky, waddling nerds on land. Even eagles, such majestic and powerful beings when in the air, are truly, truly endearingly gawky when they walk. Maybe it's precisely because birds are so impressive in the sky that I find them so endearing and comical when on the ground. In any case, I think I'd like to hit a dance floor with an eagle; we'd be a match made in heaven.

Seriously, look closely at the next bird you see walking. You won't be disappointed.

Finding that short clip just sent me into a Youtube vortex of birds walking that lasted about an hour. An HOUR. Of watching puffins, crows and penguins waddle around, and watching a toucan fall into a sink. 

Four things I don't like but I find a lot of people do like.

I know a few of my posts of late have been quite ... positive? Loving? Verging on slightly sappy by my standards? I feel compelled to put order and balance back into the universe of this blog, so here are a bunch of things I can happily be quite negative about. Enjoy.


Vegemite.
Vegemite tastes like how I picture a paste made of the vomit of Hitler combined with the excrement of the devil would taste. I've tried Vegemite multiple times over the course of my life and not once have I managed more than the tiniest bite at a time. If Vegemite were a person, I would gag upon setting eyes on them. Seriously. I might even fight them. It'd be a battle to the death. It wouldn't be pretty, nor would it be a stylish choreographed action sequence. Vegemite would have the support of All Australians Everywhere and I would be a lone wolf by myself on my own against my salty black spreadable foe. We'd tussle and wrestle with fists flying and knives very nearly gouging eyes. It'd be like that scene from Deadwood where Seth Bullock has to fight the Native American Indian to the death and it's really brutal and dusty and not very pretty. Is Native American Indian the right way to say that? I feel like I'm being offensive. Better that I insult the sensibilities of those who like Vegemite than those who are the native people of North America. Why did I think of Deadwood? I think it's because I just watched two films starring John Hawkes. Boy oh boy, is he a good actor.

Sex and the City. 
Alright. I avoided Sex and the City for years, at the behest of a friend who'd been forced to sit through all six seasons by his girlfriend. They broke up soon after,  although I'm not sure what role four glamorous sex-crazed laydeez living in New York had to do with their relationship's demise. Nowadays, I have in my life a posse of amazing lady bros of my very own and I love them dearly. So when I was urged by them to maybe give the show another go I relented. I sat through four or so episodes on their couch, and enjoyed them well enough. Maybe this isn't so bad, I thought. Certainly there were some amusing "LOLSEX" moments that were easy to relate to as a female lady with a vagina. So far so good. However, I recently had cause (editing job, being very sick) to be at home for a few Fridays nights in a row. I made sure to watch Sex and the City whenever it was on TV - after all, I'd blow the socks off the girls if I suddenly had the same encyclopaedic knowledge of SatC storylines as they do. It was this intense exposure to Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda by my own doing that made me reach the following conclusion:
I don't like them. I don't like Sex and the City. I just don't. I unfortunately just don't like any of the characters. Actually, I take that back. I like Miranda. But the dykie smart-ass never gets as much screen time as horse face! Or even the slutty one sometimes! Boo hiss to you, horse face and slutty one - that's what I think of the matter. Look, I understand that Sex and the City was a breath of fresh air, that it was ground-breaking to see a bunch of laydeez onscreen talking about sex the way dudes do. I understand that, and think it's muy rad indeed. That doesn't change the fact that I find the main character so annoying that I quite often had to change the channel and watch some Rage before giving it another go. To be honest, I'd much rather watch Entourage or Girls if I'm in the mood for a posse of four taking on a city and the shagging many members of the opposite sex. Even if the latter constantly keeps me on the verge of having a quarter-life crisis. And I know Entourage is kind of filled with douchebags, but I ended up watching about four seasons of it in about two weeks, so sue me.

The sun. 
I see glum or raging status updates on Facebook by friends about how awful it is that winter's come around once more. I though, am rejoicing. At first sign of rain and gloom, my spirits soar. Summer is too hot, too bright. Summer reveals all the pudgy bits acquired over the year. Summer isn't conducive to drinking tea. Summer makes me sweat profusely, which isn't very attractive. Winter though, is the time for big coats, and beanies, and layer upon layer of dark clothing. Winter is the time for big boots stomping around in puddles. Winter's too cold? Put on another layer. Easy fixed, broseph. In winter, I never feel bad for wasting an entire day indoors because of a hangover, or because I just can't be bothered going out. Winter is perfect for being indoors while it rains, or being outside while it rains. Summer taunts you, says "Come on kid, why are you wasting the day? Carpe diem, do something, YOLO!" 
Hell, summer says things like "YOLO". Dick.

YOLO
I didn't even find out what the hell YOLO is until about three weeks ago. I didn't feel so ashamed of that fact though, when I realised that YOLO is merely carpe diem for douches. I've seen #YOLO used in a straight-faced "SRSLY, ITS A MOTTO YO" way on my Facebook feed a handful of times, and every time I almost vomited all over my computer screen.
#YouOnlyLiveOnce is what YOLO stands for, as well as stupidity and - of course - douchebaggery.
I urge you, head to Twitter and search #YOLO. You will find gems like the following:
"Tweeting and driving #thuglife #YOLO"
or "PARTY TONIGHT gonna get my drink on LOL got test 2moro #YOLO"

It should come as no surprise that YOLO was in part made popular via a song by Drake.