don’t judge me,
love me

How to Look Blindingly Awesome in Author Photos

Begin by assuming that everyone you’ve ever hated will see your photo. So in my case, I just assume everyone will see my photo.

“But I have no enemies, I’m loved!”

You’re cute. Let me assure you that a) you do and your unbridled ignorance has led you to this point, much like Frauline Maria danced her way into a Nazi deathtrap, or b) you don’t but will immediately subsequent to the publication of your author photo; you’re a star, and people hate stars.

So now that we’ve established that you’re hated, let’s get to work.

“So where do I pose? In my room, so you can see all my Quentin Tarantino posters?”

You fool on a hill, no wonder you’re despised, I don’t even think Quentin Taratino would have the conceit to pose in front of his own posters, but you, you really take the biscuit. Aside from the obvious demonstration of your toolishness, this mise-en-scene would be at best grotesque and at worst amplify the public’s existing death wish for you. So no.

Your second instinct, if I may be so bold, I imagine will be to place yourself immediately before or adjacent to a mighty bookcase. Yet once again I must intervene. Whilst this is unlikely to compell the public to fill their eye sockets with Selley’s Space Invader in the hope they will blind themselves permanently and rupture any surrounding optic nerves and their short-term memory facility, it’s still lazy. We get it, you’re literate, this isn’t Sumeria, we can all do it now, welcome to AD.

The trick is to find something new, something that announces your arrival with bold, Matt Preston-like flair. Elizabeth Wurtzel (author of Prozac Nation*) achieved this by looking as suicidally depressed as possible at all times. Which, of course, was her thing; in her words, “I hate myself and want to die.” I say it’s good to have goals. Of course, Wurtzel might have gone further, and I wish she had. Instead of merely appearing unwashed and constantly smelling faeces (which I don’t malign, whatever shifts units), Wurtzel could have actually photographed herself mid-suicide — strapped to the tracks of an uncoming train screaming for her life, plummeting three hundred stories into pavement inches before her face becomes jam — whatever. My point is to think laterally!

“I think I get it. But I’m strangely ugly, the kind of person that makes people puke. Any advice?”

First off, you needn’t describe yourself ugly, it’s unnecessarily mean. I prefer “memorable”. Secondly, no matter how ugly you may be, you could not possibly be the ugliest person of all time. That title has already been snatched by the highly memorable Chuck Klosterman (author of Killing Yourself to Live), who is so visually disturbing, he appears to have been manufactured from pieces of other ugly people, much like a human coppa**. Even so, this godforsaken creature has a following that could only be described as cult. So you see, ugliness alone is no barrier to a bloated career and a sycophantic readership, that success can be yours too! Note: Klosterman works around his physical shortcomings by contributing bold accessories to his face, a crumb-like beard (not shown), heavy glasses, all of which effectively distract the eye into submission. Game, Klosterman!

“Okay, okay. But what about the photography itself? Should I hire a shmo?”

Maybe yes, maybe no. My concern with photographic practitioners is that the actual skills are so often alleged. Consider, any psychopath can pick up a camera and call themselves a photographer. Photography is like rape, it’s a choice. The only safe method of selecting a photographer (who expects any number of beans in exchange) is off a personal tip. Make it so.

..

* A book that I actually think was worse than the straight-to-DVD film that it inspired, but then again I’m pro Twins. PS Sue me.

** Coppa is an Italian salami that is made from cubes of pig that float in a clear gelatin that is rendered solid and sliced. On second thoughts, this was a pretty weak analogy, but I think the notion of composite meats is basically apt.

..

The Reader is the inaugural anthology of the Emerging Writers’ Festival.

fanboys

US road movie circa 1998 (made 2007) in which nerd contracts terminal cancer (note: nerd is tedious, no actual loss via death is apparent), as direct consequence nerd determines to break into home of George Lucas in order to view film Phantom Menace (note: Star Wars monomania is weak, unironic and done), is joined by three baby men, also nerds and best friends of guy with cancer, none of whom outshine one for whom death is imminent, who as already noted is equally interesting not breathing, with possible exception of obligatory fat guy, due to morbid obesity matched with demented Rush fetish.

Landslide of US critics described watching film like witnessing 120 minute abortion (my words); desciption is unfair, however, as cameos are like ever-flowing stream and eclipse core narrative and major characters, which have no inherent replay value whatsoever (note: executive producers actually wanted to exorcise terminal illness plot from film entirely; producers were allegedly demolished by internet-based fan opinion, who demanded cancer was retained; either this story was invented by the internet, which is sad, or this story is true, which is terrifying).

Stellar moments as direct result of cameos include Seth Rogen, who is facially deformed in order to play incidental Star Trek tour guide in Iowa, and Ethan Suplee, fat guy from My Name Is Earl, who plays person from actual world Harry Knowles of internet publication Ain’t It Cool News. Other cameos appear pointless and weird, such as Kevin Smith who in world of film publicly auctions Jason Mewes’ butt for purposes of gay intercouse at local petrol station, suggests parts of film were devised by actual pot fiend determined to reengineer film as cancer nerd’s toolfaced adventure to Vegas (which, bizarrely, also actually happens).

hair reviews

Schwarzkopf, Seah Hairspa “Mineral Spritz”

Product introduces moisture via water spray conduit. A pro! Oil-like conduit invariably reacts to even finest rain cloud mist for self. How do I know this? Interesting you ask. Interesting inasmuch as I’m not actually here reading this to you, nor do we have a telepathic connection, and even if we did, you would still require the power of time travel to ask me, plus we’re not actually friends, so it would be like, I don’t dislike you, but this feels like you’re calling me after ten, except directly into my brain, and this is seriously why I don’t have Facebook—because it’s bullshit.

Redken, “Blown Away 09” Protective Blow Dry Gel

Feared using product, due to ongoing contempt of oil-like products. Why is this? Long story short, some woman in a bar told me she had burnt her fringe off in a house fire, and I was like, “Just the fringe, seriously?” and she was like, “Just the fringe, seriously.” Then she gave me this oil-like product, which actually isn’t that unusual, since strangers are always gifting me with the weirdest shit, for example this woman on a tram gave me some pen she claimed was directly from Jesus, but basically the product redefined “hideous shit”. Actual product in question: no such effect, stellar shine!

O&M, “The Power Lift” Protein Treatment

Stellar product, burdened with a name that evokes all the awesome power of elevators. Possibly better to name product after teaspoon or car keys, at least keys aren’t slow and full of fat people. Incidentally, if this translates in your brain to me hating all fat people, then you’re deliberately being a bitch—I’m just saying I don’t want to be crushed to death. I didn’t like the film Yes Man, but this doesn’t mean I want to feed Jim Carrey to pigs, then eat the pigs so I can shit him out and send the shit to the film’s producers with the message “No stars.”

Kiehl’s Stylist Series, “Weightless” Curl-Defining Spray

Product is a gel spray engineered to hold curls, containing fluid extracted from sesame seeds and soy beans. Beans for hair is certainly a new concept to my ears! And one to which I am pro. I underrated beans for my entire life until about a week ago, at which point I just thought, I’m going to eat a bunch of beans, sue me, and although I was assured of colossal gas abortions after the fact, there were none whatsoever! How did beans get so maligned? When did beans become Jews? I am pro-bean and pro-Jew. Beans should run Hollywood. Product smells vaguely like a cologne.

Burt’s Bees, Hair Repair “Shea & Grapefruit” Deep Conditioner

Adore this family of products, owing to stellar My Little Pony-grade softness after the fact. This product—an addition on par with its shampoo friends. Still, I wonder: to what extent are My Little Ponies, Lego towns and other miniature representations of struggling life designed to be owned and crushed by the fists of children constructs of oppression—master over slave, human over pony? In the hands of the child, the pony can be beaten, decapitated, melted down to its hooves and made to dance at gunpoint, a task it will inevitably fail to perform and affirm everything the child suspects—time heals nothing, death conquers all.

Evo, “Mane Prescription” Protein Treatment

Sorbet-like crème, product is engineered to restructure broken hair shaft. I experience vague life disappointment when using products of this nature, as it is actual acknowledgement of my failure heretofore—also what is occurring here in actual terms? While I am pro sorbet conceptually, this would appear to fall down actually, like curing cancer with jelly bean, or if my hair were a raging heroine addict, and I tried to hug it out, or my hair was engineering a suicide attack, and I said, Have a cookie, no seriously they’re Halal. Happily, hair responds in this instance with stellar shine of new bowling ball and all is forgiven.

Aromas, Colour Fix Ends Therapy

Product for hair of artificial colourisation, is also vehicle for “botanical” odours, including lavender, patchouli and geranium. Is somewhat antiseptic bouquet by my nose? Yes, more robust flavours of actual garden are maybe preferable. Although not my own garden! This would translate to worm, cement, dead cat, petrol, family of dead cat, sharps—I’m kidding about the sharps obviously, but the cat thing is so true it’s depressing, although the problem is not literally the cats themselves but the attitude and the pimp-like arrogance, seriously it’s like living with Klansmen. Product boosts shimmer in actual terms, pleasing.

REF, 141 Stay Smooth

Product is “silk cream” for application to dampened hair, functions as softening agent. Product fragrance is somehow delicious, yet in a sense that is somehow intangible to me, a cat floating through the memory shafts of my mind, a realm which is ultimately incapable of navigation by the either myself or the fictional airborne cat now working the controls, since the amount of lies I have engineered to make myself sound less or more drunk at any given time are now merely an amalgam of bullshit, ultimately regarded as a footnote to nothing.

trail of the dead at the corner

At least eighty percent of people here are arseholes, was just pummeled by some beanie-wearing tool locked in some demented fury to reach front of stage, which he does, is now waving in mad dog like frenzy at band as if members might get in car and leave, apparently unaware that band’s apperance is paid and mandatory, other members of crowd all point one crazed finger at stage, gesture is seemingly thirty-year-old beanie-wearing male retooling of metal horns, group bounce emerges after a time, yet bounce is vague, group launches only single centimetre from ground, failure to commit to bounce suggests Nazi torture victim fear of expansive movement, or everyone just collectively realises bouncing is fucking inane; either scenario is a downer.

Music is stellar, vocalist is direct human parallel of deranged child from Simpsons who aspires to nail Lisa in ealier season, resemblance is literally total including voice, shape of face, haircut—is this self-engineered? Haircut is obviously a life choice, but why would anyone actively craft the appearance of cartoon personality defined by borderline obesity and acute chronic dislexia? Everyone here looks like my ex-boyfriend.

spinnerette

Nipple on the torso of rock—inoffensive yet pointless. Brody Dalle byproduct, at best resembles Dangerfield shopping music, at worst resembles same thing, is vaguely gothabilly but also dance punk so ultimately has no inherent manifesto or real point, although is not physically intolerable, just pretty weird given I understood Dalle to be raging arch punk or at least some kind of omniscient bitch, fact disappoints me on personal level as am pro omniscient and pro bitch, yet role is ultimately better filled by, say, woman from Dominion era Sisters of Mercy, and only then by default since I recall her alternately commanding an underground dwarf factory and a minor Saudi Arabian death squad; since Brody has bizarrely chosen not to do likewise, she has drawn comparisons to Pink, who also portrays self as punk menace yet is now spokesperson for Optus conglomerate—what does this mean?

Punk is now a rebel yell for consumer telecommunications product at prices you’ll love, the human narrative is a dog eating its own conceptual vomit, let’s all eat! To clarify, Dalle is not retarded functionary of conceptual vomit factory, the album is just stock. Melodies are in tradition of Eagles of Death Metal.

star trek xi

Really loving Star Trek is like really loving Christ—you’re a social cowpat, your views are fundamentalist and you’ve been waiting 2000 years for a decent fucking sequel.

This is NOT my idea of a joke. Nemesis is my idea of a joke, along with every Star Trek film since 1991, which have been needlessly baked in shit.

“I don’t think people even understand what Star Trek means anymore.” — JJ Abrams

Star Trek—the concept—refers to a) dissecting the cow’s heart of morality in the face of certain mass execution, b) masterminding a suite of spontaneous, unprecedented kill moves in space, and c) successfully uniting the entire human species under William Shatner. This is NOT NEWS. Nor is this rat microsurgery. This is the bedrock of the eternal story of man. Yet not even a rogue nugget of these BASIC concepts can be found in any installment of Star Trek since Gene Roddenberry—the series’ chief architect and eyeball of authority—expired in 1991. Do you even recall what happened in Nemesis? I fucking hope not. All I can recall is Data committing suicide by jumping into a cloud. The fact I recall even that makes me want to cut my heart out and feed it to Hitler, before telling him with my dying breath, “Whatever you do, man, don’t watch Nemesis.”

“He’s beyond a genius. He really is his generation’s Spielberg.” — Lloyd Braun (ABC Chairman who commissioned Lost) on JJ Abrams

I literally threw up when I heard JJ Abrams was employed to helm the forthcoming Star Trek shit festival, since the only thing I could recollect of JJ’s previous $200 million abortion—Mission Impossible III—was Philip Seymour Hoffman exploding, then turning into a pair of shoes. What an artist! Yet I had failed to observe what was both obvious and key—Star Trek had contracted full-blown bowel cancer some fifteen years ago, and officially expired sometime around 2001. LITERALLY NOTHING WAS AT STAKE. In fact, all JJ Abrams had to do was NOT direct the biggest piece of shit of all time, and Star Trek would, by definition, be restored—the inherent obstacle, of course, being JJ Abrams NOT directing the biggest piece of shit of all time.

“How can I make this not suck?” — JJ Abrams

JJ Abrams seemed determined to emotionally wedgie the Star Trek fan continuum in the years preceding Star Trek XI’s release, by repeatedly pronouncing that a) he is not a Star Trek fan, and b) he is not making a film for Star Trek fans—therefore he hates Star Trek and its fans. Great! Presumably Abrams will engineer a giant fart to fill the theatre during the film, so we can all die and make him happy. Obviously, Abrams’ pronouncements effectively guillotined any expectations I had for this film to not suck. I thus entered Paramount’s pre-release screening grateful to see this film before I died, but only in order to be able to definitively say it sucked, then die.

“I actually paid JJ a small fee to be in this film.” — Simon Pegg, to a German press conference

The subsequent 120 minutes redefined the universe as I understood it, wherein JJ Abrams is President Douchebag and I’m sitting in the sixth floor of the book depository. It seems JJ was either lying about refusing to make a film for fans, or he accidentally made the biggest Star Trek fan film of all time. Either scenario would make him a genius. Of course, as an action film, Star Trek XI is stunningly bad; I still don’t know what Eric Bana (the film’s antagonist) was planning to do, how he was going to do it, or what motivated him to do the thing that I don’t actually know of in the first place. But as an installment in Star Trek, Star Trek XI is an outstanding achievement in the field of excellence.

“Getting into Star Trek is like buying a house.” — Tim Finney, to me

Star Trek XI’s perfection can be wholly illustrated by Chris Pine’s portrayal of Kirk. Critics claim the newly installed Star Trek actors are just “characters playing characters”; this is a fallacy. Pine does not mimic Shatner, nor does he betray Shatner’s essence—he IS Shatner, without literally BEING him (a reality which cannot be understood without actually SEEING him). Pine portrays a character which must be fundamentally ridiculous, but believes in that ridiculousness with a raging intensity. Because Captain Kirk is more than a man; he is a symbol. He is Star Trek. And thus Star Trek XI is Star Trek (in concept), thereby restoring Star Trek, thereby making Star Trek XI the greatest film of all time, even though it’s not the greatest film of all time. In fact, in the context of all time, Star Trek XI may not even be remembered as NOT being a piece of shit—but it’s not the BIGGEST piece of shit. It’s not Nemesis—and that’s enough.

This article is mirrored at Beat magazine.

the mountain by heartless bastards

Erika Wennestrom has a voice like gravy—rich, thick and rendered from fluid meat fat. Obviously this is ideal for her purposes, i.e. lo-fi blues rock, yet she resoundingly fails to set my tits on fire by her apparent refusal to emotionally lose control. Why, I don’t know, that’s a question for her therapist and possibly mine, but the fact remains—her absence of unbridled vocal passion basically makes her the old man in Beyond the Law, who tells Charlie Sheen some fucked-up story about sending him down a hole, but never actually does anything; he just hangs out. Meanwhile, Sheen loses his emotional shit and beats up a cop. You gave me old man, Wennestrom; I wanted Sheen.

Album contains occasional violin, mandolin, banjo. These are to this album what children are the world—adorable but pointless. Violin seems unable to die at one point, much like a campus hippy telling you how cats rule the planet—it’s like, I don’t hate you, I respect your right to life, but I have other shit to do before I die, and I haven’t eaten or pissed in eight hours, GET TO THE POINT. Good make-out music.

iron maiden:
flight 666

Sam Dunn—director of Headbanger’s Journey, Global Metal and now Iron Maiden: Flight 666—opens can of cultural worms; finds old people, skullets and Neil Diamond within!

Sam, something you said at Flight 666’s opening is chiseled into my consciousness: “We’re at a point now where legendary metal bands deserve to have films like this made about them.” I found your use of the word “deserve” compelling. To me, that suggests metal is still spat on culturally.

Well, I think it is! But I think we’re getting to a point in modern music history where people are maybe slowly starting to acknowledge that metal is not mainstream, but it’s certainly not going away—like a lot of people hoped it would. And I think that these bands, like Iron Maiden, have had a massive influence on our culture. And they have their own story.

That said, to be metal is to exist on the knife’s edge of society. We feed off being underappreciated as zombies feed off corpses.

Yeah! And I think part of the excitement of being a metal head is feeling like you’re part of a community. I don’t know if you feel the same strong sense of community in other genres of music—probably in hip hop. But I think it’s pretty powerful when you get in a football stadium in Chile with 60,000 Iron Maiden fans, all singing along to “Fear of the Dark”. Like [pauses] people should pay attention to that!

Flight 666 shows that Maiden burn with the same raging intensity of their youth. This makes an epic comment about ageism. Society dictates middle-aged artists choke on their own vomit and die, because a) seeing them physically decay is revolting and b) hearing them play music they wrote at twenty-five is inherently pathetic. But that’s ageist.

At the core of it, they’re artists, right? And I don’t know why in some art forms it’s “okay” to grow old. But for some reason, as a society, we don’t have a context for rock and roll—and especially metal. When people watch Flight 666, they hold certain expectations. Especially non-Maiden fans. First of all, they don’t even know that Maiden are still TOGETHER. They assume this is going to be Spinal Tap or something. And I think they’re surprised when they discover these are highly functional individuals, staying relevant and flying THEIR OWN PLANE around the world. But you’re speaking of a much larger cultural issue, of course. We’ve long lived in a society where the cult of youth and beauty is very strong. And metal is not unique that way. Metal has always been a genre of youth and power and virility. And yes, Iron Maiden is shattering that myth. But you’re opening a big can of worms here, Mia.

But does metal worship the cult of beauty? I think no, Sam. I mean, rejection of “beauty”, so-called, at least in the bullshit Ashton Kutcher sense of the word, forms the bedrock of my attraction to the genre. Plus, you know, I’ve always found Devin Townsend really appealing physically.

You’re a fan of the skullet!

I am!

You’re the first. But your point has made me think of something. There is something in metal that is [pauses] different, in the way that it honours its old. It’s a genre very based on respecting your elders. And I think that’s what DOES set metal apart from a lot of other styles of music. Certainly modern music. Especially now. Plus, in order to be a real metal head, you can’t just know who Atreyu and Trivium are.

Your films illustrate that metal is never a burp on one’s musical landscape—it engulfs one’s total human condition.

In Flight 666, one fan in Brazil says, “Maiden is my religion.” There’s also a scene in San Paolo with the priest who does his sermons based on the morality of Maiden’s lyrics. In most cases, I think that the Maiden experience is very TOTAL. It’s visual. It’s lyrical. It’s philosophical. It has a sense of community. And I think it represents some of the things that people look for through “faith” or spirituality. So I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to say it fulfills those same needs for people. And certainly when we were on this Maiden tour, we experienced it at a level that we NEVER expected. When we went to Costa Rica with Maiden, that was the biggest show in Central America’s history.

Do you think this is something peculiar to metal? Because I find it hard to believe that an Iron Maiden fan’s relationship with Iron Maiden is comparable with a Neil Diamond fan’s relationship with Neil Diamond.

[cackles] Well, we DID have Heavy Metal Parking Lot AND Neil Diamond Parking Lot.

Ha! I know!

So they’re not THAT far apart.

But are people experiencing the same depth and intensity of emotions with Neil Diamond? I can’t gauge that.

It’s hard to know. I mean, it could sound elitist or righteous to say so. But I think there’s a certain power to metal that you don’t see in other forms of music. There’s something real about it. Something authentic. But we’ve only made three movies about it. We don’t really know that much yet.

I’m recalling the scene from Headbanger’s Journey with the guy carving “Slayer” into his arm. I find it hard to believe someone is ever going to carve “Neil Diamond” into their arm.

Ha! You’re right! Probably not. For a start, it’s a lot longer of a word.

This article is mirrored at Beat magazine.

shampoo reviews

Kevin Murphy, Angel Wash Shampoo & Conditioner

Product radiates smell of miniature frosted cakes. Question: what function does frosting serve? Answer: None, it is the gristle on the bone of human life. Maybe product contains said perfume to take one back to “days of old”? Days of happy memories eating glucose every waking hour of childhood? Today the child is morbidly obese, cannot be moved from bed without animal harness. Additional question: how do fat people rendered immobile by their massive flesh bounty actually go wees? Luxury colostomy bag seems to be only fantasy in my mind. Product exemplary in actual terms, renders weightless shine.

O&M, Maintain the Mane Shampoo & Conditioner

Brand publicity material maintains that “root of bad hair days is stress”. Oh? Maybe products will get around to filing all the crap on my desk. I kid, I kid—crap on desk is extension of my soul, which also has no point and became irrelevant in 2005. Note to the witless: unfiled materials is not “organised chaos”, do not say this until your desk contains infinite formless matter of the universe or similar, stop raping words. Fragrance is that of rosemary and sage, is ideal for basting meats? Obviously no. Product is sterling, follicle is rendered soft, like rump of household cat or similar.

Planet Earth, Smooth as Silk Shampoo & Conditioner

Ah, Planet Earth, I know ye well! “Ye?” My god, the personal pronoun of douchebags. Is in same universe of douche as “interwebs”. Seriously, interwebs? Call it what it is, “porn factory”. Side note: why does every site now contain IQ test link? Is appealing to actual mental giant? Maybe clinical genius avoids obvious spam. Product has no discernable smell, but is of no concern—myself, I do not need cake frosting crammed up my nostrils and into my skull just to be able to wash, my human need to avoid being caked with shit provides sufficient motive. Fluid resembles delicious nectar of fruit.

Samy, Fat Hair Thickening Shampoo & Conditioner

Home Shopping segment claims Samy was honoured at actual White House; maybe devalues significance of American presidential office by weenie fraction, was under impression those honoured at White House usually had part of brain exploded in combat? Oh, I forget, Angelina Jolie has ear of United Nations, am reminded everyone is full of shit. Product thickens hair to immense extent, appeals to self as own hair is of Winehouse-grade height. Interesting side note: am often referred to as “Winehouse” by drunk public in street or liquor dispensing units, self is genuinely flattered as implies slender frame of crack whore—for the win!

Evo, Gluttony Shampoo & Bride of Gluttony Conditioner

Products emit underwhelming perfume as per old man following bath time. Self notices that window of opportunity to bathe before skin shrivels to prune-grade is maybe only seven minutes, exercise seems mostly futile, rewards are minimal, confined to momentary heat, is also a byproduct of ingesting boiling pie, nobody wins. Publicity material likens conditioner to “dessert of apple pie and sticky wine”, hence functioning as “ideal follow up” to shampoo. Pie? Wine? Sticky? Maybe publicity is written by old man from depression era unaware less disgusting food combinations exist. Product functions as effective thickening agent, as porn factory is to brain, live long and prosper.

Burt’s Bees, Super Shiny Grapefruit & Sugar Beet

Product discharges weird yet stellar bouquet of grapefruit and assorted oils, follicle is accorded visible shine, self appeared as vital human following use, as opposed to usual self—the visible product of chronic insomnia and night terrors. I kid, I kid! I appear semi-rested. Side note: your dreams are interesting to nobody under any circumstance unless they contain like, a gay revelation, but even then it’s still like, who isn’t, nobody’s impressed, what demon of bullshit possess you to announce this to a global audience, Twitter is the acid bath in which the brain of human life dissolves, thanks for motivation to not kill myself. Product recommended.

Ojon, Shine & Protect Shampoo & Conditioner

Publicity materials maintains Ojon CEO Denis Simioni has quote: “earned a reputation as the Indiana Jones of Haircare.” In what sense? As an actual archaeologist? As Sean Connery’s son? As a fictional character in a dying franchise? Statement’s relationship to both haircare and reality seems at best void or deranged—Simioni advised to reassess identity, box office draw and planet-sized ego. Products radiate almond perfume, although smell less akin to actual food, closer to old school cosmetic fragrance as per old lady sexual predator, thus appealing to minority population of Oedipal deviants—that’s witchcraft! Products also function as effective softening agent.

Simple, Softening Gentle Shampoo & Conditioner

Products contain “no perfume, no colour”, is appealing to puritanical dullard, no? Sounds great. Maybe is better to fire these people into the sea than to stroke their deranged egos. Side note: is five second rule ever acceptable? Self think yes, assuming the exterior of product is impenetrable as per an apple or cornjack, although I would never eat either, gun to my head or no. Cake, another story altogether, I assume crumbs attract their own kind and the product ultimately functions as a breeding ground for death. Product contains chamomile oil active ingredient.

things to say during pregnant pause

1. Movies. Common question asked to self during pause is: “Have you seen any good movies lately?” Well, I don’t know—I assume I have seen good movies lately, since apparently none of them drove me to suicide and I am here having this witless conversation right now, so let’s just say yes for the sake of “society”, but frankly this line is to conversation what dog crap is to the world—noxious, coiled and steaming—so I advise an amendment.

Rather than discussing films that have been, discuss what films MIGHT be as per the fantasy land in your mind—for myself, this is a cast helmed by Lars Ulrich, who plays Mickey Rooney’s father in the Broadway spectacle of Hamlet: Half Past Dead, the twist being that Mickey Rooney and Lars Ulrich swap brains half-way through the film as per Face Off, then Mickey Rooney switches brains with Max von Sydow, who previously swapped brains with Hitler during an infamous World War II “switcheroo”, all of which is established over the course of flashbacks presented by the Ghost of Christmas Past, who is in this case played by Alf; also the film is set on the Titanic. Then ask your compatriot what film they would make and tear it down accordingly, constantly reminding them they have no actual budget to make their film and you will personally see to it that their dream never comes to fruition.

2. Work. Another common question asked to self during pause is: “How is your employment?” or similar variant. Seems to be pointless line of conversation, as focus is entirely upon self, inviting judgement, envy, hostility, confusion and finally rage, whereupon it is discovered that I barely work and barely care, undermining my compatriot’s worldview and style of life. Also—if one is true to reality—human life rarely has genuine interest in others, unless others are nude, drug-addicted trainwrecks, so I advise derailing topic of conversation to nude, drug-addicted trainwrecks or similar variant.

3. Material possessions. One will often kill quiet moment with comment: “I like bag you hold or shoe you wear on foot—et cetera.” Such comment focuses limelight on compatriot, which flatters him or her into interminable, self-obsessed ramblings. Tactic is convenient for pretending to care whether subject lives or dies and takes pressure off self to conjure additional statements—win, win.

4. Tattoos. Self has often observed tattoos located on exposed body meat of others during pause, however have mostly come to regret, as statement seems to function as invitation to show self every inch of person inclusive of bottom meat, one monomaniacal douche attempting to show me his very groin as he had emblazoned upon it a gothic fleur de lis—fortuitously for moi, the civilian in question was grossly overweight and a roll of fat provided a certain measure of censorship between me and his apparently tattooed gland, which thank fuck, I never saw. Note: said person had already taken self on unwitting tour of rest of the link sausage factory he called his body, which included multiple tattoos of heart-shaped pentagrams—significant geometry for him, he claimed, as it symbolised the union of love and the power of evil. Self advised that more significant geometry for him may be that of treadmill. In such instance, literally any conversational topic is preferable, i.e. enjoyment of local wall.