Not News.

November 25, 2011

The scene: a funeral. Dozens of grief-stricken friends and relatives stream into a local church, wearing the ashen, drawn faces of disbelief that accompany the loss of someone so young, so quickly, under such tragic circumstances. In their midst, a lone reporter and his cameraman, stoic in the face of their monumental task, standing like a beacon in a sea of despair, letting the waves of mourners wash over them. They are keenly aware that all those years of training, of dreaming, of late nights fuelled only by ambition and the desire to inform the faceless masses have brought them to this moment – the moment that they can tell the world that THERE ARE SAD PEOPLE AT FUNERALS.

This, according to some overworked editor with a looming deadline and no fucking imagination, is news.

A dozen people dying at the hands of an arsonist is news.
Sad people standing around coffins while being sad is not.

A missing child is news.
The parents of a missing child having to open their fucking front door to some dipshit who wants to report that they’re “devastated” is not.

A neo-Nazi arsehole going apeshit with a semi-automatic rifle in a crowded office is news.
A wide shot of the roof of a car which may or may not be transporting a neo-Nazi arsehole to prison is not.

Winning an Olympic gold medal is news.
Pushing a microphone into the face of a panting, blue-lipped elite athlete who has sacrificed family time, a decent income, butter and a great deal of fucking knee cartilage to win a gold medal so that they can tell the audience that it feels “pretty good” is not.

So, news editors, if you’re stuck for a story that your audience might actually consider worth fucking knowing, there are a bunch of people starving and unable to grow crops in east Africa right now. They have some really cute kids and their lack of education makes for some fucking quirky sound bites. Go for it.

Dear Hollywood…

November 18, 2011

How many times do I have to see someone wake up slowly after a night of hot, mutually satisfactory and stumble-free lovemaking, reach across the crumpled sheets to the spot where their partner would be, had they not quietly vacated the room for some incredibly urgent and important reason, some time before dawn?

Just once I’d like to see a Hollywood A-lister’s character emerge from a night of perfunctory, one-sided rooting with dribble on their temple and a bad case of fucky hair, desperately trying to remember where the wet spot is so they can avoid it on their rush to the bog.

Which brings me to my next point. Why don’t we ever see anyone using the shitter? With the notable exception of Jon Travolta in Pulp Fiction, who was ironically reminding us that he hadn’t been in anything that wasn’t a pile of shit for two decades, why doesn’t anyone pretty ever need to drop the kids off at the pool? I’m not that interested in seeing details, but surely at some point before James Bond squeezes into a wetsuit to infiltrate a secret seaside hideout he says, “I’ll just lay a little pipe before you zip me up”. Surely Lara Croft didn’t go crawling through the temples at Angkor with a bullet in the chamber.

And another thing, you fucking unimaginative bastards: why do you insist on showing people sitting down to write a letter, only to give up after a few words, scrunch it up, chuck it aimlessly on the floor and start again? Apart from the total disregard for the fucking trees that died to make your little unconvincing vignette, there’s a fairly well-established convention of using a fucking computer to undertake writing tasks now. In case you haven’t noticed, even a fucking bear can do it.

While I’m at it, a few more points:

  • It is, in fact, possible to bump into somebody while carrying an armful of books without dropping them all on the floor like a clumsy dipshit.
  • Shooting at something and actually hitting it is really fucking difficult.
  • When most people die, they don’t suddenly think of something important to say. If you’re lucky, you might get an “ouch” or a “that was a fucking stupid thing to do, wasn’t it?” out of them, but most dying people just make a strange gurgling sound and shit themselves.

So next time I pay twenty dollars to see Halle Berry emerge perfectly from the ocean, at least give her an untidy bikini line or some fucking parsley in her teeth.

Only a retarded cockroach with half a cockroach brain who dropped out of cockroach school to become a drummer could deny that the next federal election will be a fucking doozy.

It’s going to involve the kind of headline-pumping, shit-stirring, muck-raking fun that can only be had when you take an awkward, pre-programmed, charisma-free she-robot, an ousted, pissed-off, silver-helmeted hyper-nerd and a grinning wing-nutted moron from the fucking eighteenth century and shake them up in a bag.

But please, everyone, let’s not get too fucking carried away.

It will be an election, not a war.

It will involve weeks and weeks of ball-achingly dull, smarmy and blatantly brown-nosey ads mentioning ‘working families’, ‘Ma and Pa investors’, ‘who can you trust?’ platitudes and other highly concentrated bullshit.

This will be followed by an otherwise fuckwit-free Saturday being hassled at the local scout hall by partisan retirees shoving ‘how to vote’ leaflets in your face before you make a couple of half-arsed squiggles on a doona-sized piece of paper and shove it in a cardboard slot.

Election promises will not be written in blood.

There will be no actual salvos fired.

It will not be a bloodbath for the losing parties.

THIS is a fucking bloodbath.

Pull your fucking head in, spin-monkeys.