Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Sophie Monk: Time To Die.

The best thing Sophie Monk could do for her career at this point is get herself killed.

I'm serious. Look what it did for Sharon Tate. And do you think I'd know Lana Clarkson's name had she not had her head blown open by Phil Spector? No.

Professionally, being murdered would give her profile a huge boost. Her personal life would suffer (ie. cease), but, Sophie, we all make sacrifices.

Lat year I was at a bushdoof deep in the forest out the back of Canberra, and her name came up, somewhat bizarrely, among whoever was slumped around camp in various states of oblivion. I remember someone muttering something about her lips and a guy nodding sagely and saying conclusively:

                              "Sophie Monk. Big lips, big firm tits"

As in: that is the sum of Sophie Monk. If he was a judge he would have bought down the gavel and, on the strength of those seven words, closed the case.

Re. my advice, I understand she may have certain reservations, however misguided, regarding the whole getting murdered strategy. In the event that she doesn't come round to the idea, I have a second suggestion.

She should return to Australia, stat. Sydney, obviously. Shack up somewhere in the Eastern suburbs. Get a gig hosting or judging some poxy reality talent show and - here's the key - start dating one or more of the following:

                                           Daniel Conn
                                           Mitchell Pearce
                                           David Williams


NB: there are ALOT of dodgy pictures of Daniel Conn online.
You have been warned.


Pearce. Also a fan of the short shorts (see below)


aka Wolfman

Ok, there are my picks. Carefully considered.

For reasons I don't understand and have never bothered to investigate, I think she's kinda great. At the very least she's all kinds of Kings of Leon lyrics (she has a motel face, absolutely), but most of all this one:

                "And she waves / Thinking that it's sexy / She must be plum crazy /
                 I kinda think I like her / Kinda think I do"

As well as the plum crazy element, I see her as standing for every one of the wilting, washed-up, half-broke beauties who have ever headed to Hollywood and never quite made it.

She is the living breathing embodiment of every bit-part babe whose big break never came. She's Australian but she could just as well have come from Florida, or out of the Midwest; the poster girl for the beautiful big-fish back-home girls, the small-town big-deals for whom the heavy reality of the Hollywood dream hits home early, and hard.

 Hole made an entire album out of Sophie's story on Celebrity Skin and it's a story that's been played out a million times over every day, every year since the American Dream factory that is Hollywood began:  the

                            "hooker waitress / Model actress",

the interchangeable, disposable dolls trying to keep a beat that few can find and even fewer can keep pace with.

Before she left Australia, before Popstars, she had a gig dressing up as Marilyn Monroe at Movieworld.
She was a caricature of history's most one-dimensional and most iconic blonde.
Essentially, she was paid to impersonate Hollywood's ultimate impersonator.

Really, the writing was on the wall* for her, even way back then.
She would do well, I think, to recognise this before the faint whiff of failure surrounding her at the moment becomes cat-piss powerful. Because it will, and I'd hate to see it happen.

*So to speak. Not literally. Not like 'kill the pig', and 'helter skelter' and whatever other whacked out words the Manson family wrote in Tate's blood all over her walls during their whole creepy-crawl murder mission.

Sharon Tate

Lana Clarkson


As someone who tends to wear outfits most people associate with hard manual labour, I love that she rocks a particular kind of white-trash-wonderland style. It's suburban shopping mall chic, steady as she goes. She forever looks like she's stepping out to grab a Slush Puppy, and let's face it, she probably is.
I especially love her propensity for cutoffs with the pockets dangling. This probably has something to do with the fact I wear mine like this too. Anyway, I appreciate her consistently haphazard approach to pants.

There is a line of thinking (mine), that speculates that to wear shorts with dangling pockets with any kind of regularity is indicative of a serious mental disorder - one that manifests itself in the wearing of such shorts.

My investigations are ongoing, and inconclusive thus far, but you know who was an absolute bandit for the short-shorts long-pockets look, right?

That's right.
Really, this is all a little unwarranted (as is this whole post, come to think of it), although there is really no denying the semiotic suggestion that Sophie may not be entirely on top of matters.

Of course, far be it from me to judge. I'm not exactly on the summit either, let's face it.

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