True, Unadulterated Pus

Melbournians can be proud that self-esteem amongst young people is apparently at an all-time high in this state, but so too are delusions of grandeur.

The second night of AI3 was notable for its array of impossibly lame try-hards and for a memorable expression of displeasure by Queen Innocuous, Marcia "Beanz Meanz" Hines.



Now, first: Lest any of you continue imagining that Kyle, Mark and Marcia can actually sit through 4000 auditions in two eight hour sessions, I should point out that the show’s executive producers are the first ones would-be Idols must impress before even earning a spot before the hallowed panel of three. Those producers slice their way Popstars-cattle-call-style through the throng of psychotically inaccurate self-appraisors, choosing performers for their TV value regardless of talent. Which is why we are subjected to unjustifiably prolonged shots of idiots dressed up as Care Bears or giant mangoes who clearly can’t sing, because, apparently, it’s funny to watch. ("It’s not." – Entire Australian Idol Viewership)

The effort these people go to – hiring costumes, waiting for hours in the cold, simply to face an inevitable declaration of their utter shitness – is beyond me. But perhaps being let through the first time by those executive producers leads to delusional hacks thinking they can make it, such as:



*That unbearably attractive peroxided whore
*That dude, with a vaguely disconcerting woollen knit featuring a side zip, who actually believed a split-second blunder separated him from the Top 100 and dared to challenge Holden on it (the latter at the time sporting an alarming set of man titties)
*That dentist’s nightmare wishing Holden to be subjected to a double turdburger lashing in the face

The night belonged, however, to the rather-pleased-with-himself 17 year old whose irresistible talent was inexplicably rejected by the judging panel.



While Kyle sought an appropriate insult to level at the flamboyant shit-merchant, Marcia wasted no time in likening him to a viscous outpouring of bodily fluid.

Kyle: "That…was…"
Marcia: "Pus." [imperceptible neck swivel, silent but implied "Mm-hmm."] "True, unadulterated pus."

Sister-girlfriend is decidedly not down with dumb-asses bein’ all up in her face. Let’s hope that Chanel-era Marcia is just warming up or it’s going to be a long ride to Sydney.

AI3: Idol Eyes Re-Focus For Another Year

Kyle: "So who can you sing better than?"
Contestant (coyly, without hesitating): "Nikki Webster."

A strawberry kiss for a chocolate starfish, and a dangling conjunction for good measure. With that short exchange, the bar for the third series of Australian Idol was set.

Everyone get ready for about four months’ worth of bad singers, good singers, single mothers, touchdowns, sister-girlfriends, impassioned debate and sub-standard sentence structure.



Andrew "I Used To Be Fat" G is back with the same inexplicable love for the jeans/Converse/suit jacket combo, together with James "Droopy Eyes" Mathison and his cartoon journalist diction. Their power quotient after two successful Idol series has skyrocketed them to the post of deputy judge for Cairns, but they still need practice on reading those autocues. Where are they positioned? In the sky? What a pity Naomi Robson isn’t involved.



Everyone’s favourite sister-girlfriend, Marcia Hines, is back, with saliva dripping from her blood-thirsty and quite impressively polished fangs to renew her quest for a fresh ho to "hate on". Her declaration to one contestant, "You sang that brilliant," indicates she also has a bounty out on grammatical purists.



Mark "I Don’t Drive A" Holden is fresh from his world-beating on "X-Factor" to embrace skivvies on national television. Initially thought to be a Wiggles’ homage, Mark’s choice of red for Queensland and then blue for Victoria indicates it was actually a potent political statement.



Sadly, we have lost the only truly valuable judge, Dicko, whose assessments of contestants’ performances were without fail both accurate and insightful. His scathing attacks were always grounded in wit and intelligent humour. In his place, even more sadly, we now have the curiously effeminate Kyle "Lecherous Bogan Dating A Foetus, Said Foetus Surely Only Enduring Such Grotesque Torture To Advance A Dead-In-The-Water Pop Career" Sandilands, whose robust attempts at shock humour lack any semblance of wit and instead sound laboured and embarrassing. His best effort last night was, "You could saw a cat in half and get a better singer," which is really only amusing if you hate cats. It is otherwise a tad misleading, because what you end up with is actually an animal carcass in two parts and, presumably, quite a mess.

But let’s give Kyle time to settle in. In the meantime, we’ve got some "singers" to start loving and loathing. Young competitors of varying vocal ability and general literacy have bombarded respective audition venues in state capitals and other "regional centres" to make their mark on the Idol brand.

First stop: Queensland, home state of new judge Kyle and where teenage parenthood is apparently now a high school subject with significant practical content. Scores of innately disciplined young mums, dads and step-dads trod the fake parquetry of the temporary audition stage to face Kyle’s ridiculously sub-Dicko criticism and be smothered in affection by Marcia. Of course, sister-girlfriend can relate, having unleashed her spawn, Deni, at a similar age. It’s so good to know that she is a reasoned, professional judge impervious to unsubtle emotional bribery such as bringing one’s child on stage, isn’t it?

There have been some promising people to watch:



*That guy who tried out last year, didn’t get in, and subsequently quit some allegedly lucrative career to sing at regional festivals and grow a bad goatee
*That pig wrangling chick from Cairns
*Those hugging girls from Innisfail
*The dude who thinks he’s John Butler
*The Soulful Single Mum

Tonight, Idol Eyes focus on Victoria, with the promise of a stoush between the judging panel and a peroxide blonde with an intriguingly high level of self-appraisal.

Dicko or no Dicko, this year is going to be good. Or at least better than Nikki Webster.

Vesna: Victor?

It is irresistibly obvious to all sane, reasonable persons that the most generally fantastic and amazing person in the entire southern hemisphere on Big Brother is VESNA.



And now, news has just been joyously announced, via that morally sound not-for-profit institution with an electronic presence at www.centrebet.com, that Vesna is now FAVOURITE TO WIN THE ENTIRE FUCKING SHOW.

Vesna presently stands at 2.25 to 1 to conquer all.

Sometimes, in an uncertain world prone to tragedy and unfairness, things nonetheless just fall beautifully into place, don't they?

For those interested in unnecessary other details, it appears the infinitely inferior contestants' odds are as follows.

Tim 2.50
Greg 5.00
Kate 8.00
Christie 34.00
Melanie 34.00
Rita 101.00

"It's time to win... VESNA!"

As you were.

Another series of Idol, eh?

While we await the third series of Australian Idol to see who will follow in Guy's footsteps and try to avoid following in Casey's, let's all choke on our lunches at the vastly thrilling news that CANADIAN IDOL 3 has now determined its Top 10.

I'm quite serious. The first two series have been phenomenally good, with contestants who are actual musicians and a female judge who is not afraid to level criticism at sub-standard performers. Her name is Colette Sass Jordan, who is so sassy that she smiles even in clearly insufficiently heated photography studios:



Canadian Idol is quite quirky. It once saw fit to devote an entire week to the "The Songs of Gordon Lightfoot" and often features contestants who can't speak English! And yet they've never set foot outside Canada! Although those hardcore Quebec residents will tell you they've never set foot in Canada! You see, the politics are all very delicate over there, which is why an ex-Prime Minister's son is host. It keeps things "all aboot the music". Somehow.

Anyway, this is the Top 10:



And I am currently putting my support behind Suzi Raw to be the first female Canadian Idol.



In time Suzi will see that that "n" is just horribly redundant. The stage name "Raw" is far more in keeping with her self-professed "punk ass hippie" fashion preference and her "frantic folk" musical style!

She's also a mom, but not at all in an Emelia Rusciano dishonest one-earring Adelaide bogan type of way.

As for people to hate instantly, I suggest Amber Fleury:



Amber likes Trisha Yearwood and Celine Dion and describes her fashion style as "conservative". As far as I can tell from the following photo, she also appears to favour shoulder pads:



Stay tuned to see whether Raw or Conservative wins out.

Mariah: "We belong together," says songstress of breakfast condiment

As the world continues to feverishly finger itself to collective orgasm over Mariah Carey's shit-boring single "We Belong Together", I must brave potential ostracism by voicing my opposition to that woeful piece of crap.



This is a song that has racked up two weeks at Number 1 in this country and is allegedly the most played song ever on US radio. Most disturbingly, music reviewers and industry "mags" repeatedly spout that it may be her "best single ever".

I simply CANNOT be alone in recognising how misguided/totally fucked that line of thinking is.

Those with properly functioning brains not suffering from amnesia would know that Mariah's best single ever (and the best song of the entire year of 1997) was OBVIOUSLY "Honey".



"Honey" was amazing for the following reasons.

1. Its video featured Mariah resourcefully escaping both the clutches of inept Latin American kidnappers and potential quadriplegia by subsequently diving from the balcony of a splendidly designed "hacienda" or similar IN HIGH HEELS into a pool, emerging from it not in the too-tight mini-dress she'd previously sported but instead in an Ursula Andress-style bikini perfect for jet-skiing (a poetic visual rendering of Mariah's first emancipation from grandfather husband Tommy Mottola);

2. It is the dirtiest song ever written by a woman.

Yes. We could sit here all day debating the song's artistic merits, the fact that it represents one of Mariah's finest uses of a sample (a trend she helped establish in the early 90s [and became rather TOO excited about really, overall, but anyway]), the fact the title's mucilaginous fluid is expertly replicated by the song's own syrupy cadence, etc., but "Honey"'s true pièce de résistance is its depiction of Mariah's greatest sexual fetish.

A brief textual analysis demonstrates just what a horny hussy little Maz is.

Oh honey, you can have me when you want me
If you simply ask me to be there

Mariah is up for it all the time.

And you're the only one who makes me come running
'Cause what you got is far beyond compare

Mariah has orgasms on the treadmill just thinking about her partner's huge schlong.

And it's just like honey
When your love comes over me

Well, this is all very subtle isn't it.

Always strung out for another taste of your honey
It's like honey when it washes over me
You know sugar never ever was so sweet

No, never quite as sweet as SALT!

And I'm dying for ya, crying for ya, I adore ya
One hit of your love addicted me
Now I'm strung out on you darling
Don't you see, every night and day
I can hardly wait for another taste of honey

Mariah totally drinks this stuff by the litre.

Honey I can't describe
How good it feels inside
Honey I can't describe
How good it feels inside

That would be a big NO to the condom question then.

There you have it. Porn masquerading as a Top 40 hit! Mariah at her best and most believable.

"Was your snatch in danger?"

Is Vesna the most wonderful person currently drawing breath in this country?



Obviously the answer is a ridiculously loud YES! Really, what other conclusion can be arrived at for a woman who prompted such fatherly concern in Big Brother that he enquired about the welfare of her vagina. Actually please tell me such a question is not typically fatherly

After an amusing mattress dance with Christie in the girls' bedroom, where the "shack" veritably "shimmied" by all accounts, Vesna was ambushed by the boys and tossed into the pool.

Although usually a tolerant, low maintenance person with little to complain about, Vesna subsequently queried with BB why he did not assist her.

"Can you not swim?" he asked.

"No, I can," replied the amazing Vesna, "it's just my snatch got flashed to the whole of Australia and it wasn't even waxed!"

And then, as if the finest remaining BB contestant hadn't already endeared herself sufficiently to the entire planet, came the unforgettable TV moment of 2005:

"Did you feel your snatch was in danger?" asked BB, mortified at having placed Vesna's mound in jeopardy.

Vesna proceeded to declare herself the victim of harassment and, accordingly, sought the only logical form of relief: laxatives to put in the boys' food.

This woman is the best thing on TV. No my standards aren't low what are you talking about

Tom Cruises Rob: The TomThom Affair

The erudite, curvaceous Lindsay Lohan once wistfully mused: "I’m tired of rumours starting. I’m tired of people lying, saying what they want about me. Why can’t they just back up off me?"

Despite employing a curious compound verb form to liken herself (not altogether incongruously) to a curb or some such other parking impediment, Lohan here provides a succinct précis of what we all know to be true: people are bastards People love the rumour mill. Insatiable, our thirst for gossip and hearsay! Give us a celebrity to back up on to and we’re there.

So it’s no surprise that this morning people the world over appear to be furiously forwarding each other e-mails about the latest tidbit of Cruise news.



Rumour "has it" that Tom Cruise was recently caught intimately frolicking with Rob Thomas, lead singer of Matchbox Twenty, on a mattress, with no clothes! It is unclear to whom the mattress belonged or to what extent clothes were or were not involved, but Rob Thomas (at least contractually) belongs to his wife, Marisol, who was none too pleased about the discovery.

With photos as collateral and threatening to file a minority report with the media unless Tom showed her the money, Marisol Thomas was apparently the catalyst for 2005’s hastiest but most heart-rending and believable celebrity union between Cruise and Katie Holmes.

This makes some kind of distorted but ultimately convenient sense. But poor Rob Thomas!

Has no-one been listening to his plaintive cries? This is a man who has been using nail polish as actual nail polish for years and who, despite being married, released a hit song about being lonely!

Just take a look at the lyrics to his solo single "Lonely No More", currently sitting at Number 18 on the ARIA singles chart:

I don't wanna be lonely no more
I don't wanna have to pay for this

Rob is tortured by his latent, heretofore unexpressed sexual urges and doesn’t want to be punished for what he feels. (Or he’s simply against hiring a hooker.)

What if I was good to you, what if you were good to me
What if I could hold you till I feel you move inside of me

This imagery is about as subtle as a fist. Does Rob write for the Backstreet Boys?

What if it was paradise, what if we were symphonies
What if I gave all my life to find some way to stand beside you

OK, this man is SO gay. Aside from longing to be a symphony (presumably the "woodwind" section), Rob is apparently so committed to feeling someone like Tom move inside of him that he’s actually contemplating requiring the effort of an entire lifetime simply to stand up!

Someone come to this man’s aid. Forget the "Free Katie" websites, the campaign to "Save Rob" starts here.

Pussy Galore

That repulsive pornographic brainwashing machine, Big Brother, appears to have caused quite the media controversy!



Its sinister, crotch-obsessed, flesh-fuelled demon heart has rightly earned the wrath of our more morally centred citizens. Hippies everywhere are incensed; babies are said to be up in arms; schizophrenics are beside themselves. All in objection to the satanic, lecherous, unquenchable lust of the BB camera.

Ah, Kris Noble, BB producer. Brainwashing indeed.

Congratulations for successfully deflecting interest from the (lack of) ethnic and cultural diversity of this year's contestants to the (considerable) diversity of their cock sizes. (Not the females'.)

Number of housemates this year, including evictees: 20
Proportion of those housemates who are Caucasian: 100%

Congratulations for the other night unimaginatively introducing into the mix, when you surely had scores of other options, THREE MORE BLOND, BLUE-EYED, BOGAN DICKHEADS into the mix.



Where are the gays? Where are the Asians? Where are the dwarves, the amputees?

So far this year the cultural standouts have been a girl called Geneva, Hotdogs' alien torso and Michelle's curiously flourishing Andie MacDowell tribute moustache.

Kris Noble: what a media master. And don't he sho' love hisself some o' dat Anglo pussy.