Plucked from the headlines, online and in print
It should have been front-page news: something actually happened at the cricket on Tuesday.
And it even involved a cricket ball … along with a couple of other, more fragile balls. One of the cricketers took a direct hit in the box (a flimsy plastic protective device intended to keep the nether regions of vulnerable cricketers safe and cosy). The box cracked and all other team members were suddenly very interested in the state of said cricketers wedding vegetables.
Even at work, it caused most of us in the office to stop, cringe a little on behalf of the poor bloke and talk about the cricket for a few minutes.
It should come as no surprise to anyone that I’m not a huge fan of cricket: a “sport” that seems to go on forever and ever and ever. And sometimes doesn’t even get a result.
And I still don’t think it really is a sport because shouldn’t playing a sport involve breaking a sweat and moving a lot? No, cricket is a pastime, much like chess and belly-button lint collecting. However, Tuesday’s incident is proof that even a cricket-hater such as myself can take an interest in the game given the right conditions.
And remember: if you think onions are the only vegetable that can make you cry, you’ve obviously never had a spud chucked at your nuts.
I’m not a fan of telly ads most of the time, an aversion I probably share with most of you out there. And after working nights for all those years, I got into the habit of recording the programmes I wanted to watch and viewing them at my leisure (and with the ads scudding past on my screen via the wonderful fast-forward button on my remote control).
I’ve been working days for three and a bit years now and still try to avoid the ads: most of the time I record programmes even when I’m at home so I can fast forward those offensive ads. Thanks MySky (now we just have to do something about the small problem of the decoder freezing, crashing and generally pissing me off, but that’s another
Anyway, I do see the occasional ad, and sometimes those ads are for supermarkets. I’m no fan of the forced cheerfulness of the New World ads (what are those people on? Happy pills?) and can do without Richard Till yelling at me in the Countdown ads (although, I did enjoy his last book).
Vegetarian: Ancient tribal slang for the village idiot who can’t hunt or fish.
Without doubt, the winner when it comes to supermarkets it’s the wee Paul Ego-voiced stickman cracking puns in the Pak N Save ads that do it for me. And now that the ads have managed to upset a whole section of society, I like them even more.
Granted, it’s quite a small section, very much a minority. But a section nonetheless: the vegetarians. It seems the carrot-munchers aren’t happy about the sausage trick employed in a recent ad.
It went like this: it was meat week at our friendly yellow supermarket and all manner of meat was on special. According to Stuff:
It began with a warning to vegetarians to look away while they showed meat on a conveyor belt, which was “okay”, she said.
“Then the punch line of the ad says, ‘Alright vegetarians, you can look back now. It’s a carrot. Just kidding, it’s a sausage’.
What about the several thousand of us who weren’t offended by the ad? I’d also take a punt and say there are probably several thousand of us who are offended by the fact that we appear to have become a nation of whiny little biarches who can’t take a joke.
I don’t eat fish because I’m allergic to some, despise the taste and smell of most of it but no one’s going to stop advertising fish on the telly for fear of offending me. Or broad beans … what about broad beans? There are few things as offensive as those nasty little things.
Whoop-de-do, some people choose not to eat meat. That doesn’t mean their choices and lifestyles are any better than mine.
Update: I see the ad’s back with a slight change. Vegetarian sausage indeed …
The Daily Mail, that online bastion of … er, crappy gossip stories and other trashy journalism that does absolutely nothing to aid the credibility of the profession has taken to the whole internet thing like the proverbial duck to water and while I am the first to admit the web has paved the way for all manner of crap to masquerade as “something to read” (this very blog you are reading right now, for example), you’d think you might get proper news stories on a proper news website.
But no, that isn’t the case.
Although, the story that got my “I want to Taser someone” urges piqued wasn’t about some tacky celebutante flashing their bits while leaving a nightclub. This time it was about the scam being foisted upon an unsuspecting public by those evil money-grubbing pawn shop proprietors, Cash Converters.
According to the story, it would appear these businesses are buying goods at a fraction of their original value from people who need money and then selling them in their stores with huge mark-ups.
Who’d have thunk it: a second-hand shop selling stuff at prices higher than they paid? Um, isn’t that what they are meant to do? If not, they’d go out of business pretty damn quick.
I suppose any headline proclaiming a father of 14 to be a virgin is going to get your attention, but having taken a look at this guy I can’t say I’m surprised he became a father via sperm donation.
This “organic” dad started his own free sperm bank and proceeded to be his own best customer. He says he has an ideal gene pool to father children.
Hmmm, is it just me or does it look like his own father may have been a six-toed banjo-plucking freak who didn’t look too far from the family tree when it came time to reproduce?
Anyway, virginal computer geek Trent Arsenault said:
I coined this term “donor sexual” … it means 100 per cent of my sexual energy is for producing sperm for childless couples to have babies. So I don’t have other activity outside of that.
Riiiight. Let’s break that down: he spends all his sexual energy producing sperm for childless couples, and has no other activity outside of that. In other words, he’s constantly fondling his gherkin.
Hope he washes his hands properly.
Opinions are a lot like arseholes: everyone has one and most of them are full of shit. Right now, it seems every man and his dog has an opinion on breastfeeding and they are keen to share those opinions.
Mothers opt to bottle feed for many reasons: sometimes they are unable to breastfeed no matter how hard they try, sometimes mothers get sick, sometimes babies are born early and are unable to feed, sometimes life is just so hectic that it’s too much to take on, sometimes it’s simply a choice … that woman’s choice, not the choice of some breast-is-best psycho who thinks everyone should follow their line of thinking.
And if a mother chooses to breastfeed, then that is her personal choice, too.
Yes, I know the La-La Land League (or whatever the hell the Boobs R Us outfit is called) reckon every woman is able to breastfeed and, god dammit, she should be forced to perform her diarying duties with a certain level of glee until her child is approaching puberty but sometimes real life gets in the way. They packed the shits over an anti-smoking ad that showed Piri Weepu bottle-feeding his six-month-old daughter and now that brief scene has been cut from the ad.
And there’s the mother in Manukau who says she’s hassled for buying formula in the supermarket and bottle-feeding her baby in public.
Oh sure, if producing milk was the one chore on a mum’s to-do list it would probably be a piece of cake, but these days mothers are more often than not working outside the home, they have other children, they get kicked out of hospital the day after popping out the munchkin … the list is endless.
Did you choose to breastfeed your baby? Well good on you. Did it go well? Again, good on you. Do you want a medal?
I support a mother’s right to breastfeed her baby, and to feed that baby in cafes and restaurants if need be. However, it is possible to be discrete (it was rather disconcerting when woman feeding her baby in a cafe I was at a few years ago just flopped both norks out at once and left poor old leftie just hanging there for all the world to see while bubs was having a feed on rightie).
However, I also support a mother’s right to NOT breastfeed.
And really, I think that as a nation we have much bigger things to worry about when it comes to the well-being of our children. Doing something about the appalling numbers of children being beaten to death in this country by parents, step-parents and other supposed caregivers would be a good start.
I realise there are some people out there who lack something in the brain cell department, but when someone is in the public eye you’d think they’d make an effort to know what they’re talking about.
But, when it comes to celebutards who are famous for nothing more than living their lives in public, that’s too much to ask.
Some silly bint on the Pommy version of Jersey Shore (something called The Only Way is Essex) was scheduled to be interviewed on an early morning TV show the day the death of North Korea’s favourite dictator was announced. Naturally, her interview was bumped because a dead Kim Jong Il will aways trump a live-ish bimbo.
Anyway, the aforementioned bimbo took to Twitter to tell the world her interview had been canned and ended her message with “Rest in peace”.
Afterwards, when the drama-rama had died down and she’d pulled the offending tweet, she admitted she didn’t know much about him. No surprises there.
So Kim Jong Il, hope it’s particularly toastie where you are now and I’m sure you won’t be lonely, with Saddam and Osama there to keep you company.
Ozzy and the boys are re-forming Black Sabbath, putting out their first new album for 33 years AND going on a world tour next year.
I hope they stop off here in Kiwi land.