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
                                 

Conn

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

Pearce

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

Williams

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

P.S.

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.

Todd Carney: TickeddyBoo

"Sometimes, instead of dying or killing myself I just go to bed for a couple of days. Shades down, swilling in the swill"

Bukowski said that.
Goddamn if Bukowski didn't know what was up.

Still, sometimes there are rare and unexpected rewards to be had beyond the bed. At the post office, for example. Who knew?

I'm in the habit of letting my mail build up over the course of eight to ten days. I'm lazy, and trivial things like collecting mail wear me to shit.

Napoleon had a policy of ignoring all mail for a minimum of two weeks while he was out doing his despot warlord thing. I think his theory was that the minor matters, say, the crumbling of another of his overthrown territories, would take care of themselves and anything else could be put on ice until he was damn well ready to deal with it. Not that I'm aligning myself with Napoleon. I'm not nearly as interested in European domination, for a start.

Anyway, it's really of no benefit to me because I end up approaching my P.O. box with trepidation. Dread, even. This comes from the very real expectation of the arrival of infringement notices demanding retribution for the various misdemeanors that are an inevitable part of daily life.

Basically, I live my life bathed in unspecific guilt. This is why whenever I see a cop, in any context, be they in a bakery or weilding a baton, I flinch and flee the scene. I have an edgy nature, alright?

Today the post box offered up a mysterious item from Albury with a 'personal' warning on it, cue the cold sweats. It turned out to be the ATO amending my last two tax returns and giving me more money. I nearly dislocated my jaw, it took both hands to close it.

So, a windfall from the ATO. All very nice if you're a fan of this kind of thing, which I am.
This paled in significance when I went inside the post office and was given an expendable tough bag with my girl J.bo's Sharpie scrawl on it. I got a hot flush, which I'll take over cold sweats anyday.

Now, J.bo doesn't just have her finger on the pulse, bitch is the pulse. This is obvious. How else to account for the signed, mounted and framed photo of Todd Carney, circa Raiders 2008, inside the parcel, which she'd inscribed and dated 1/5/11 on the back, ie. the day before We Need to Talk About Todd was born? That is some wiggy synchronicity right there.

Nor is J.bo in the habit of giving me footy merch*, which makes this present all the more odd and awesome. She was also the one, apropos of nothing other than my occasional league-soaked letters, who suggested I start a blog, not knowing that my 2011 to do list consisted of only two things, the first one being to blog. Goddamn!

Who could predict that I'd start a blog and appoint Todd Carney as my muse and patron saint and name the whole operation after his good self? Well, J.bo could. It is because of her foresight that a sparsely tattooed Todd Carney looms above my head right now here in the We Need to Talk About Todd head office (my sunroom), forever frozen in the act of booting a ball aimed right at my head. Incredible.

*My brother is. Well, if you consider doing something once a habit. Last year he gave me a whole bundle of Raiders footy cards from various years gone by. The creme de la creme was a 'Top Prospects' card from 2009 predicting Josh Dugan as one to watch. 

Is he ever.     

It's all officially authentically signed and stamped and certified and it's number 052 of only 300, which I appreciate because I am nothing if not a fan of exclusivity. My brother is totally ahead of the curve. He bought the same card for himself over two years ago when Dugan was just a gangly rookie hiding his hot under headgear.

Years ago I said something about him getting on some bandwagon or other and he boomed "I DRIVE the bandwagon, baby!" and it's true, he totally does. I trail in his wake.

If there's a moral to this story, it's that yeah, trivial things may wear me to shit, but sometimes, from the trivial comes the treasure.
By which I mean: from the trivial comes the Todd.

Josh Dugan's Debut can i get an AMEN

In the aftermath of Origin 1 I have washed up and gathered myself together and the Results!Are!In!
The jury has given Josh Dugan a HELL YEAH.

Ok, so some may disagree. This is fine. It is all subjective, it is all a matter of opinion. And as I've said here previously, mine is the correct one.

Firtst up, let's review the evidence shall we?

These are the photos that had the cool-as-shit 'Oh Origin, whatever' facade I had attempted to adopt shatter and FALL AWAY. It was purely a defensive mechanism, and what choice did I have? Queensland have hurt me too many times and I carry the scars inside dammit.

One look - followed by many looks -  at Josh Dugan wearing the sky blue was all it took to thaw me out. I mean, get a look at that smile. If that doesn't flat-out melt your heart then you are clearly a cold, cold soul and I want to be your friend. You could come in handy.

Ok. On with the game.

So he knocked on. Who hasn't? I knock on all the damn time. The other day I caught my toe in my pajama pants and dropped a lamb I was trying to bottle-feed onto cold concrete, how's that for bad? I made a lamb cry! They're like the Western world's symbol of youth and innocence and gorgeousness and I made one cry through my clumsiness. So, you know, a little perspective.

Yes, he looked for all the world like he had no muscle control whatsoever there for a second or two and yes he was in goal and yes I died a little as he went down onto his knees but did he keep it together beautifully, or what? He totally knows how to keep himself nice. The kid is cucumber cool. Tuggeranong turns them out tough.

Origin 1 and he owned the blue jersey from the get go. Now just a little growing into it is all.

As it happened, I was relieved the game wrapped up when it did because it had come to that point where I was starting to get personally offended by Billy Slater. I felt the irritation bordering on wild hate that I generally experience when he unleashes the awesome and starts in on his try-scoring trips, and it was rising fast.

The guy just gets me filthy. It's irrational and uncalled for and totally rude, but then so am I. Can't be helped. In light of this, I see it as being absolutely essential that Greg Bird has a crack at him at least once during this series. (Even a bitchslap would suffice, Birdy. Anything you can manage, kay thanx).

Anyway, the possibility that the Blues might actually win had taken root in my skull and Slater's try was just plain offensive. The Thurston Lockyer Slater combination is a marvellous thing, of course, but it is really no good for my nerves, they're shot to shit as it is. The Raiders' eight match losing streak did them a world of damage. Kind of blew out my circuitry a little I think.

Know who else has unreliable wiring? It's Sam Thaiday, bitch! Is he a bandit for a brawl or what?

Darius Boyd gets a shoutout because boy has the MOVES. Who knew? Those two tackles he made on Mark Gaz? Was I the only one who found them hot as hell and awesome in the extreme? Well, no, because Gus and Rabs were definately delighted by them. They chuckled and hooted, and there was totally some knee-slapping going on there too. Anyways, that was some throwing-down-while-ripping-each-others-pants-off maneuvering right there and goddamn did it look great.

This is not a sentence I EVER thought I'd use, but, Darius Boyd: Five Stars. Now get out of my sight.

Since I have the Star system out, let's talk about James Blunt. What.the.FUCK. James Blunt, no stars. He reminded me of Billy Slater! Y'know, if Billy Slater had a neck and all. I'd put the proof up but I don't want it soiling my blog. Trust.

In fact, in the interests of tone and taste I think the thing to do here is to roll out some pictures of the palate cleansing variety. Think of them as a fine sorbet.

Tick, tick, tick...........Twenty days.

I Prescribe Bukowski.

Woken up in a dim frame of mind?

Finding the world to be a place of deep and depressing cheerlessness?

Do as I do. Look to Bukowski.

 "This morning I stood on the front lawn, sun coming down, I was bare-foot, nobody around, all these high rises, everybody off somewhere on their fucking crosses, and I stood there in the sun, haven't shaved in two weeks, hair uncombed, ripped shirt, four buttons missing from the fly of an old pair of army pants somebody had given me, and I smoked a cigarette and grinned into the world, knowing its shit and its blood and its plan.....Of course, the butcher knife is still in the kitchen and I keep it good and sharp on the stone steps and that's part of it too. STAY ON TOP OF YOUR GAME, BABE, STAY ON TOP OF YOUR GAME. And a little bit of luck is nice too, but don't go look for it."

Ingest daily or as needed.

Corey Parker Fights the Power and Other Unauthorised Ravings of the 'I Love League' Variety..

Corey Parker's next tattoo

So. Another day, another reason to love Paul Gallen. I just heard his favourite player of all time (Kanye: OF.ALL.TIME!!!) is Bradley Clyde. A retro Raider! Good for you Gal.

Years ago, my stepdad got swept up in the excitement of a Navy gala auction of some kind and, as a present for my brother, bid furiously on and eventually won a soiled tracksuit signed by Brad Fittler, who he'd mixed up with Bradley Clyde. Anyway, my brother didn't want a damn bar of it, and to this day I still wear that tracksuit. Just kidding. My stepdad marked it up and sold it on, it's the Navy way. Like webcam.


Last year during finals time I became alittle swept up myself, what with the Roosters being my number two team and all. I started emailing my brother candid shots of Braith Anasta and Anthony Minichello, and probably Todd Carney too. This, knowing he hates the Roosters with a passion that borders on the pathalogical (but who doesn't, aside from me, James Packer, John Ibrahim and those chook-pen dwelling degenerates?) and also knowing full well he's never forgiven Carney for ballsing up so bad back at Canberra and putting the kaibosh on what could have been a beautiful relationship.* He finally responded with a terse one line demand: 'stop sending me Roosters pictures, they offend me'. He's sensitive that way.



offensive? I think not

  *Not too long ago we had one of those reverential, nostalgia-tinged 'imagine-if' conversations to the tune of 'imagine if he was still there and playing alongside Duges how fucking phenomenal would that be?' and both of us ended up trailing off and then terminating the conversation abruptly in that way you do when touching on subjects too raw and painful to bear thinking about.


what was....



...and what is.
dammit.



Memos of the Miscellaneous Variety.

Re. Dave Taylor in Origin.

And they said he was too fat. Has George Rose aka the poster boy for the player with the fuller figure blazed a trail or what? Dave Taylor represent!

Here's me thinking he got left out of selection and theorising freely that the fact that he drives a RAV4 had something (or everything) to do with it. Don't try and tell me that selectors didn't take this into consideration and express deep concern. You know, along the lines of it just not seeming right to give a spot to a mammoth man FROM ROCKHAMPTON who drives around in a hairdresser's car. Anyone who's ever been to Rockhampton knows that the place is like the Deni Ute Muster ALL YEAR ROUND. I shit you not. The place is lousy with them. You're nobody in that town if you don't drive at least one ute, and have at least one more in the garage at home. Preferably a feral one. You know, for a project. Or pig-shooting. Trust me, I know, I considered moving there.

Re. Corey Parker's Origin selection.

I'm a little ambivalent about this guy. My Bronco loving mate isn't. He nominated Corey Parker, after about 20 seconds of deep thought, as the stupidest man in league. I'd posed the question but I can't for the life of me remember who I'd thrown up for my pick. Dane Tilse? Maybe. Timana Tahu? Probably.

In his favour, he's Michael Ennis' best mate, which I like, and they both call each other 'Bruce', which I love. I guess he can play an okay game too, he seems solid enough.




Anyway, because I'm shallow as hell it only takes one small incident, however innocuous, to send people, places or organisations screaming up my Shitlist or, more rarely, my Lovelist. It's just my way. Parker made the latter WITH A BULLET a few weeks ago.

There he was, screaming expletive laden instructions and getting all up in the grills of the Baby Broncos out there filling in the Origin gaps when Cecchin FLIPS OUT and starts in with talk of sin bins and dissent. HUH??

It played out alittle something like this:
(or it would have if it had of been Braith Anasta. You get the idea).

Parker yelled something along the lines of having the right to address his teammates in any way he saw fit, and then Cecchin forgets himself completely and busts out the gesture beloved by patronising superiors in workplaces the world over: he laid his hand on Parker's arm. As in 'cool it, fool, and submit to my might' (or something). That is some 'The Slap' shit right there, by the way.

From here all it took was Parker snapping "DON'T TOUCH ME!" and I pretty much approved of and authorised his existence entirely right then and there because I say exactly the same thing when men in pink shirts lay their hands on me. It happens A LOT you know.

Re: Tom Leahroyd Lahrs: what the..?

He finally finds some form in the City-Country clash only to fracture his cheekbone and his eye socket while BLOWING HIS NOSE, IN THE DRESSING ROOM, AFTER FULL TIME? Bitch must blow with some serious gusto. Whooooshka!


Re: Is this a great country or what?

The Match Review Committee established a few weeks ago that Jeremy Smith's hand appearing to 'make contact' with Cowboy Kalifa Faifai Loa's backdoor was a "prank gone wrong". They're inter-team cousins alright, calm down people! Digital penetration in public is totally acceptable among cousins! I know if I had a huge hot cousin of the caliber of Faifai Loa I would totally thumb him by way of greeting too. High fives and ghetto handskes are tre`s pass`e.

In their ruling they said of Smith that "his finger is actually touching the lower left buttock and the player said there was no pressure applied" and I imagine everyone is relieved.




a more traditional way of greeting

 
Re: Footballers on trains. Doesn't seem right somehow.

Manly battle axe Joe Galuvao has been forced to ride the rails to and fro training. Not because he lost his license like everyone else in league at one stage or another but because of petrol and toll prices and the demands of his towering mortgage. The trip from way out West to Narabeen takes him two hours and he says that although it's not that bad "the biggest thing is all the weirdos on the trains".
Well, welcome to the real world, Joe. It's a jungle out here.

Still, I get what Galuvao's saying: