Most hated skateboarders of all time in no particular order

As the collective battlecries and the slapping of ply's filled the skatepark and it's immediate surroundings, little Billy rolled away from his 7 stair f/s salad grind as if he'd just delivered his first born child. His friends were equally stoked and Billy was excited at the thought of leaving the park with a new hammer under his belt and the right he'd earnt to claim the execution of aforementioned salad's to anyone that came within his radius the following week.

Then, from the dark recesses of the park a cynical, yet all too familiar voice announced "pffft, Salad grinds? Are you serious? Who even does those anymore?"

Billy and his bro's were a little taken back by the attitude of this slightly older quarter pipe critic and immediately asked him what his beef was with Eric Dressen's legacy grind. "Really? You're asking me what's wrong with Salad Grinds? How about......they're the worst trick ever? Don't you guys read the Slap forums? Seriously, if you're going to do Salad Grinds you might as well cut to the chase and shove your board up your arse and slide down the rail on your newly exposed sphincter, because that's pretty much what a Salad grind looks like".

Billy never did another salad grind and now works night fill to support an unplanned child and an even more unplanned smack addiction....

Ahh, good old fashioned Hate. The very mention of the word may have lost it's initial impact over the years due to hip-hop's unintentional redefinition (the 'hater' epidemic)or the tendencies of teenage girls to associate it with pretty much everything that isn't Robert Pattinson, but the act of hating is still as necessary as it is unnecessary in humanity's increasingly critical nature and more importantly, our favorite four-wheeled pastime. A few decades ago, the word HATE could have incited war on a global scale if placed in the wrong context. Today, I can sit here and safely say that I hate Kyle Sandilands, the wind and eggplant and not even flinch in doing so. I hate eggplant so much that my vision blurs whenever I think about it. Kyle Sandilands has a similar effect.

Hate's primary appeal lies in it's ease of execution. Unfortunately, It's much harder to think of and express a genuine, heartfelt compliment then it is to highlight the shortcomings of another human being or entity. Well, it is for me anyway, and I'm writing the goddamn article so you could probably just shut your goddamned, uninformed mouth and stop interrupting me..

See? So much easier than complimenting you all.

In practice, hate might be fun and all when it's dropped at the right moment (in the safety of your own home on Xbox Live or a Transworld premiere), but it can also be an incredibly ignorant, jealousy-driven form of expression reserved for those of us who are just plain jerks. As skateboarders, we've all been exposed to the big H at one point or another, be it for pushing mongo, mobbing your kickflips or signing a lucrative endorsement contract with an energy drink reserved for jock douchebags and lorry drivers, which is why it brings me great pleasure (or sadism) to bring you the most comprehensive and thoroughly researched 'Most Hated' list ever concocted. Now get out of my face and enjoy!

Jereme Rogers
How do you go from the most promising new talent on arguably the best board company in skateboarding to the laughing stock of the industry in the space of a couple of years? First things first, spend all your royalty checks on big, iced out DVS pendants and crosses and wear them to as many video premieres and annual award ceremonies as possible. Then, you'd be wise to get a couple of really meaningful tattoos on your face and arms, treble clefs and god-fearing self gospel is encouraged. Right, now you need some shrooms and a rooftop. Easy. Here's the clincher though, announce a premature retirement from skateboarding and pursue a career as the whitest rapper ever, imitating guys like Lil Wayne and Young Jeezy and talking about all the fancy shit you have, which you most certainly didn't earn through rapping and definitely wouldn't have if it wasn't for skateboarding. Congratulations, you are now amongst the most elite stable of skateboarding's most hated. You can also announce a comeback shortly after all that, start your own board company called 'Selfish' skateboards and sign an unhealthy looking Brian Wenning as your first pro. But that's only if you REALLY want to piss everyone off.

Mike Vallely
Not sure what happened here. When I first started skateboarding in the early 2000's Mike Vallely was always known as skateboarding's personal bodyguard thanks to his arrogant, staunch demeanor and that clip of him beating up about 5000 jocks in some carpark somewhere. As the years fell off the calendar though, so did Mike's reputation. Somewhere along the lines we decided as a collective that it wasn't cool to quit skateboarding to become a professional wrestler, front a band called 'Revolution Mother' and get your arm broken after starting a fight during your minor league ice hockey debut. We skateboarders are a reasonably peaceful people and there's only so many faces you can crush before the kids find a new role model, someone clean cut like Torey Pudwill or the likes. God I hope Mike Vallely doesn't read this.

Rob Dyrdek
May or may not have recently gone and got the Monster Energy Drink logo tattooed over his entire back. If it actually went down like that, Rob Dyrdek may have just secured himself the title as skateboarding's biggest ever sell-out, a position previously fought over by the likes of Ryan Sheckler, Bam Margera and Rob Dyrdek. If such is not the case and the video is actually a contrived attempt at viral marketing by Monster, consider my previous statement equally applicable. Rob Dyrdek is sponsored by Axe deodarant, this does not help matters.

Andy Mac
Where skateboarding is an individualistic passion and against-the-grain means of self-expression, A-Mac is the clean-cut devil in a yellow t-shirt reminding us all the skateboarding is a competitive sport and nothing more. His x-games track record is immaculate, he has his own video game and a list of sponsors that resembles a K-Mart catalog. No-one cares though because he's a big dumb jock and therefore, the anti-christ.


Steve Berra
Steve Berra is pretty great for the most part. I liked his part in THE END and he's entertained me a fair bit with his little Berrics thing he's got going over there. But if I have to sit through one more fu**ing minute long advertisement to watch a 20 second clip I'm going to smash my keyboard over my own face and send him the hospital bill and also request that he replace my keyboard. Seriously, one ad per visit. I came to see some futuristic skateboarding, not to be spam-fed boring advertisements about ABD's or how much change PJ Ladd keeps in the boot of his car.

Josh Kasper
Another stair-counting casualty of the Osiris regiment. Josh Kasper achieved hater notoriety through his refusal to adapt to skateboarding's quickly shifting fashion climate and his uninviting interpretation of the frontside flip, the phantom flip. These attributes, coupled with mid-line benihanas and a cover shot on Big Brother's Worst Issue Ever (executing said benihana over three scantily clad Jenny Craig dropouts wrestling in fake blood) and Josh Kasper's career quickly turned sour. Chad Muska is another well-known phantom-flipper, but he hangs out with Paris Hilton and wears futuristic shoes so it's cool.

Dave Mayhew
You'd think the release of your first pro shoe would be not only the highlight of your skateboarding career, but also a fitting object of legacy for the generations that follow you. Unfortunately this was not the case for Dave Mayhew, the man responsible for the most hated shoe in skateboarding, the Osiris D3 and it's obnoxious big brother, the D3 2001. When it first came out, the D3 was an object of desire as school kids and urban fashionistas alike salivated over it's obese silhouette, comical lace holes and innumerable layers of nu-buck, suede, leather, Teflon, Honda Civic passenger side upholstery and nylon. The triple stuffed tongue was big enough to sleep a family of five and if you needed to, you could fit a week's worth of shopping in the right shoe alone if you didn't have your license yet. The D3 2001 was inevitably released in light of the D3's success and, if it's even possible, was bigger and even more reinforced than the original and could actually briefly block out the sun when thrown at the right angle. Dave Mayhew has since retired from skateboarding and is now living comfortably off of the proceeds from his frowned-upon design.

Chad Fernandez
Aside from possessing a head of hair you could clearly identify from outer space, Chad Fernandez made a legitimate career out of nose-grinding tall handrails and then nose-sliding them. After a disagreement with a fledgling BAKER team in the early 2000's over who brought cut-off sleeves back, Chad was hastily escorted from the professional ranks and re-situated himself as a zany presenter for locally broadcast Under 14 jam sessions. Moral of the story: Don’t beef with the boss.

Ryan Sheckler
The only professional skateboarder with a personalized number plate engraved into his back. Ryan Sheckler is without a doubt the most commercially hated skateboarder of all time and the unquestionable grandmaster of corporate sponsorship. We hated him as a child prodigy (those fu**ing kickflip indy’s over EVERYTHING), we hated him as a developing teenage butt-kisser (long hair, skinny jeans, big shoes, bringing his mom on tour, kickflip indy's) and by god do we hate him as the rich, successful, model-pulling, luxury car driving, home-owning, conglomerate-building jealousy sponge that he is today. Perhaps what upsets us all the most though (aside from the pimple cream, MTV, deodorant, subwoofer, energy drink, wheel-barrow, Tupperware and baby wipe endorsements) is that Ryan Sheckler not only feeds off of Hate, but actually uses it as currency and motivation to prove to us all that he is actually a great guy and that we are all irrelevant to him; a thought process that will no doubt lead to a mutually beneficial relationship in which we can continue to criticize his every move for many years to come, and he can continue jumping down 30 stairs dressed like a week’s worth of junk mail.

Rodney Mullen
Thanks to Youtube and Monster Energy Drinks, every thirteen year-old across the world can freely critique the godfathers of our craft with no repercussions whatsoever. This critique is then amplified by other thirteen year-old’s who share a similar outlook and in turn puts them under the impression that they are correct. If you’re thirteen and another thirteen year old agrees with you, that doesn’t make you correct, it makes you thirteen. If there was ever one golden rule pertaining to hate, it’s that you do it properly, or you keep your prepubescent pie hole firmly closed. In short, if you’re not of legal drinking age and have ever mentioned Rodney Mullen’s name in association with style or a lack thereof, consider this paragraph your indisputable banishment from skateboarding and it’s related pursuits of which you are no longer a part of as of now.

Greg Lutzka
Greg Lutzka is a skateboarder. Greg Lutzka is sponsored by K-Swiss and wears fedoras ALL the time. K-Swiss is a tennis shoe brand. There is a tennis tournament called the French Open. The term Fedora was coined by a French Dramatist by the name of Victorien Sardou. Greg Lutzka is not French. Greg Lutzka has his own pro model car and shares a similar sponsorship resume to Ryan Sheckler, which never helps. If someone asked Greg Lutzka to do a totally epic burnout in his pro model car, he'd only be able to spin it 270 degrees.

Shaun White
Due the forever-burning inferno that is Shaun White's hair, it was guaranteed from birth that he'd encounter his fair share of torment from anyone that didn't possess a similar genetic makeup (pretty much everyone). It's common knowledge that teasing people with Gingervitis produces vast amounts of satisfaction, so when the "Flying Tomato" started climbing the ranks as both a professional skateboarder AND snowboarder, he had us seeing even more red than what was situated on his dome. Under the watchful eye of Tony Hawk, Shaun White now has more investors than a discount abortion clinic and has won every competition ever. But that's not even why we don't like him, well, it kind of is, but those Rolling Stone covers and Olympic medals have to count for something right?

Bam Margera
Went from a respected Philly local with one of the best switch back tails in the game to a make-up wearing prankster for Earth's very own interpretation of hell, also known as MTV, quicker than you can say Viva La Bam! Some of the early CKY videos were good for some mindless hangover entertainment, but it seems as though anything he's touched since has rubbed skateboarding as a whole the wrongest way possible. After pledging his soul to Finnish rock outfit HIM and adopting their Heartogram symbol as his own personal trademark, his innumerable mindless followers (top hats, gloves, wallet chains, Heartogram tattoos) have become much easier to identify and thankfully, easier to avoid all together. If the gloves and Adio's don't immediately give it away, keep an eye out for an unscathed Element complete in the captivity of a textbook mall grab.

Now get out there and sk(h)ate!!

BRB

Dear 38 39 Followers and lost Google searchers,

It's recently come to my attention that while this blogspot is probably the best thing to ever happen to anyone that's ever visited it, or anyone that's ever walked past or been in the vicinity of anyone that's ever visited it, I need to start administering these extremely concentrated doses of knowledge and skills to other avenues, namely the ones that I don't know of at this point in time.
Don't call Suicide Watch or your relatives just yet, I'll still be posting on the same inconsistent basis you've become accustomed to, just in less inconsistent measurements of consistency. I've written a metric ass-load of stuff on this blog, stuff that has helped people deal with the things in life that they previously assumed they couldn't deal with before reading this blog, sort of like a chilled out humanitarian, and I've had a wonderful time doing it even though no-one ever gave me any money ever and I clearly hinted at it several times.
If you'll kindly bare with me and go visit some other blogs (crazy I know but there are some pretty cool ones out there), I can get back to focusing on the more important things in life, like becoming so rich that I can buy actual human beings (Angelina Jolie) and so enlightened that I can hover at will. Given time, my ability to buy people and hover will no doubt benefit you guys in ways I can't even imagine because they probably don't exist, but they do.

Meanwhile, I'll be doing some stuff over here and I still use my twitter account @wacksauce because I never said it was lame or that I was deleting it so I still have every right to use it and you have every right to contact me there.

Thanks for nothing and remember, blogging is what happens when you're making other plans and you want to write about those plans at a later date.

One tagline.

Well, everything seems to be in order here. It's not an album cover, which isn't surprising since 50 cent the rapper no longer exists and Curtis Jackson the IMDB accredited has taken his place. He's pulling his 'grey steel' face, an oral contortion that has become synonymous with the 50 Cent brand and he's within close proximity to splatters of blood, which is another recurring theme for anything associated with his image. Upon first glance, one would be forgiven for reaching the conclusion that a healthy level of ignorance has been maintained on this advertisement and 50's position as a certified gangster has once again been solidified.

What can't be forgiven though is the outlandish tagline for the movie in question. In case you missed it:
A tagline's job is to give the potential viewer a brief synopsis of the film being advertised, whilst leaving enough to the imagination to entice them into paying a fare to view it. For example, Ridley Scott's 1979 masterpiece Alien adopted the now iconic "In space, no one can hear you scream" tagline. This suggests that the film takes place in outer space and the possibility that an other-worldy presence is preventing whoever it is in outer space from doing whatever it is they want to do in outer space. If i was around in 1979 i would've been convinced to see Alien if only to discover exactly what this presence was and how the human protagonists dealt with it. Having since viewed Alien on several occasions i can say (without any film student snobbery) that the tagline did a damn good job enticing me to pay a fare to view it. Not that i paid for it, i watched it a my friend's house pretty much every time i went there.

Then there's the inevitable sequel Aliens and it's equally effective tagline "This time, it's war". We've seen what happened in the original and now that the protagonist is aware of the Aliens and their characteristics, they are going to do battle with them on more equal terms than in the first film. Again, simple, effective and with the placement of the words 'time' and 'war' comes a responsibility to continue following the story in order to gain some closure along with the protagonist and her crew of stereotypical soldiers.

The tagline 'one gun, many lives lost' is as ludicrous as it is misleading, ticking all the boxes for a box office flop regardless of it's all star cast (Curtis Jackson and Val Kilmer). I racked my brain for potential metaphors and hidden meanings within the blurb and after about 30 seconds i came to one conclusion. This movie is about 50 Cent killing ALOT of people, with one gun. This is where it gets even more confusing.

Now, i suck at math and i hold an immense, deep-seeded hatred for anyone that is good at math. The way i see it, we don't speak in numbers, so why the hell should i learn about them? It would appear as though Curtis Jackson has applied a similar thought process to this poster. For those of you playing at home, the tagline discusses the prospect of one gun and an insurmountable number of lives lost, which is fair enough. What isn't discussed is the number of guns Curtis himself is holding in the photo, namely, two. Seeing as this is the only image we can associate with the movie and tagline in question it appears as though someone has made a crucial error in relation to not only the tagline, but the name of the movie as well. 'Guns' clearly would have been the more effective title to run with as the demographic this movie is clearly aimed at would definitely appreciate multiple guns over a single, less gun with a predetermined amount of ammunition. Keeping in mind that i suck at math, the following equation springs to mind:

Amount of lives lost ≠ Amount of guns.

However, being the marketing genius that Curtis Jackson is, in some twisted, logic-bending fashion, he's convinced me to go and see Gun when it comes out in 2011. I simply must see how this possibility of more than one gun will affect the plot and it's surrounding characters. Yes, the movie is called Gun and the tagline leads me to believe that the number of guns on screen will be limited to one at a time but as previously mentioned, the number of guns Curtis is cradling and his suggestive facial expression could convince me yet. Gun is set for release in 2011 and stars Val Kilmer.

Tagline suggestions for future Gun spin-offs and sequels:

* In space, nobody can hear you gun.
* In Vietnam the Gun doesn't blow, it guns.
* There is nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light, except Gun.
* You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll gun.
* An adventure 65 million guns in the making.
* So many guns, so little time.
* Everyone has one special gun.
* Not every gun is a blessing.
* Nothing on Earth could gun between them.
* He is afraid, he is alone, he is three million guns from home.

Bonus points for anyone that can name every film i've blatantly ripped off here.

C@ts.

Sony, the internationally admired technology powerhouse and manufacturer of all things handy (aside from the PS3) have just announced their latest time-wasting innovation, Cat@Log. Essentially Twtter for cats, Cat@Log simultaneously keeps you informed of your cats every move and infuriates me to the point of no return.

For starters, cats are useless. I've already discussed and proven this fact in several other posts but seeing as cat owners are the most denial-driven sub-humans on the planet i'll reiterate once again. Cats have no place in modern society, they contribute in no way to our economy, well-being or environment and their little faces with their sharp, unsatisfied features are a constant reminder of their incapacity to promote anything but evil tendencies. Yet, as useless as cats are, they stroll around like they own whichever place they are strolling around in. Their owners are slaves, brainwashed by a secreted psychoactive hallucinogen known as 'asshole'. 'Asshole' is stored in little sacs beneath the cats fur coat and is released by the stroking motion known as 'petting' or 'being a gay'. Once the hallucinogen is released, it is known to cause the following:

* A false sense of self worth.
* A false sense of ownership over the cat.
* Love under false pretenses.
* Nausea.

Thankfully, I was born with a natural allergy (or gift) that prevents me from being affected by this toxin and should a cat ever enter my personal space, an outburst of small, localized sneezes will let it know that i'm not one to be brainwashed so easily. I'm not allergic to cats, cats are allergic to me, which is why Sony's proposal is a cause for concern. Before now, a cats only form of communication was that hissing noise they always make when you spray water at them. If this innovation takes off, the cats will be given access to an entirely new means of control over their owner and will be able to reach a wider audience as their movements are inevitably discussed over the internet and hip Whiskers ad campaigns. Who the fuck wants to know what a cat is doing anyway?

Oh wow @TabbySlash. You were a manipulative, sadistic bitch for a week straight? Who would've thought a cat could be so evil?

Pencil Case.

Fired for being too hot.

I had no idea what they were talking about. Did this Debrahlee Lorenzana have a temperature problem? Was she emanating a level of body heat so unbearable to her colleagues that she was excused from her duties as an entry-level Citibank employee? Better look to the professionals.

Dictionary.com states:

Hot - Adjective
1. having or giving off heat; having a high temperature: a hot fire; hot coffee.
2. having or causing a sensation of great bodily heat; attended with or producing such a sensation: He was hot with fever.
3. creating a burning sensation, as on the skin or in the throat: This ointment is hot, so apply it sparingly.
4. sharply peppery or pungent: Is this mustard hot?

That couldn't be it. From the photos I'd seen so far, Debrahlee doesn't look like she has the flu, her throat doesn't appear to show any signs of strain or burning and for the most part, she doesn't look sharply peppery or pungent. It was time to dig deeper. I remembered that a-lot of news websites these days like to use clever puns and common slang to appeal to a wider audience, so I directed my research to a more urban form of dictionary to find out what the fuss was all about and why this piece of news was plastered all over the front page of every news website on an international scale.

Urbandictionary.com states:

Hot - Adjective
1. someone thats EXTREMEMLY (sic) good looking but not like (sic) cute, more like (sic) sexy. when they walk by u (sic) turn ure (sic) head and wish u (sic) had a pause button or something.
2. something that is in some way attractive

Of course! Debrahlee wasn't fired because of her temperature or unbearable body heat! She was too attractive! This is way more interesting. I don't know how anyone could strive to work in a bank to begin with (all the numbers and monitors would make me ever so sleepy), let alone a bank where there is a girl that is way too attractive for you or your colleagues to handle! Imagine how hard and job threatening that would be.

Jim: Hey Tom, how'd you go with that McNamara finance?

*Debrahlee sits at her desk, typing*

Tom: Oh, hey Jim! Yeah, still working on it. Carvalho's got my balls in a vice grip, he wants it done by the weekend. Might have to cancel golf again!

*Debrahlee sits at her desk, typing*

Carvalho: Hey, Tom, Jim. Is it lunch time?

Tom and Jim: No sir.

Carvalho: Then why the fuck are you standing around like it is? Shouldn't you be sorting that McNamara file out Tom?

Tom and Jim: Sorry boss.

*Debrahlee stands up to use the fax machine*

Carvalho: Right, you're both fired.

Tom: I said I'd have the file done by the weekend boss!

Carvalho: You're not fired for slacking off. Look at how hot Debrahlee looks right now in that pencil skirt and turtle neck top with matching heels. There's no way either of you are going to get anything done around here so I'm going to have to let you go.

*Debrahlee sits back down, knowing her own job is now at risk*

It's pretty amazing that someone can get fired from a bank for being too attractive. What's more amazing though is the fact that Debrahlee herself is claiming that is the sole reason for her termination, not the fact that she is incompetent, which is Citiblank's own claim. This could really set a new standard for females and job security the world over.

"Oh yeah, they said I single-handedly sent the company bankrupt and that i was the most unprofessional secretary in the history of the company. It's all bullshit though, I know it's because I was too hot for them. They can't handle this body and they know it. I'm thinking about sueing."

Here's some photos of Deb in a work situation. Where the photos came from I have no idea, but I can only assume they're an accurate portrayal of an average work day for her:

So, what was Deb's job description? Director of posing with book and glass of water? Head of the department for leaning provocatively over files? Personally, I think Deb's flattering herself with these claims against Citibank. Anyone that poses for a photoshoot in an office to back up her claims of being fired from a bank for being too hot is clearly trying to break into modeling, a guaranteed RALPH photo-shoot or a wild card entry to "I'm a celebrity, get me out of there!".

"Man, did you see that girl over there? Dude, she's like a combination of J.Lo curves meets Jessica Simpson rack meets Audrey Hepburn elegance. She's so hot she couldn't even hold a job at Citibank!"

HOT UPDATE!
It looks as though not even the monolithic likes of Google can deny the temperature-related attractiveness this woman is oozing right now. Fired for being too spicy? Oh, I think so!

Click clack get your hair trimmed back.

Hair cuts. You all get hair cuts don't you? I used to hate them when I was younger. Getting dragged to some small room full of mirrors in the middle of a shopping mall while some girl (gross) touches your head with her long nails and sprays water in your face with no intention of apologizing or telling you to move your face out of the way. I was a crazy fidget when i was younger as well. If i sat down for longer than 30 seconds i'd start sweating and panicking because i always thought i'd miss out on whatever was going on wherever i wasn't sitting. That was my biggest fear as a child, being stationary. That, and Tori Amos. This one time, i was getting my hair cut and that Tori Amos song 'Professional Widow' came on the little radio by the hair gel display and i started physically crying. So, not only was i stationary, but Tori Amos was in the building as well. It was the most traumatizing 4 minutes and 31 seconds of my life and every time i hear that song now i get slow motion flashbacks of hair falling to the ground and red-headed girls submerged in bathtubs with their eyes open.

During my teen years however, i came to appreciate the calming atmosphere and artistic applications of the hair salon. That, and it was the only instance during those years in which semi-attractive girls would willingly touch my head and spray water in my face without apologizing. As i grew older, my fondness for hair cuts grew older as well. I don't even know what that means. The only time i'd ever wash my hair was before i got my hair cut and i'd always be sure to make whoever was cutting my hair aware of this for brownie points and maybe an extra 30 seconds of head massaging at the end of my trim. "You know, i washed my hair especially for you this morning" was always a hit with the girls down at Floreat Forum. It helps conjure up an image of you in the shower for them and makes things less awkward all round.

Nowadays, the hair cut has become less of a necessity and more of an excuse to go and get my hair played with and read trashy gossip mags in a safe place surrounded by people that won't accuse me of being gay, or just really switched on. I've swapped salons a few times for a wide range of reasons (out of date magazines, bad music, inelegant conversation) and have only in the last few years realized the benefits of the old home salon. What's better than getting your hair cut by someone you don't know in a public place? How about getting your hair cut by someone you sort of know at their house? Yeah, thought so. Now while you simmer on that, allow me to highlight the benefits of getting your follicles fussed over by an independent hairdresser in a private environment.

1. You control the music. Public salon's don't take kindly to requests, especially if they involve the words "wow, this music makes me want to kill myself". Private salons are generally home to iPod docks, which means you can bring your own music and the hairdresser can't do anything about it because you're paying them to cut your hair, not to DJ.

2. You don't have to listen to other people's mundane exchanges. Why do i want to hear about how unfair your daughter's netball referee was last sunday when i could be discussing whether or not Robert Pattinson and Kirsten Stewart are going to last or if their relationship is one big publicity stunt without any interruptions?

3. The floor isn't covered in human hair from other humans. I never really noticed how much trudging through millimeter thick layers of other people's hair offended me until i experienced my first private trim. The only hair you'll be trudging through is your own, which is only as offensive as you make it

4. I'd say that thought i told you to simmer on before is well and truly cooked by now.

So, being the proud supporter of locally owned businesses in this city (particularly those operated by my close friends) that i am, i figured i'd be doing my good will a major injustice by not shedding some light on Perth's latest (and by default, most awesome) private salon, Peggy Sue's. Did you know that in Latin, Peggy Sue's actually translates to the best haircut you will ever have and good snacks as well? Look it up if you don't believe me. Don't look it up.

Peggy Sue's is located on the upper floor of the highly regarded 'Last Chance Studio' at 456 William Street, Northbridge. Upon entry you'll find alpine walls decorated with the Last Chance collective's latest works and if you happen to be traveling with a certain lady luck, you may even catch them in action, applying paint to raw materials and discussing the finer points of Chess or the social implications of entering nightclubs with a vintage walking stick. I actually became so sidetracked by the outlandish array of art and good vibes floating about the studio that i forgot what i was even there for. Then i remembered, hair cut, which is good because i happened to require a hair cut at that point in time.

I was directed upstairs by Miss Bee Rizzi, who is the sole employee at Peggy Sue's and also the most accomplished. The studio is perfect, it's a cosy little room with a cosy little chair and a mirror and even more artwork. I was most stoked on the mirror, i figure if you need anything in a salon, the mirror is at the top of the list. I've known Bee for a while now and i can safely say (with no bias) that she knows her way around a head of hair. Every strand is treated with the same respect as the last and her scissor control is not of this world. So smooth was Bee's work with the clippers and so fixated i had become on June's issue of FAMOUS weekly, that i once again forgot what i was meant to be doing there until Bee kindly reminded me of the hair cut, which was convenient because i actually happened to be getting my hair cut at that point in time.

Even more impressive than the quality and precision of the cut was the vast array of snacks at my disposal during the proceedings. There was a heavy Japanese theme running through the selection as i indulged in wasabi peas, weird little soft/hard jelly things covered in sugar and chocolate coated sesame sticks. It was definitely a more attractive spread than the public hairdressers i'd frequented in the past, most of which don't serve snacks at all. I pretty much ate her week's supply in one sitting and Bee didn't even get upset, which is another rare quality that i always look for in my hairdressers.

All in all, it was the best haircut experience anyone will ever have ever. Refreshing, cultured locale, engaging staff, unique decoration and intimate customer interaction. Haircuts are available by appointment only so if you're thinking of just rocking up out of the blue, don't. Peggy Sue's prides itself on maintaining exclusivity with it's customer base, a direction that will only improve the quality of the cuts and the odds of Bee remembering your name whenever you go in there.

After the ceremonial brushing of the collar and application of talc, i looked in the mirror and told Bee that i looked incredible. She agreed not by obligation but with regard to her personal opinion, which was great because i actually happened to look incredible at that point in time.

*Word on the street is that Peggy Sue is currently plotting some super extravagant, turbo classy opening party in the near future. Keep the date free. You're not invited yet.

You can keep your fingers on the Peggy Sue pulse at peggysueshair.com

This site is also relative to your interests: last-chance-studio.com

Bang.

Team Sports.

As soon as i walked onto the train i knew it was all on. Senior citizens, babies, women, adults, children, the disabled, bikies and businessmen, all garnished from head to toe in 2010 Dockers paraphernalia talking about how awesome the Dockers are because of how well they're doing this year compared to how they were going last year and whether or not it will affect the franchise next year and the performance of any rival franchises with which they have no association with on account of them being rival franchises. It was so enthralling that i put my headphones in and dragged the volume knob to an intangible level through fear of becoming overstimulated by the epic conversations i was surrounded by.

I kept to myself for most of the journey, only looking up to check for potential fisticuffs between the aforementioned Dockers fans and the severely outnumbered supporters of whichever team were playing the Dockers that night. Much to my dismay, they were all getting along, which i didn't really understand. For a country as passionate about sports as we claim to be, the lack of rival club related fights on the notoriously violent F-Line that night was embarrassing and, well, a little bit gay. As the train reached the end of it's journey (as far as football is concerned) at Subiaco train station, the unified wolf whistles and team chants faded and the general dick-pulling and bromance came to a halt, i noticed a kid decked out in a third, unrelated team's colours with his head down and a face painted with shame, and black with a little bit of red.

This kid couldn't have been older than 10 and was nearing the doors when some asshole in a beard calls him out for supporting 'that' team. This guy literally stopped dead in his tracks, directed the entire train's attention to him and proceeded to let loose with some immensely uninspired regional diatribe, somehow managing to convince his friends, a few complete strangers and even this kid's family to do the same. His dad was actually APOLOGIZING to the instigators and joked that his son was on the way to the airport and got lost. Hilarious! Better sleep with your eyes open for the next ten years, friend. I've seen some pretty lame shit in my time, but this particular occurrence was up there with the smelliest. Any pride the young victim had for his team and any hope of an affirmative upbringing by anyone without a striped scarf and a rear window 2010 membership sticker was dismissed in a few seconds by the braindead taunts of a bunch of silverback, redneck, yellow-bellied, pillow-biting chimney sweeps.

Now, this all made me wonder. If i was in Modern Warfare 2 right now, would the Commando Pro Perk be beneficial right now? It'd definitely give me the increased melee distance that i wouldn't normally get from say, the Ninja Pro perk, which only really silences my footsteps and still leaves me vulnerable to anyone in my peripheral. Hang on, none of these guys look like they even know what a UAV is which renders Ninja Pro even more useless. And even if i do take all these guys out with knife class, is the ACOG sight on my M164A going to hinder my close range firefight abilities? Should've chosen ACR with the holographic sight. No Marathon Pro, so my escape is probably going to be a little slow, but i'm Lightweight Pro so if sprint in short bursts i should at least make it to ground level wounded. Then once i'm on ground level, those four previous frags have earned me a care package, with the potential for a Harrier AirStrike being a solid 1/9. Do i even need a care package? Another five down and i'm up to my elbows in killstreak rewards. Pave Lows, AC130's and Chopper Gunners, more than enough rewards to teach John a lesson for camping on every fucking map and Tim going AWOL on party chat so he can get more throwing knife titles. Yeah nice one guys, way to make me rage quit before i try and eat my controller out of childish anger and blind fury.

You hear that John? STOP CAMPING!

Pretentious Dining Guide 2: A big night in with Alex and Trish.

Dish: Continental Cup-a-soup's exciting new flavour: Chilli con Carne.

Where: At home silly! Or anywhere for that matter!

It'd been another big weekend for Trish and I, making sure we were seen at all the hot new restaurants and mixing with Perth's edible elite had taken it's toll by Tuesday night. We decided to commit a little suburban blasphemy and skip the half price Tuesday night pictures to treat ourselves to a little down time with Charlie Sheen and Natalie Bassingwaithembergerstrom. How middle class chic!

Now, just because we were at home it didn't mean we had to eat like we were! Trish was in the mid-stages of a breathtaking Coq Au Vin ('chicken and potato' for the public schoolies) and I was busy setting the programme timers for our blue-collar night out, taking the occasional sniff to make sure Trish wasn't skimping on the Brandy! I felt like one of the characters from the sitcom i was watching, Trish was in the kitchen and i was on the couch watching shows about men that sit on the couch while they're wives are in the kitchen! It was all very chauvinistic and funky. 15 minutes passed and i became slightly suspicious in regards to the whereabouts of our Coq Au Vin when a familiar shriek sounded from the kitchen, a shriek generally initiated by either a shortage of peeled eschalots (french shallots for the public schoolies) or even worse, an empty bottle of pinot noir!

Things weren't as bad as they seemed, it was in fact the eschalots that hadn't been taken into account and we still had enough wine to get absolutely legless beyond all human comprehension. Alas, i was a little bit upset that Trish had failed to retrieve one of the more essential ingredients in the dish, but resisted the urge to enforce any kind of discipline on her due to a court summons last year after a funky incident at Balthazar's involving myself, a steak knife and a spilt bottle of red. Without indulging too much, i'll just say i got a little bit too zany on that particular evening! We reluctantly bagged up the half-prepared meal and began scouring the cupboards for something quick, sharp, zany and totally funky. They say necessity is the mother of invention, but we were far too paralytic to invent anything at this point in time so we opted for a good old fashioned cup-a-soup and some fermented sourdough ('bread' for the public schoolies!).

We found a cute little pack of Chilli Con Carne flavoured Continental soup that Trish had picked on impulse at the local supermarket. We had a good few minutes before Two and a Half Men started so we indulged in a few more glasses of red, plugged the microwave in and within 30 seconds the scent of blue collars and middle class crashed our nasal passages like a group of rowdy, un-invited baby shower guests. As we sat down to our impromptu meal and the theme music to Charlie Sheen's cash cow filled the air, i had a premonition. Sometimes it's really funky to just come home from work, drink red wine like it's water and eat dinner in front of the television like a peasant. Sure the soup was absolutely terrible (it somehow managed to smell like authentic Chilli Con Carne and taste like the armpits of a unemployed Mexican foundry foreman) but the price was right and Trish learnt a valuable lesson about the importance of a fully stocked pantry, this time without me having to get the old steak knife out again!

Whimsical!

*If any of you funky readers would like your restaurant or dishes judged, drop us a line at pigeonencroute@hotmail.com!

Fisherman's friend.

I've never been to a rave before. There's something about the tempo of the music combined with the tempo of the transformer pants everyone wears that has never really meshed with my current lifestyle choices, which currently don't include trance-nation-climax and deceptecon overalls. Everything is really fast and turbo and i just imagine heaps of sweat flying around and people latching on to each-other and dancing like it's the last night in the history of the world even though they clearly know it's only another four hours before they'll all be together again outside Central Park maccas, practising their shuffling and bumming cigarettes. I don't have anything against it personally, i'm just glad they're all babies and don't enforce their culture too relentlessly unlike some other sub-genres of dance (goth, christianity). Plus, their pants are actually pretty cool in a creepy, steampunk, i-wish-i-was-Neo-from-the-matrix-oh-thats-right-i-already-am context.

Obviously you could imagine my excitement the other night when seemingly out of nowhere, but actually right in front of me, i was approached by an old friend with whom i used to party down at my local watering hole that i never go to. The topic? Hot action sweet rave parties. The subject matter? Me. The verdict? Why not. I figured it was early enough in the night to experiment with new things, but still have that chronological safety blanket should i feel the need to leave early and get a good night's sleep. Before we'd even entered the party an unimpressed patron was making an early exit due to an apparent "lack of bitches". We casually countered his statement with "perhaps you weren't raving hard enough?" The proposal appeared to strike him harder than expected and in that instance he realised he probably could have raved a little bit harder and continued on his journey shaking his head with his glowstick between his legs. The lesson was punctuated by the omnipresent squeals of the abundant bitches as we arrived.

As opposed to most parties, where it's considered tradition to stand around drinking and discussing subjects you wouldn't dare breach during sobriety, the rave party follows a strikingly different itinerary. People were standing around drinking and discussing subjects they wouldn't dare breach during sobriety, only they were doing it whilst clad head to toe in glow sticks. It was a confronting and appealing image and i soon learned that it was commonplace at a rave party for the guests to drape themselves in sticks of the luminescent nature and/or air-conditioning ducts. I put this down to the fact that the party wasn't very well lit and the glowsticks help everyone recognise each-other for ease of introduction and conversational initiation. I immediately thought of how awkward it would be if someone wasn't wearing glowsticks and you started talking to them only to find you don't even know them!

I saw some people i knew and addressed them with (what i thought was) the obligatory rave greeting. "Sweet rave" i announced. "Yeah, real hot rave" they all replied. I was in. We stood around awkwardly for a few seconds when one of them asked me "have you been to the rave cave yet?". I assumed they were talking about a new rave bar that had opened up in the greater Northbridge/Highgate area and replied "Nah, i haven't been there yet. Where abouts is it?". They looked at me, perplexed by my actions yet somewhat intrigued by my ignorance. One of them had been waving their arms around in the air throughout the whole conversation and suddenly stopped to proclaim the rave cave as "only the hottest, sweetest cave at the whole party". I felt bad for not knowing about this cave by default and immediately scanned the expansive backyard for any cave like rooms i may have missed when i first entered. After a solid 345 degree rotation i noticed a brightly lit shed, shooting out what appeared to be lazers coupled with people letting all their inhibitions go in the name of upper body movement. The group i'd arrived with had dispersed for the time being and i carried on conversation with the group i was currently conversing with, not once letting this 'cave of raves' leave my sight. I had to find out what it was about this seemingly normal shed that had all these people in such a rhythmic, almost cult-like trance.

I regrouped with my clan not long after and we were just maxed out having this totally chilled out conversation when one of our other friends approached us in a totally un-relaxed manner. He was really pumped and paying heaps of attention to us while we spoke but every time we looked to him for contributions he'd be looking somewhere else. He was moving around heaps and his pupils were about 80% bigger than when i'd seen him earlier on but he didn't really seem to mind that much. He was just that pumped! The he started talking about the rave cave and how it's pretty much the best place in the world right now and that we were all pansies for not being in there and this one time when he was really young he went swimming in this lake on a camping trip and he got bitten by what felt like a piranha but not quite and he swam back to the shore and it was the single most enlightening experience he'd ever had and he'd never forget it ever again and we were the only people he'd told and not to tell anyone else. It seemed as though our inevitable encounter with the rave cave was now more inevitable than ever. We all took one last sip of our respective beverages, gathered as many glowsticks as we could and started our journey to the point of no return, which was the shed in the corner of the backyard.

The rave cave was sweeter than expected. There were lazers everywhere, there was smoke coming out of nowhere like there'd just been some totally hot explosions and the music tempo was too fast for me to enjoy but too slow to be lame. It was like walking into a techno version of the final housing estate scene from 'Children of Men', except instead of everybody getting shot and maimed, they're all just embracing the music and expressing their friendship. As expected, our friend that was more pumped than anyone was enjoying himself more than everyone and there was even a point during the rave where we made a coat of arms with the glowsticks and he flipped out on the ground below us for what seemed like about 80 seconds. It was one of the most explosive displays of movement and music appreciation i have ever seen and everybody else at the rave just stood there in awe for what seemed like about 80 seconds, absolutely devastated they hadn't performed a similar ritual but totally appreciative that someone else had done so. Inside the rave cave it wasn't rare for random partygoers to loudly proclaim their love for the song that was playing at that point in time and it seemed as though this announcement was like a mating call for any other ravers that felt the same way, a mating call to make love to the music, if you will. It was the hottest, sweetest, most explosive five minutes of my life and if someone asked me to trade it for anything in the world i'd think really hard about it for a few minutes and then decline.

I was just that pumped.


Update: It has been recently brought to my attention that the above rave was brought to you by Soul NRG, which is a subsidiary of the conglomerate. Not sure what to do with that industrial sized drum of glowsticks you ordered before last New Years Eve? Out of touch with the burgeoning Perth fixed gear scene? Check their blog at www.kasiconcepts.blogspot.com

Sam Worthington is versatile.

I saw Clash of the Titans last week and was completely blown away by how i wasn't blown away by it. Months before the release i was promised a quality film by the life-size cutouts of Sam Worthington screaming at a freshly slain Medusa head atop a mountain in the rain. There was no explanation as to why he was screaming at her, i assumed that it was tradition back then or maybe that they'd had an argument on the way to the mountain and Sam Worthington was like "if you don't stop hissing at me you're going to have another date with my right hand and some sideways rain/lightning and i know how much you hate that" and she just kept hissing at him and taunting him about how he can't play any roles outside of the surly, screaming action hero that spends most of his role in the air with a weapon aimed at the camera from the perspective of whatever it is he is slaying at the time. That's why i wanted to see the movie, i needed these questions answered and i also wanted to see a big screen adaptation of the most feared creature in Greek Mythology, the Kraken. I hadn't seen a Kraken in real life yet and i figured with all the technological advancements modern man has commandeered, ('Real-d' or 3-d to those that don't work in the industry) it would be pretty close to seeing one in real life, which i haven't seen yet.

Newsflash: Don't see this movie in Real-D.

Real-D by definition is a projection of imagery from a flat surface that gives said image dimension. That's probably not the real definition but it's my blog which by definition means i can do what i want. Real-D has worked wonders for recent computer generated outings like 'Up', 'Bolt' and the new Toy Story which, much like the Kraken, i haven't seen yet. However, human actors were never meant to undergo the Real-D makeover. Every time one of the actors moved, you'd be given first class tickets to millions of layers of that actor behind them which resulted in headaches and regret in that order. You'd think a million Liam Neeson's could save any film but this is not the case when he has to battle with a million Luke Treadaway's. I decided to be a smart ass and take my glasses off. This resulted in two outcomes:

1. I got to see how stupid everyone looked with their glasses on.
2. More headaches.

I didn't pay for this. Literally, someone else actually paid for the ticket and i was dangerously close to asking them if i could rain-check their free ticket for the next movie we go to, effectively doubling their expenses and leaving me at an even zero dollars outgoing. I figured we were past the halfway mark and this would be a pretty unfair request even by my standards so i bit my tongue on a rogue portion of popcorn, which took my mind off asking for another ticket. From what i'd gathered up to this stage, Sam Worthington is pissed at Hades because Hades accidentally killed his family. Hades is pissed at Zeus because Zeus made him ruler of the underworld which is like getting stuck with Old Kent Road on Monopoly, no matter how many hotels you throw at it, it's never going to make you any real money. Zeus is pissed at Hades because Hades is pissed at Zeus and then there's a scene with these massive scorpions and some asshole tries to kill Sam Worthington, the asshole later turns out to be his dad. This review may contain spoilers.

The scorpion scene was pretty cool for the most part, however, the battle went on for so long that i started wondering whatever happened to stinkbugs. Remember those smelly little insects with the shields on their back and the shields had symmetrical tribal patterns on them? They smelt like a combination of licorice and vomit and i haven't seen one for about 15 years. After the stinkbug scene Sam Worthington and his homies have to go and kill Medusa because she's so ugly that she has to live in a cave and hasn't been laid for god knows how long. Apparently she used to pump heaps of guys but Athena got crazy jealous and turned her hair into snakes. The movie taught me heaps about Greek Mythology.

Sam Worthington is from Rockingham. He has an Australian accent that he couldn't seem to shake for this movie or Avatar. It wasn't too bad because he only had about eight lines of dialogue but when they were about to go into Medusa's cave he heartily announced that none of his comrades should "look this bitch in the eye". It was the most Australian thing i'd ever heard. He may or may not have said 'mate' afterwards. It was definitely a high point for me and got me wondering if there was any Australian heritage in Ancient Greece that would justify his accent. As far as i can remember, Australia wasn't even around during these times, nor was the barbecue, it's accompanying shrimps, the Collingwood Magpies or the famous Australian made 'Fuck off we're full' stickers. I pictured one of the stickers on the back of Sam Worthinton's pegasus and these guys getting offended.

After the Medusa encounter Sam and his remaining posse go back to their home town, only to find that it's getting it's shit ruined by the film's crown jewel, the Kraken. The Kraken is a mythological octopus summoned by Hades himself and could probably benchpress more than most. I was like, "this is it, epic full profile shots of the Kraken in all it's glory". Throughout the movie any mention of the Kraken was met with epic orchestral background music and a sense of apocalyptic catastrophe should it ever decide to leave it's volcanic stronghold. So during the final battle there's all these high speed pans of the Kraken and it's surrounding tentacles and it was pretty well animated and all that but not once did i get a full profile of it. Why do movies always do that? You've got these awesome beasts whose immense scale is hyped up throughout the entire movie and all you get is a bunch of close ups on it's mouth and dumb citizens running away from it when they know they should've not gone into the city that day or at least headed home when the colossal, destructive, end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it monster newsflash was broadcast.

I'm not going to say don't see Clash of the Titans, because you'll see it anyway. Do yourself a favour and don't watch it in Real-D though, it's the equivalent of sniffing petrol and trying to concentrate on a Dragon Ball Z fight scene.

Hamburger Hill.

What has multiple levels, lots of fat and comes at a price? Society? The Woodside building in the city?

For those of you playing at home, both of the above answers would have sufficed if the correct answer wasn't actually Hamburgers. That's right, Hamburgers. Lip-splitting, heart-stopping, artery-clogging hamburgers. The multi-layered cop-out meal for all those times you were in the kitchen thinking "why did i start making this homoerotic casserole when i could be making a hamburger instead" and then you realise you can make a hamburger anyway because hamburgers are everything and they are nothing, all at once. This one time, i was totally starving and on a first date with about twenty models and they were anxiously starving as well. There was literally no food around aside from a half a jar of pitted olives, a box of mouldy vita-crisps and a left over bowl of frosties from the morning prior. Where other men would have curled up into a helpless ball of sobbing and celebasy, i rolled my sleeves up, pulled out the chopping board, got in the car and went and got some burgers. I never saw the models again and it was the coolest afternoon in recent memory.

But where does one go to acquire a burger should they feel the need to satisfy that little voice in the back of their mind that requests the acquisition of a burger? Sure, you could make one, but that would entail manual labour and going against the very essence of the hamburger. Why slave over a hot stove, sweating and burning yourself constantly just so you can eat something that is readily available at least once every five kilometres between your house and the nearest burger joint? Did you know that the latin translation of Hamburger is actually, 'eat, i am ready'? Didn't think so.

As of about a year ago, the only burgers i knew of were Zingers, Whoppers, Big Macs and Gummi. If i felt like a burger, i'd god damn well go and get myself one, always being sure to maintain a strict rotation of the above varieties to avoid any overlapping or digestive clashes. I knew nothing of these 'gourmet' burgers that are so prevalent in our city nowadays and the closest i'd ever been to a 'rocket' or 'tomato' was this one time when i ate a meat pie and watched Apollo 11. Now, you've got seeded buns and aioli at 'Bilby's', grilled chicken with avocado at 'Jus Burgers', pear and parmesan at 'Flipside', angus beef at 'McDonalds' and most recently, tzatziki and harissa at 'Grill'd', all of which i have tested in chronological order.

Speaking of chronological order:

1800's - European immigrants place meat patties between bread. They name them 'Hamburgers' as a play on words attaining to 'Hamburg', their place of origin and 'ers' because there was probably more than one of them. All significant world wars come to an end and Jesus Christ himself regrets not creating them on the 7th day.

2010 - Perth catches on after 200 years. More than 10,000 separate gourmet burger franchises open for business to give the impression that we always knew about them.

With Grill'd being the most recent entry in the race for burger supremacy, i figured i'd go and check them out on account of being hungry and Grill'd being within a 50 metre radius of my being at that point in time. I'm not joking when i say that my friends and complete strangers alike wouldn't stop getting in my face and telling me how good their burgers are, the aromatic wafts of their garlic lamb breath assaulting my senses as they did so. "They've got these buns, man!". "Holy shit, the meat is so succulent and delicious! It's like biting into a newborn calf!" Having become accustomed to such claims whenever a new burger spot opens up, i politely rolled my eyes and refused to pass judgement until i had tasted it for myself.

Upon entry to Grill'd, you can see they take their aesthetic very seriously. They've got tables, walls, a counter and a menu. Having ticked the necessites off the list i approached the counter, dodging a sea of ninjas that i later found to be nothing more than staff members dressed in the unique Grill'd garb; and by unique i mean they wore headbands and by garb i mean a trendy word for uniform. I was greeted by the head ninja at the till and instead of receiving a bow staff to the grill (unavoidable pun), i was politely greeted and asked which burger took my fancy. This being my virgin, make or break visit to Grill'd i ordered their workhorse burger, the aptly titled 'Simply Grill'd'. Beef, salad, relish, mayo, cheese. I asked if the burgers came with tomato inclusive of the salad and the head ninja replied "Yes", to which i responded, "can i have it without tomato please?".

If there's anything i hate more than tomato, it's tomato. Slippery, sour, stale, cretinous weed, ruining everything it comes to rest upon.

I was told my burger would be ready in ten minutes and i immediately felt sorry for whoever it was that had to spend such an unnecessary amount of time on something of such hasty foundations. I walked out for a sneaky cigarette, but not without noticing the uni students and in-vogue eaters who seemed more intent on being seen at Grill'd then actually stuffing their faces full of meat and bread. Eating burgers is the new black, i suddenly felt contemporary.

The burger itself was good without trying to be. I chose the Panini bread because i didn't want to look like a rookie, the decision paying off later as i bit through the sturdy roof crust and gentle insides. Once i'd breached the soft entrance, tender beef greeted me as if i'd been there before, lightly seasoned with highly visible herbs that assured me what i was eating didn't come from a plastic bag. The relish was tangy and fresh, the tomato chunks large and recognisable enough for me to discard without causing a scene. The serving size was absolutely perfect as well, i didn't feel sick like i thought i was meant to after consuming a burger, but i was full to the point where the pre-burger jitters i had were but a distant memory. At $10.90, i didn't feel ripped off, but i couldn't help but wonder how i would've felt if i got the burger for free. All in all, i didn't hate it, which is great because i try and hate new things whenever possible.

Don't take my word for it though! Here's a testimonial from someone who may or may not be a representative of the Grill'd conglomerate.

Me: First of all, what do you think of this gourmet burger fad sweeping our quiet town?

Anonymous: I can't complain, it pays my bills.


Me: I understand you've been employed by one of these burger spots recently?

Anonymous: I have, although i find the workload given to me is far too heavy.

Me: You have to be happy while you work. Did you ever taste a Grill'd burger during your brief tenure?

Anonymous: I tasted many a burger. Every five hours worked is one free burger and after that they're only about four dollars each.

Me: Are you serious? That's like an Alf Barbagallo salesman getting a free hooker for every car sold. And of all the burgers tasted, what was your favourite and why?

Anonymous: Luckily I get to make my own burger so I can pick and choose what ever I want, but I'd say Baa Baa + bacon takes the cake.

Me: And what about the headbands? How do you feel about the headbands?

Anonymous: Personally I find it degrading of the other staff members.

Me: Do you think gourmet burgers have already gone mainstream? Or is it still underground?

Anonymous: I'd like to think it's underground but I feel the local burger joint is definitely going the wrong way.

Me: We'll leave it there.

So not only are Grill'd excelling in the realm of what they specialise in, but they also give their staff free burgers ALL THE TIME, which is pretty much the most important and vital piece of information gathered from my interview. The only thing better than a free burger is getting paid to eat one, which is essentially what all Grill'd staff are doing if they eat while they are working.

As far as marketing goes, Grill'd goes the extra mile. I've never heard of a burger joint with a twitter account, a facebook page, a regularly updated website and a flickr account, but in these tech-savvy times where life is lived online, Grill'd know exactly where their customers hang out and haven't spared a single drop of html letting them know just that. You know what would be totally sweet though? If a burger was running the twitter account and the facebook page.

At the end of the day, you really do have to imagine a little burger just sitting in front of a keyboard replying to messages and posting status updates like "wow, i'm a Grill'd burger and i'm so damn tasty", typing with some little capsicum arms.

Grand Theft Auto: Swan Andreas

Consider this an official proposal for Rockstar Games to release a GTA IV add-on titled 'Colin Little Test Drives Some Cars and Runs Really Fast'.

Spare Change: Part 1.

I was just standing around thinking about awesome stuff the other day and this thought popped into my head pertaining to baddies. I'm not talking about villains or people you know and hate for reasons legitimate, I'm talking about REAL baddies.

REAL baddies: A grown or growing adult permitted by the state and it's various laws and sanctions to stop me at any point in time during my travels and ask me for money, blood, semen, more money, my soul or participation in a survey. REAL baddies are unlike homeless people in both appearance and the way that they are sponsored by a collective and given actual incentives to pester me for my income or bodily fluids instead of working purely on commission, like homeless people. REAL baddies are professional beggars for hire who will stop at nothing to strip you of your right to walk anywhere for their own financial gain. They are the real life manifestation of Lucifer himself. They do not care about the cause they are promoting.

You've all encountered one at one or more stages of your lives. Blood donations, deaf appreciation societies, disability recognition, war widow organisations, heart foundations, seeing eye dog chew toy sponsorship, chew toy repair monthly installment plans, World Vision. If it exists, there is someone out there asking you to come out of pocket for it and if you aren't quick enough you'll soon find that your entire weekly wage is paying for new hearing aids for disabled war widows with bad hearts and unsatisfied seeing eye dogs that live in third world countries. Not that there's anything wrong with that. There is so much wrong with that.

Having dealt with real baddies for most of my life (I recall being stripped of my first ever pocket money by a clown with balloons disguised as a member of Telethon, the distribution of balloons a noticeable absence from the transaction) and have gained what some mortals would refer to as a 'seventh sense' for dealing with these snakes in the grass. You can't just walk past them, they'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You can't iDeny them with your headphones, they'll shout, knowing damn well that you can hear them and making you feel like a human stain for not hearing them out. Cross the road? Congratulations, there's more on the other side. I once tried to cross the road after seeing a band of Greenpeace beggars in my path and one of them signaled to a female one and she actually crossed the road and followed me. She was stocky in appearance, her bulging leg muscles a testament to how long she'd been in the begging business.

"Trying to avoid me were you?"

I threw everything I had at her, my kids were in the car, I only had a five minute lunch break, i'm on my way to visit a dying relative, i already work for Greenpeace, i'm deaf and can't hear you. My words bounced off her like Nerf darts on a Challenger 2 battle tank.

"Do you know about Greenpeace?" she casually queried.

I spun quickly and directed a roundhouse sweep towards her shins, she jumped as it rushed past her lower body, leaving me open for a response of the left jab nature. Greenpeace had trained her well, this was not going to be a simple transaction. As i repositioned myself in wake of the roundhouse, I saw a split second window to dodge the fierce left, it's slipstream brushing the right of my face with the speed of an endangered Asiatic Cheetah. In the midst of her attempt I took advantage of her vulnerability, not to launch a second attack, but to locate a point of weakness. As I scanned her short, generous figure I noticed a small cylindrical object cradled under her right arm akin to an emptied out Golden Circle peach slice tin, only covered in pious Greenpeace paraphernalia and slogans in place of Golden Circle's usually approachable imagery. Atop this tin was a small slot fashioned for the deposit of currency no larger than a $2 coin but no smaller than a 10c piece. If i could somehow distract her for long enough i'd have clear view of the tin and a direct shot at her life force.

We were both facing each-other in the middle of the road now, the scene set for our final showdown. A crack of thunder announced an impromptu forecast of rain, lightning and an epic metal soundtrack that was completely necessary. As tumbleweeds rushed past us through fear of becoming caught in the onslaught, Greenpeace lady casually asked me "Do you know the story of the endangered white collared lemur?". Before i could even muster up a thought-provoking response, our swords clashed in an explosion of sparks and sharp sound effects. We had swords now and it was epic. We both jumped back, separated now by two metres of cold, wet tarmac and endless sheets of face-melting sideways rain. We were now strafing to our respective rights and lefts in a circle of instinct and longing for upper hand as I serenaded her with a riddle of my own.

"Do you know the story of not stopping me in the street and asking me for money?".

A powerful wail of the guitar punctuated my statement more than any exclamation mark could ever hope. My words of truth penetrated her shield of denial, sparking blind rage and the fury of a thousand Peter Garretts. Another clap of thunder triggered what would be her final attempt at my demise, her vision clouded by the A-game i had brought to the table on this particular day. As she viciously and carelessly swiped at my being I timed a perfect left roll and before she could even say "dreadlocks" i was on one knee ducking, directing a barrage of currency missiles towards the silo that was her coin tin with unfathomable accuracy. As the coins penetrated the sharp metal mouth of the stronghold, her gun fell to the floor (she had a gun as well), the skies cleared, the guitars faded and the eternal struggle between extinct animals and my weekly income had been dissolved for the time being.

Don't you hate it when people ask you for money?