Tuesday, 30 August 2011

Sophie Monk's Camel-Toe has a Stalker

So it turns out I'm not the only one who has indulged in thoughts of Sophie Monk's death. I mean, I assumed we all did, really, but I thought it was one of those occasional, idly lurid trains of musing thought - one of several billion - that most people keep in the sealed chambers of their rotting compost heap heads. (I'm right now sitting atop of my compost heap, flinging handfuls of it around. I believe the official name for this is 'blogging'.)

Sophie Monk said that she recently had a stalker
"who wanted to kill me. That was weird. He thought he could hear me screaming in the corner of his hospital room and thought I wanted to die. So I wrote to him and told him I was fine"

What the shit? I hear the tortured psychic screams of Sophie Monk too!! I see her motel face contorting - as best it can under the weight of the paralysed muscle and those aggressively large lips - with the ongoing anguish of her life of low-rent glamour and the knowledge that oblivion is coming down fast.

Anyway, in regards to her stalker, I believe the key words there are "his hospital room". Not "his gracious drawing room"; not even "his caravan annex", but "his hospital room". Yeh, well, the screams of Sophie Monk are probably the least of his concerns. If I were him I would hasten to turn that particular mental dial up to 'high'. Nurse Ratched's grinning, Vaseline weilding black boys are probably bearing down on him right now, poor soul.

I like seeing Sophie against the sleazy backdrop of Hollywood's dream machine, but do I think it's doing her any good, personally or professionally? Fuck, no. I imagine, for one, that she would have unsavoury men of unseemly persuasions asking her, in all manner of places; "do you come here often?" with a fatiguing frequency, which I firmly feel is reason enough to cash it in and come home.

Also, it seems Sophie has neglected to take my advice (pro bono, by the way) regarding cutting her considerable losses in Hollywood and taking up with an NRL baller back home. I hear Nate Myles - this generation's number one knuckle-dragger - is soon to be back on the market AND is about to relocate to the Gold Coast, which means that she could slide right back into her Marilyn Monroe impersonator role at MovieWorld while he plays for the Titans and involves himself in various misdemeanors off-field (like taking dumps in hotel corridors and enjoying illicit benders with frail and allegedly alcoholic teammates. Yeh. That kind of thing).

I don't begrudge him his behaviour, by the way. Not one iota. I think that, with the head that he has, his entire existence thus far is a remarkable story of against-the-odds success. Because, you know, it's a dwarf head. Don't say you haven't noticed it, LIARS. He has a dwarf head. It's all dented and huge with a big over-inflated forehead - and the kicker is that it sits atop a gigantic, old-growth, behemoth body. That is some 19th century carnival shit right there and ya'll know it. I think he came down from a mansion on a hill in much the same way Edward Scissorhands did - a prototype, loosed on an ignorant and unforgiving world.

So. Sophie Monk and Nate Myles. I am drawing up elaborate plans to make this happen even as I write this - in a rear chamber of my compost heap head that I reserve for my more pathological plans.. *cue descent into hallucionogenic, creepy-crawl daydreams*

No comments:

Post a Comment