Bulletstorm will kidnap your firstborn.

I’m exactly one minute in to the Bulletstorm demo, I haven’t even taken control of my character, but have already come to master an entire volume of new curse words; Butterdick, dick-tits, fuck-ton, poop-passage, bean-bag and spud to name a few. Unlike a-lot of other demos I've played recently, instead of appealing to the potential customer with promises of innovative gameplay, futuristic weapons and vast environments, Bulletstorm whips open it’s trench-coat to reveal a vulgar, violent and vilifying sample of it’s complete form.

Not since Conker’s Bad Fur Day on the Nintendo 64 has a game succeeded in lassoing my flighty attention span with explicit language and violence in such perfect doses. From the moment you fill the boots of the protagonist (a textbook disgruntled marine by the name of Grayson) it becomes quite clear that Bulletstorm knows it’s place as a tongue-in-cheek, almost satirical, romp through an unknown landscape loosely tied together by a plot that makes Starship Troopers look like a touching glimpse into young love and the prospective benefits of life on other planets. Seriously, I’ve played through the demo 8 times now and all I’ve gathered is that Grayson is PISSED and therefore his comrades are also pissed by association. I think they’re after someone, or they’re trying to save something, but it’s hard to focus on such minutiae when you’re leashing intergalactic mohawked tribesman, launching them into the skies above and blowing their groins out in slow motion with a gun that looks like a car engine. Mind you, these are only impressions gathered from the opening cut-scene, the demo itself is set in a game mode separate from the actual campaign so I'm sure to have my face rocked even harder when the full story is revealed.

The points-based battle system is a much-needed return to the days of yonder when, you know, games were based on accumulating points as opposed to sitting through weeks of cut-scenes, and as those +100’s, +250’s and kill variations filled the screen I couldn’t help but be reminded of the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment that sparked my love for video games all those years ago. The action is frantic but never overwhelming, a formula assisted by the exotic weaponry at my disposal which ensured that at the most hectic of times I felt like I had full control over the situation and that progress was only a few headshots around the corner. It felt like Bulletstorm wanted me to experience it's charm without convincing me to tear shreds from my controller with my teeth; this is how I feel all First Person Shooters should present themselves. If I wanted to solve puzzles and become enveloped in the pasts, presents, and futures of intricate characters and be blown away by shocking plot twists, I’d go get a rubik’s cube and watch Twin Peaks.

After spending only a short time with the unfortunately brief demo, I foresee Bulletstorm enjoying a cult status shared by the likes of MDK and XIII, two massively under-appreciated shooters whose success was hampered by poor sales and snobby critics who just didn’t get it. As stated prior, Bulletstorm knows exactly what it’s meant to do and who it’s meant to appeal to. I can not fu**ing wait for this game to come out next month and in the meantime I’ll no doubt be filling my time by mastering the demo and referring to my close friends as butterdicks, dick-tits, bean bags and spuds.

Dick-tits.

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!