Bayonetta: Jesus in cd form?

I've been playing this game called 'Bayonetta' for the last few weeks and after a few weeks of deliberation i've come to a conclusion regarding it's subject matter, graphical quality, soundtrack and completely fair ratio of explosions to boners.

Bayonetta is the greatest game ever made. Any game made before Bayonetta is now null and void and any games released in the future, regardless of technological advancements, will suck immensely in comparison to Bayonetta. The only exceptions to these findings are games i have previously referred to as the best games ever. If you disagree with this you either haven't played Bayonetta yet or you quietly wept in your girlfriend's lap after watching The Notebook.

I could write a bible-sized publication discussing the pros of Bayonetta and it would be just as relevant as the bible and possibly more successful, but that isn't the Bayonetta way. Instead, i'll keep it short, explosive, stabby and as non-descriptive as possible.

Bayonetta doesn't discriminate.
Before Bayonetta the only themes video games explored were war, street fighting, romance and teamwork. After playing Bayonetta, these themes look stale and uninspired in retrospect and when i look back at all the time i've wasted contributing to the above causes, i feel simple-minded and uneducated. At any given moment, Bayonetta explores witchcraft, magic, religion, breakdancing, identity, parenthood, hair management, weapon customization, geography, fitness training, different flavoured lollipops, air combos and scarves. This leads to a unique experience in which you'll be riding a motorcycle at 500km/h, upside down on an exploding freeway, ducking axes swung by monolithic demi-gods, taking pop shots at mythical armor-clad angels and dropping seriously sassy one-liners amongst all the destruction like it's an everyday occurrence which, for Bayonetta, wouldn't be far from the exact truth. This all happens while you learn about European geography and religious theories completely made up by the developers of the game, which is all much easier to digest when you realize that they themselves are gods for creating such a perfect product.

Bayonetta is sex on legs/wheels/invisible floating scripture platforms.
I remember the first time i saw Lara Croft crawl through an inhumanely tight cavity during the early hours of Tomb Raider 2. The camera purposely zoomed straight onto her backside as it shuffled left and right and the whole experience was made all the more erotic by the moaning sounds she made as she traversed the unrealistically long tunnel. The tunnel in question served absolutely no purpose in the game (unless you count a pointless artifact as purpose), aside from making the player feel uncomfortable for lusting after a bunch of carefully placed polygons and a pair of hip-mounted pistols with unlimited ammo. Since then, games featuring outrageously proportioned female protagonists have come and go, but none have managed to capture the beauty and perfection of the female form like Bayonetta has.

Do you like bi-sexual, pistol wielding, black-haired librarian ninja experts in leather jumpsuits? Me too. Look at how she defiantly perches atop that infant angel statue in a union of religion and sexuality never captured before on any medium aside from xbox 360 and Playstation 3. She's not all guns and angels though, the developers spent just as much time on a few other vitals that serve as intriguing interruptions during the quieter moments of the game, of which there are zero.

The first one being her lower back region.
If i was to make an estimate, i'd say the creators of this game spent just as much time creating Bayonetta's backside as they did the entire structure of the game. Time well spent considering i spent so much time watching Bayonetta strut (her walk will soon be emulated on catwalks around the world) around the opening levels that i didn't even notice the amazing architecture surrounding her strut and completely forgot that i was meant to be saving hell from renegade angels and buying weapons from the demonic doppleganger of Samuel L. Jackson's long lost brother from Pulp Fiction while he drops one-liners that would convert a room full of feminist lesbians to his religion of cool.

The other just as important attributes being her hair and her heels, both of which i'm yet to distinguish in terms of awesomeness and convenience.

Some girls like to do their hair before they go out at night or after a shower. That's kind of cool i guess. Bayonetta on the other hand prefers to use her hair for more worthy causes, like morphing it into demonic, restaurant-sized limbs and creatures specifically summoned for the disposal of other demonic creatures. For some reason she turns naked while all of this happens, which is marginally cooler than aforementioned summoning. Bayonetta's choice of footwear is gun-mounted high heels that aren't out yet. When she isn't transforming into a panther or a peacock blackbird, Bayonetta does a-lot of running and jumping. Whilst high heels may not be the most ideal form of footwear for her lifestyle choices, the guns attached to them are more than capable of mutilating any foes that try and interrupt her sexy travels. Fashionistas pay attention, gun-heels are the next must have item to heat up that winter wardrobe.

Bayonetta actually has a storyline. I'm dead serious.
It's true. I didn't notice it myself, but apparently Bayonetta is set in a fictional European city called 'Vigrid' during an inter-dimensional war between 'Paradiso' (heaven), Purgatorio (purgatory) and 'Inferno' (hell). Bayonetta's own past is shrouded in mystery and she has no idea who she is or why she's so attractive and the game is based around uncovering these minor discrepancies. There's a love interest in there somewhere as well but the guy is a total pussy and i wish he'd just leave Bayonetta alone to her devices. I would have been just as satisfied with the game had it not come with a plot and more weapons in it's place but the cut-scenes do serve as a vehicle for high levels of sexual innuendo between Bayonetta and her less attractive nemesis, Jeanne.

Oh, you're still here.
Fine. As i strolled through the winding, cracked path of another golden sanctuary surrounded by exotic flora and ancient architecture, the heavens above shot luminescent rays of sunlight onto the pebbled floor, doves chirped gleefully in the trees above and angelic hymns echoed in the distance, a soft breeze kindly ushered me towards an unfamiliar portal that i was currently unfamiliar with. I remembered that i was Bayonetta and i do what i want so i stepped through the portal and found myself immedieately confronted with a medusa-faced titan the size of the planet i was currently inhibiting, covered sky to ground in an impenetrable ancient stone that i would soon have to penetrate. He had an impressive crown on and was really pissed off at me for some reason and before he even gave an epic speech, his spiky vines of hatred flew towards me at unidentifiable speeds and i knew it was go time. As i dodged his unreasonable onslaught, he produced and then extended what looked like a miniature version of his head attached to his ancient oesophagus with intentions of doing me harm. I had other intentions for this unannounced entry. As i disposed of his spiky friends and their sharp teeth, i slowed down time for a few seconds, jumped onto and sprinted down his stony offspring in slow motion and laid the finishing touches to his face with my swords, guns and hair. As his blood and ancient entrails filled the skies and he apologized for the inconvenience, I was suddenly at peace and totally glad i'd left that fucking boring old garden.

10/10.
That's right, perfect. Sell your current library and buy it. If you already own it, fuck off, she's mine.

I'm a whiny little baby.

I'm going to apologize in advance for this post. I love that the Sleep Talkin' Man is bringing all these people happiness and fulfilling their presumably empty lives through seemingly comedic one liners and cheap merchandise displaying said one liners, but as one Neil Godwin famously reminded David Brent, "Beware of false prophets".

According to Wikipedia, "Sleep is a naturally recurring state of relatively suspended sensory and motor activity, characterized by total or partial unconsciousness and the inactivity of nearly all voluntary muscles.^[1] It is distinguished from quiet wakefulness by a decreased ability to react to stimuli, and it is more easily reversible than hibernation or coma. It is observed in all mammals, all birds, and many reptiles, amphibians, and fish".

True for the most part, but what Wikipedia and it's user-friendly database fail to mention is that Sleep is very much the best thing ever and comparable only to Modern Warfare 2 and hibernation in terms of playability and application to every day life. Sleep is why i go to bed at night and the reason i get up in the morning. It is the only bodily function that allows me to simultaneously exist in a state of complete comfort and have a perfectly legitimate excuse to not interact with anyone or do any chores. Sleep is what happens while you're not making other plans.

Then you've got dreams, don't get me started on dreams! It's like, sleep is awesome enough by itself and then a dream comes along and says "hey, want me to take that enjoyment and relaxation you're currently experiencing and supersize the shit out of it for no extra cost or labour?". I would actually pay for dreams given the proposition, i would physically put money into a coin slot on my bedside table and be able to sleep at night knowing that i'd contributed to a worthy cause. I mean, i've been getting all these lazers, dinosaurs, explosions, celebrity encounters and babes for free all this time. You probably wouldn't steal a handbag, but i know you'd legitimately pay for a good dream about a lazer-mounted babe who escorts you to a Hollywood awards ceremony on a Stegosaurus in a tuxedo, narrowly dodging carefully placed explosions the whole way there and even a bit on the way back.

But what about sleep-talking? That's awesome too right?

Only just. According to me, sleep-talking is the mysterious and mostly absent cousin of dreams. It's mystery lies in our lack of knowledge regarding it's implications and the fact that (aside from sleep-walking, which is just ridiculous) it is the only action that can safely traverse between the realm of the living and the kingdom of sleep. The problem is, this divine occurrence is a little inconsistent when it comes to the relevance of it's messages to whoever should be fortunate or conscious enough to hear it. I could count the amount of times i've heard someone talking in their sleep on one hand and i could count the amount of times i've been told that i've done so myself on the other with a few fingers to spare.

I've been alive for just over 24 years now and from what i can gather of that 24 years, the only things people sleep-talk about are swans or requests for whomever they are interacting with in their dream to stop doing whatever it is they are doing. Ask them the day after and they'll deny all knowledge in an attempt to be cute, or to cover up how deranged they actually are. Swans aren't mythical creatures and you got molested, just admit it. Amazingly enough, any other interactions with sleep-talkers have consisted primarily mumbled conversations and nonsensical jargon, both of which lead me to the conclusion that while sleep-talking is hilarious and pointless, it has no worthy application in the realm of the living and any claims otherwise are generally presented with no evidence and the craving of attention.

Along comes the Sleep Talkin' Man. This blog has been getting in my face every time i open my internet browser for the last couple of weeks now. Through fear of feeling like an un-popcultured douchebag in the real world, i went and checked it out this morning to educate myself on this man and his apparent harnessing of talking while he sleeps. The concept is pretty darling and simple, wife marries husband, husband talks during sleep, wife enjoys and records on internet, world laughs and I become suspicious.

Here are some of the things he's (hasn't) said in his sleep:

"Just look at yourself. Yeah, now look at me. You don't stand a chance. It must suck to be you, I'm sure."

"I am awe-some. Deal with it fucker!"

"Yes I'm sad, but if you stood further away, I'd be happier. No, further away. Well, let's face it, just fucking CUNT OFF! Thank you, I appreciate it."

"I haven't put on weight. Your eyes are fat."

So where's "I go from zero to bitch in 5 seconds" or "Horn broken, watch for finger"? I will say it once, then i'll leave it be, there is no way this man is saying these things in his sleep. The quotes on this page are the brainchild of two or more people sitting in a living room and concocting one liners based on randomly generated objects and entities or just straight ripping off popular rear window decals and passing it off as some guy sleep talking and then merchandising the fuck out of it.

"sO whAt iF it fAke?? at lEasT its mAking LarFs!!

Which brings me to my second and least important point. It's not funny. It's arrogant without the bite, it's vulgar without the strategically placed expletives, it's childish , it's sexist without being good at being sexist and it's intangible without being imaginative, which is why i can totally understand that it's so annoyingly popular. The movie Idiocracy instantly springs to mind. Don't slingshot the porcupine, it's cunt spikes will pop your round balloon face, actually, do it, i'll look better as a result. Please do it. Otter alliance! Sabotage the dolphin's pasta recipes, they can't win! Can you hold my anus please? Don't steal it, it's my anus. Blah blah blah, slingshots, blah blah blah, farm animal, blah blah blah, Nevada, blah blah, random verb.

It's not even the lack of humour that dissapoints me. Sure, when i landed on the page i was expecting some kind of laughter induced cardiac arrest because that's what was advertised to me by it's sizable readership, but that's not why i'm complaining today. Actually, it is, and more. Not only are Adam and Karen making some serious bank by creating happiness under false pretenses, but soon enough i'm going to be seeing people walking around in shirts that say "I can't control the kittens, too many whiskers" or "fuck off and let me bask in the glory of being me", which in turn puts an automatic 'F' on society's 2010 report card and shoots any chances we had of being taken seriously by the rest of the universe.

Which reminds me:
The aliens are laughing at me! Fuck. Get me an ocean anenome so i can scare them off! Anenome the enemies! Jam on dashboards and sandy goblins with illuminated extremities!

Omegle, Street Fighter and racial enlightenment.

I was just driving around the other day, minding my own business or whatever and out of nowhere this d-bag in a matte black Toyota Hilux pulls in front of me and makes a huge scene about the fact that he's a reckless d-bag in a Toyota Hilux. I did what any normal person would do and stewed in the car, swearing to myself and imagining what i'd do if i had a cache of heat-seeking missiles waiting for him just after the Vincent St dismount, when i notice a rather medium-sized sticker carelessly placed somewhere between the bottom and the left of the Hilux's back windshield.

"Fuck off, we're full".

Haha. This guy is awesome. He doesn't want anyone else in his car, even though he's the only person in it which is totally ironic and means that he prefers to be by himself. I wonder what that Australia decal around the saying means though? Oh that's right, it means that he isn't being ironic, he's being an overtly racist redneck shitdick. The sticker actually means that matte black Hilux is of the belief that his current country of residence is at maximum capacity and can't possibly accommodate any more residents. Remember when you were a young boy in primary school and you derived great satisfaction from the exclusion of girls from activities and/or secret clubs because you thought they were of lesser hygiene quality and therefore unable to adapt to the living conditions of said clubs or activities? You were actually being more mature than matte black Hilux.

It's like when i play Street Fighter 4. Some people just pick Ryu all the time because he's Japanese and a good world warrior, whereas i like to apply an even spread mentality to my character selection and on any given day you could find me riding with Ryu, Ken, Dhalsim, Sagat, Zangief or even Chun-Li (who is a girl), not because i'm anti-racism, but because i am pro-humanity and also because i hate people that only pick Ryu in Street Fighter (wow, you've mastered the fireball and all it's functions and applications, you are a boring world warrior). Not only do i get to master all of their technical retaliations and combo ranges, i also learn a little about each culture and become a better person after each game. Imagine if Ryu, Dhalsim and Zangief pulled up behind matte black hilux? I think after all the 17 hit Hadouken's, spinning piledrivers and yoga flames, they'd be pretty sad.

They wouldn't leave the country though, which means that matte black hilux's sticker is not only racist, but also especially pointless. To realize that these mobile racists actually believe that someone is going to leave a country because they saw a sticker on someone's car is to realize how mentally and socially incapable they actually are. "Oh man, that guy's sticker says "we grew here, you flew here", better call Damayanti, we're heading back to India". Well done, matte black hilux! That's one less quiet, hard-working Indian family for you to worry about! Let's do some bog laps around Curtin University and see if we can't clear out some Japanese students!

Don't take my word for it though. I'm hardly the first and final word in diplomacy and race relations, take these Omegle confessions as the final nails in the coffin to matte black Hilux's cause and why his efforts are completely in vain.

Here's a conversation i had with a lovely chap from Greece who had recently migrated to the U.S. Before he started getting gay on me, he actually made a valid point.

You: if you were driving around in the U.S. and you saw a sticker on the back of someone's car that said either "fuck off, we're full" or "if you don't like it, leave", would you be offended?

Stranger: No. I'm not easily offended

Stranger: I feel as though it's a waste of time.

Stranger: i have better things to consume my time with and engulf myself in

Stranger: get me?

You: couldn't agree more

Stranger: hahahaha did you ask that because i'm technically a foreigner?

You: well, i would have asked regardless, the fact that you're technically a foreigner does make for a beneficial variable.

Stranger: I concur.

Stranger: I love the fact that you're not intellectually deprived.

Stranger: We are soulmates <3 hahahahaa

Here's a statement from a young Hispanic fellow, who shared a similar view to myself on the application of these stickers to one's Hilux.

You: no. what i want to ask you is, would you display a sticker on the back of your car saying either "fuck off, we're full" or "if you don't like it, leave", as a stance on other races migrating to your country?

Stranger: uhm no considering that i am hispanic.

You: ok, so if you saw a born and bred american citizen displaying the same sticker on their car, would you be offended?

Stranger: most likely

Stranger: why do you display a sticker saying "fuck off we're full"?

You: Absolutely not. I live in Australia and i see these stickers all the time. If i was strong, i'd uppercut anyone i saw with one of these stickers.

Stranger: ohhh, whew, i thought you were some white supremacist

With this one i just went straight out and played the victim. The results speak for themselves.

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: aloha

You: thank god you're here!

Stranger: ??

You: the last guy i spoke to was such a dick

Stranger: why wad he say to u

You: he said he has a sticker on the back of his car that says "fuck off, we're full".

Stranger: wow hes a fag

Couldn't have said it better myself.

2009 stole my wallet!

As i gallivanted around the last 24 hours of 2009 in a drunken stupor with whoever else was around me at the time, one constant factor made itself known at every given opportunity, which was pretty much 25 out of the 24 hours i spent gallivanting around with whoever else was around me at the time. I do not speak of the stench of yeast and tobacco or the aromas my body produced after the addition of said products to my person, i speak of the inescapable pot pourri of hatred the entire human race appeared to harbor for the last year of the recently elapsed decade, which was far smellier and way more annoying than any products containing yeast and/or tobacco.

News desks, movie stars, the elderly/disabled, babies and billboards all pushed their slight differences aside and rejoiced in the blaming of an entire year for their shortcomings and collective erectile dysfunctions. 2009 wasn't the first time this has happened, (the transition between 1999-2000 was held accountable for every human error made for the 2000 years before it) but it was definitely the most recent and by far the most ruthless. From a personal perspective, I complain better than anyone i know (I once complained my way out of my own baptism and then complained about the fact that i never got baptised) but when i'm going about my daily business and hearing things like "gosh, i can't believe how shit 2009 was!" and "bring on 2010! 2009 is the devil and it even stole my car!", it's time to get someone else's side of the story. Namely, 2009.

I managed to catch 2009 before he left for a much needed holiday in an attempt to understand it's conviction and the reason why everyone is blaming him for their self-inflicted failures. The following interview was conducted under a strict no bias policy pertaining to myself and any affiliated companies or government bodies with whom i am afiliated, which is none.

Firstly 2009, i'm a huge fan and i really appreciate you taking the time out to speak with me today.

Not a problem! I was actually just ducking out for a beer with 1999.

Oh really? Do you and 1999 hang out often?

Well, not so much when i was younger. Definitely towards the end though, we found that we have a-lot in common.

What's 99' doing now? Do you mind if i call him '99?

Nah, he's cool with that, he's just started calling me '09 actually. I call him 'Agent 99' sometimes and we joke around about him being older than me even though i'm ten years older than him!

Kind of like a little inside joke?

Yeah, no-one really gets it though. I think we're a little misunderstood.

Definitely, we'll get to that soon enough. So is '99 still complacent being lost in the ages? Any plans of a comeback?

He's doing his thing. I don't think he'll be coming back any time soon though, those aspirations are kind of frowned upon in our culture on the basis that it disobeys the laws of time and physics.

Oh yeah, the whole time going backwards thing.

He could do it if he wanted to though. You ever get the feeling that time is going slower than usual?

Pardon the pun, but all the time actually.

Well, that's '99 having a laugh. I love puns by the way!

You're welcome. So, you seem like a nice enough year, what went wrong?

I've been racking my brain for the last 367 days and i honestly can't understand the mean things people have been saying about me these last few months. I mean, i'm being blamed for celebrity deaths, recessions, acne, swine flu and Avatar and i'm sitting there thinking "hey humanity, i'm just a year! Why all the beef?"

I loved Avatar!

Me too! I left that cinema wishing i lived in Pandora, man. J.C really went to town on that one!

You know health experts are blaming that movie for depression and suicide now? Like, people are leaving the cinema and killing themselves because they can't live on Pandora.

That's exactly what i'm talking about! It's like, if Michael Jackson dies or Wall street crashes, blame James Cameron! Blame 2009! It's all their fault!

Whereas you see it as more of the individual's fault when a problem occurs?

Damn straight. That's one of the things i learnt during my tenure. People are always happy to blame the person or the year next to them. I copped it the hardest because i'm a finite entity that can't be touched, heard or smelt and therefore supposedly devoid of any emotion. You can all pass the buck as much as you want, you're the reason you had a shit year and you're the reason the economy crashed, i was just there in respite.

Do you hold any remorse towards the population under your care at that point in time?

I'm TIME magazine's worst year ever. 1997 called me a 'cunt' the other day. What do you think? It's like '99 was telling me just the other day of all the flack he copped for the millenium bug drama. That wasn't even his problem!

How so?

As soon as that calendar ticked over to the year 2000 his responsibility for that bug was null and void. People act as if 1999 took a shit on the moon and left it for 2000 to clean up.

I never thought of it like that.

And now look. 2000 walks around like the king of the century because he's the "dawn of a new millenium". What did 2000 ever do for anyone? What, the Olympics? Give me a fucking break!

Lifehouse's 'Hanging by a Moment' was Billboard's overall number one song that year.

Fuck Lifehouse! That shit wouldn't slide during my time. I'd tsunami a Lifehouse concert given the chance.

Speaking of which, weren't you blamed for the Indonesian tsunamis?

Yeah, even though i'm incapable of controlling the weather and it's related elements. That's Mother Nature's doing and i'd love to see you people talk about her the way you've been talking about me.

Back to music, what caught your attention during your time in office?

Actually, 2008 lent me a copy of that Lil Wayne guy's album just last week.

The Carter 3?

That's the one! That's been on heavy rotation. I just found out that his 'No Ceilings' mixtape came out during my time so i've gotta get my hands on that!

There you go! Not everything about you was bad!

That's not funny. I do like Lil Wayne though, he's misunderstood, just like me and '99.

I think we'll finish on that. Any last words or shoutouts?

Yeah i'd like to give 2012 a shoutout. He's already being labeled as the apocalypse and that's pretty heavy for a year that hasn't even started yet. I saw him just the other day and asked him about it and he's all "whatever, i don't even like the Mayans". It's rare for a year to talk like that before his shift. I think even if he does bring the end of the world, he's going to do it in style, which is important.

Beautiful. Tell Agent 99 I said hi.

He'll love that, he reads your blog all the time.

Heterosexual.

"As the energy is escalating around the MMA culture, TapouT is taking on a life of its own with an attitude so American and Arrogant that the demand for the brand has gone global".

There's a brand called TapouT now. This intrigues me.

The first time I was confronted with this label was during a casual stroll through the foodcourt at Galleria Morley, not quite the catwalks of Milan but definitely a suitable environment for my introduction to this striking brand and it's loyal customer base. As i strolled through the court's international array of five star eateries, a family of five caught my attention as they brazenly strolled between McDonald's and that health store that only seems to sell beefcake protein shakes and nuts. Galleria Morley is full of families eating cheeseburgers, so why did this family demand my attention moreso than any family before them? Was it the way they walked, shoulders protruding, slightly pigeon-toed and neck tensed to the point of vein pulsation? Was it their similar hairstyles, short up front, i'll kill you out the back? Or was it the fact that anyone in their line of sight would immediately scuttle to the side as a declaration of defeat or fear of being defeated?

Yes, it was. But it was also because every member of this family was wearing a TapouT t-shirt and/or TapouT boardshorts and accessories. The father had chosen the Frank Shamrock signature series, the mother preffered the clean imagery of the Amir Sadollah range, whilst the two kids spoke their minds in matching Kimbo Slice tee's with gold foil emblem and a +5 staunch bonus for the wearer. Their new-born was representing the infant collection, but due to the shelter provided by it's pram i could only make out half a bleeding crushed skull and the words "babies never back down".

Now, as we all know beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Fashion is not a straight line, but more a vacumous zig-zag that bounces back and forth between eras, sucking in those lucky enough to embrace it's unique variables and 'collective individual' mentality. Everyone is going to hate what everyone else is wearing out of one side of their mouth and praise those whose style is enviable out the other at one or more stages of their life. Meanwhile, an impressive 99% of these people actually have little to no idea why they take such a vested interest in the appearance of others and eventually become so concerned with the materials on one's body, they either turn gay or not alive anymore. So why, of all the endless beauty and mystery of our home planet, would i dedicate my valuable time to a brand called TapouT?

Don't ask stupid questions.

People wear surf brands because they like surfing (or they're too lazy to make the transition from child to adult), people wear suits because they probably work in an office or are under the impression that women like guys in suits, which is completely false because only sluts and gold diggers are attracted to men in suits and now, people wear TapouT because they like to crush skulls or view the crushing of skulls from the safety of their favourite couch on their flexi-rented 900 inch home theatre package whilst wearing a TapouT shirt.

*wailing guitar*
"WHEN YOU'RE WAITING FOR SOME DIFFERENTLY DRESSED WEAKLING DWEEB FAG TO LOOK YOU YOU IN THE EYE WHILE YOU LOOK HIM IN THE EYE AND WAIT FOR HIM TO CATCH YOUR EYE, MAKE SURE YOU'RE WEARING THE BROCK LARSON FOIL TAPOUT SHIRT AS YOUR VICTORY SWEAT DRIPS DOWN TO HIS BEATEN NAKED BODY!! WHY IS HE NAKED? FUCK YOU AND YOUR ANCESTORS, THAT'S WHY!!
*fading guitar wails*

Ok, fighting is cool now, it's on foxtel and you don't have to think or get confused about stupid plots and conversation while you watch it. I get it. What i don't get is that while the brand promotes victory and the beating of those that you don't understand, is a tap out not a gesture of surrender? Like, in wrestling or UFC or whatever, if a grown, sweaty man is getting pummeled by another man from behind (it's not gay because they're hitting each-other) and he taps the ground a couple of times, is that not a tap out?

Doesn't matter, look at this!

These are the three masterminds behind the TapouT machine. One guy is named MASK and there's another guy named SKYSCRAPER.

In case you didn't know:

"Skyskrape is the jester of the TapouT Crew and every fighter's best friend (they have the privilege of calling him “Skrape” for short)".

also:

"Some may say his silence is a veil for his super-size ego, but Punkass will take to the streets solo with no remorse for those who cross his path."

Am i the only one who sees this as the possible downfall of middle class society as we know it? The owners of this brand have made up personalities for themselves and promote beat-downs as a form of expression and an alternative to the otherwise saturated mainstream ideology. People actually wear a brand now because they can relate it back to that one time they saw a guy get kicked in the front of the head, then jabbed in the ribs a couple of times and eventually rocked so hard in the face that his feet left the ground and he subsequently forgot his surname and the last ten years of his life. Are Mask, Skyscrape and Punkass actually business-savvy entrepeneurs who don make-up and killer nicknames to appeal to the juvenile mentalities of UFC fans worldwide? Or is TapouT the apocalyptic entity the Mayans spoke of when they predicted a 2012 upset for Planet Earth?

An open letter to the devil himself.

Dear Vagina full of sand,

I would hastily cast my reservations and religious beliefs aside for the opportunity to falcon punch you in the face with both of my fists and one of my legs. You don't just rub me the wrong way, you are a novelty sized cheese grater to the entire system of human relations, furiously tearing strips from it like a cat on heat does the shins of it's owners.

Perez Hilton. I mourn your existence.

The problem is, you're everywhere. You are a dyslexic troll, the spam sperm that somehow survived it's journey from a 2bit gossip email to a fully fledged wasteland of sparkles and sin. You reside in a demountable sector of the internet founded on lies, tasteless quips relating to death and crude abbreviations, yet for reasons unfathomable and at the same time, completely understandable, you are fucking everywhere and people can't live without you. Teenage girls form their opinions on trivial matters by scanning your coarse brand of celebrity critique while grown men and women preach your reverse gospel around office water-coolers on an international scale. They take this information on board as important and relevant and spread it throughout the real world like a modern day plague that feasts on it's hosts brain cells. The pink colour scheme of your stronghold is not dissimilar to that of a freshly ripped, reoccurring scab.

Unfortunately you're launchpad is the least of your concerns at this point in time. Sure, there are millions of publications, online and print, that do what you do, albeit with more tact, and the general public's fascination with celebrity is a guaranteed constant because the grass is always greener, especially when the grass on the other side is dead or struggling. However, the difference between you and the majority is that you possess a rare quality allowing the capitalization from and humiliation of the deceased whilst somehow retaining clout as a source of information. All the cute captions and witty commentaries in the world can't save you from the fact that you promote death for web traffic disguised as condolences. You're the grim reaper in a turquoise jumpsuit and an Apple laptop is your chariot.

Look how this sack of shit gets down:



These were all posted within hours of Brittany Murphy's unfortunate passing this morning. The word 'dies' in capital letters, the accusations against her husband and the unnecessary comparisons to other celebrities whose drug addictions have actually been proven are all the signs of a man with no soul. The same man who was more than happy to throw child molestation and Britney Spears' name in amongst the announcement of Michael Jackson's death and then had the audacity to turn around months later and accuse others of capitalizing from his demise.
You are not only a piece of shit, but moreso an entire industrial district full of infected colons manufacturing the most potent fecal matter known to man at least 10 times a day.

In celebration of your official loss of all ties to the human race, i've constructed my own Perez Hilton style post that i hope you see before your own demise, which i will approach in a similar fashion.

PEREZ PREFERS WHITE!
WTF!? We're not sure what's going on here, but it looks like Perez had a little run in with a big trouser snake! He was spotted leaving this grey curtain yesterday having just been blasted by a supposed 3 litres of pure semen! Whether or not his cheeky smile is a front to hide the disappointment of having to walk around as a baby batter canvas is yet to be found, but what we do know is that this isn't the best look for the aspiring actor/musician/celebrity blogger.

By the way P-rez, loving the blue hair! You look like a pregnancy test!

I hope you get punched in the face again, significantly harder and with more surface area covered than last time.

Regards,
Me.

R.I.P Brittany Murphy, there is no Perez Hilton where you are now.

Delicate china vase atop rich oak bookshelf.

As the unforgiving sun was lullabied by Mikhail overture to Russlan and Ludmilla and the remaining luminaries shared their last dance along the River Swan, the reality of my location began to set in. I was on the Esplanade as the West Australian Symphony Orchestra began dipping into it's bag of classic Russian overtures, surrounded by cultured families and music students. The Monopoly Man could have driven past and nobody would've blinked an eye. For me, it was an experience completely out of the ordinary, highlighted prominently by my freshly ironed button up and a quartet of styrofoam cups that had set up camp around a bottle of 2008 pinot noir. I was now 60 years old and loving every minute of it.

Myself, Joe, Kieran and Jack set up shop towards the back of the crowd in a selfless act of smoke-free adherence and central crowd avoidance. This was beneficial to us as much as it was to the majority of free ticket holders, should we have felt the need to smoke copious amounts of cigarettes and crack immature jokes about the people walking past us, which we most certainly did. As our commentary heated up, so did the symphonies as the WASO broke into Mussorgsky’s 'Night on Bald Mountain'. It was as if the conductor sensed what we were up to as our jabs were only equaled by the ferocity of the flames displayed on the tent above the musicians and the multiple climaxes of Fantasia's magnum opus.

We were sat in the middle of the farthest exit and as a result, had first class seats to everyone that decided to move around during the performance. We put up with it for the most part, but as a certain 'Stripe Shirt' made it his business to casually stroll through the catwalk we'd reached the end, and the beginning, of our wits. 'Stripe Shirt' was for the most part, a normal guy in a striped shirt. However, due to the effects of Alcohol and the strong nature of the stripes on this particular shirt, he may as well have jumped around the isles, waving glow sticks around whilst proclaiming his love for pissing people off. Being the respectful and worldly symphony connoisseurs that we are, we collectively came to the conclusion that 'Stripe Shirt' was trying to ruin Christmas for all of us. We could have jumped him, but we were watching Russian overtures on the esplanade and it wouldn't have gone down to well with the pregnant teachers and bearded scientists. The beauty of this situation was that he remained completely unaware of our accusations, but still caught our childish laughter at the end of it and learned a valuable lesson about correct symphony attire.

The interludes of Symphony in the City were handled by conductor Guy Noble, who could have made an equally successful career out of stand-up comedy. His jokes about Russian politics and drunk Russians appealed to the more mature patrons, whilst constant quips relating to Twitter and the iPhone kept the younger critics at bay. Even during the more sombre moments of the performance, this jack of all trades managed to remind the crowd of how unappealing Perth is, with sarcastic remarks about blowing the bell tower up and opening hours. The entire crowd embraced in a roar of laughter and cheers as it was once again re-affirmed that everyone in Perth hates Perth.

During Shostakovich's Dmitri Tahiti Trot (Tea for Two), i thought i'd sneak off for a quick toilet break and the purchasing of chips. As i entered the makeshift men's room i was overwhelmed by the nature of the conversations taking place within it's walls of moulded plastic. Where i expected either pure silence or educated opinions on Rachmaninoff's, Sergei Vocalise, Opus 34, No. 14, i was instead treated to complaints of 12 hour shifts, lazy apprentices and faulty cement mixers. I realized that not everyone at the show was willingly in attendance and these guys would have been quite content comparing drill bit sizes in the porta potty for the duration of the event.

Katja Webb's powerful depiction of Tatiana's letter served as the background music to another significant part of the evening, the no holds barred rape of my wallet by the food vendor.

"One regular chips and a coke please" i politely requested.

"That'll be one thousand dollars thankyou" the vendor announced.

I've heard of inflation before but $1,000 for some chips and a coke? That's an evening spoiler for sure. I mean, i know the kind of people that go to symphonies in the city are of the deep-pocket persuasion, but this was a free concert and this stall may as well have displayed deep fried extortion on the menu. I agreed to give her $12 on the terms that i don't complain loudly and make a scene and/or blog post about it. She freaked out and accepted my negotiation and i still felt completely ripped off. Regardless though, Katja tore the roof of it and bellowed out my personal favourite performance of the night. You could say she actually blew the ozone layer off it because of the outdoors location, but i'll save that for my next symphony review.

As the sea of Nintendo DS's lit up and the crowd became antsy, Guy Noble announced the moment we'd all been waiting for. Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture is arguably one of the most recognisable pieces of music in the history of music, but those of you that don't go and see live orchestra very often may recognise it from the conclusion of 'V for Vendetta' and various other montages of destruction. Due to time restraints and Perth's famous 9 o'clock curfew, the piece was limited to it's finale, but was not without it's charm. Whilst a full blown riot and the systematic levelling of Perth's skyline would have been an ideal end to the evening and a fitting tribute to the melody in question, it was just as nice to sit there in awe as the cannons were set off at just the right time and the bell tower proved it's worth by ringing in the background. $1.2 million dollars well spent.

As the performance came to a close we scoped a rather extravagant Christmas party closer to the river and decided to check it out. Where there are Christmas parties, there is free alcohol and Cocaine right? We were denied entry on the grounds that it was a work Christmas party and we all immediately regretted not working for the company in question. We found a break in the fence around the corner and all previous regret was washed away when we were informed that you had to pay for the alcohol at this particular Christmas throwdown. Great idea, host an outlandish gathering on the foreshore with flowers and fancy lighting and then charge your employees for drinks with their Christmas bonuses. We all decided we were glad we didn't work for said company and ended the evening with the communal smoking of a special cigarette on the foreshore.

As the water gently lapped against the limestone wall and we sat there in reflection of the evening's events, a single disgruntled heroin addict walked past us and started staunching the river as if it owed him some money. We waited until he was gone, laughed hysterically and decided it was home time.

The West Australian Symphony Orchestra's 2010 performance schedule is available here. Even if you aren't an avid follower of all things Russian and classical, their organisation promotes a large variety of music and I strongly suggest you go and check them out with empty expectations and a full bottle of red.

How to really surprise your friends and family this Christmas.

Every weekend I like to head down to my local Gametraders to see if any ingrates have traded in some vintage gold. I've been known to stumble across deadstock, European exclusive copies of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (the one that came in the black box) on a good day and even the odd dust-covered copy of Axelay for the Super Nintendo on any other day. It's a little routine i've had in check for the last year or so and i find it both soothing and resourceful, even though Galleria Morley is comparable to an all ages leper colony mental asylum for the overweight and elderly.

Something was different last weekend though. It's generally pretty quiet at the Gametraders end of the mall, but this time around everything seemed a little more overweight and elderly. Children's tantrums were assaulting my ears from angles i didn't previously think were possible, trails of discarded hair followed panicky fathers and their disobedient trolleys, stressed mothers beat the shit out of each-other in the aisles over Twilight paraphernalia and the old people just sat on the seats provided for them, letting out the occasional hiss at any youths that tried to rest their weary legs. Old people only hiss at Christmas, it must be Christmas.

Suddenly, a wave of uncertainty and festivity came over me. Aside from my Birthday, Easter, Winter, Labour Day, Sick days and Boxing Day, Christmas is my favourite time of year. Everyone pretends to be all civilised and cheerful, traditionally dangerous streets are lined with fairy lights for your safety and commercial television goes into overdrive with Christmas themed repeats of all my favourite programs. Christmas is reliable as well, it comes around at the same time every year and it never calls up to cancel the day before because it's girlfriend is being a bitch or it's too hungover. However, a slightly darker side of Christmas has begun to make it's presence felt over the last few years. As i grow older and my arsenal of responsibilities grows larger, the obligation to supply thoughtful presents to friends and family has become a very real situation. A situation that no amount of "oops!" and "they didn't have your size" can save you from.

I am of course talking about presents. I'm not sure where this exchange of materials originated, nor am i yet to learn of it's long term effects, but it's what separates us from the animals and it's recently overtaken the birth of Christ as the main reason to celebrate Christmas. The problem is, i'm not good at it. I've been good at receiving presents for as long as i can remember and people always thank me afterwards for making them feel just right after presenting me with a gift. Sometimes when someone receives a gift they do this little freak out thing and make a way bigger deal out of it then is necessary. Don't do that. It's an obvious over-compensation that leaves the giver of the gift with a sense of failure and the impression that their offering is lacking in the imagination/quality department which is only amplified by the receiver's blatant act. I've seen it go down and it's awkward. When i receive a gift, i snatch it and continue the conversation as if nothing ever happened. Me taking the gift is enough to let the giver know that i am satisfied with it and avoids any possible awkwardness or excess thank-yous.

When it comes to giving gifts, i am way out of my element. I haven't thought about it too much, but it may have stemmed from my 8th or 9th birthday. Ninja Turtles had just become uncool and Streetfighter and Basketball were the new black. One of my friends, who was obviously living in the past, had the audacity to bring me a Donatello (who wasn't even cool when the Ninja Turtles were) figurine with three point movement and bow strike action. He also came with a little slice of plastic pizza which i found to be quite ironic considering Donatello was clearly a pussy and probably only ate organic granola and vegetable burritos. Regardless of Donatello's diet though, the friend in question was sent home for his betrayal with a slice of cake but no lolly bag. We threw sticks at him the next day at school. He may or may not work in parliament now.

Since that day, i've forever been afraid of giving the wrong gift and sometimes just avoid it all together. This isn't as much an indicator of how i feel about that person as it is a sign of respect and how bad i'd feel if i gave them a Donatello instead of basketball cards. The act of un-giving is a great money saver as well. People always seem to stress before Christmas because of all the money they're going to have to blow on trinkets for people that are only going to get intoxicated the same night and forget who gave it to them. Hmm, how should i spend my Christmas bonus? A new book for old Joan down the road or a wireless router for my xbox? Exactly. If i buy myself a big present instead of lots of little things for other people, i'll never forget it. It's a special bond between me and myself and a selfless example of the Christmas spirit. It's not for everyone, but if you're tired of being broke the same time every year, surprise your friends with no presents at all. They'll have become so accustomed to your kind-natured past that they'll just stand there in complete awe, giving you just enough time to creep into the shadows and towards the eski full of free beer and moderately priced champagne.

Your presence is your gift to this world. Be sure to share it with the people you love most this festive season.

Second Skin

I realized i had a problem around 1997. Having reigned supreme since late 1992, my Super Nintendo was starting to grow digital white hair and it's initial charm and seemingly infinite capabilities were being made redundant by the soon to be released Sony Playstation and it's inescapable hype. For me, it was both sad and exciting. I'd shared so many unforgettable gaming milestones with my Super Nintendo, but the appeal of the Sony Playstation and it's impressive launch roster and developer support was hard to avoid. I mean, i did actual school work in year 6 just on the strength of a proposed Sony Playstation for Christmas if my end of year report didn't contain the words 'Fail', 'other students' and 'assaulting a teacher'. My year 6 grades were worse than ever at the end of the year but i got the Sony Playstation anyway because i was diagnosed with ADD towards the end of the year, which we all know is basically a set of keys for a house on fuck around street in sympathy town.

Resident Evil came out a few months later and i was instantly attached to it. Every weekend i'd ride to my local video store to hire a game so i didn't have to worry about getting bored in between basketball and being hyperactive. I'd always spend way longer than necessary in there, forever fascinated by the spiels on the back covers of movies and games whose front covers caught my attention, particularly those of the horror genre. I had a wild imagination as a kid and would always try and push my own limits in terms of scary films which, fortunately for me, only ever went as far as looking at the gory pictures on the back covers and never actually renting them. Resident Evil would be the first time i'd willingly expose myself to the horror genre.

Without deviating too much, Resident Evil was a third person shooting/adventure game that placed you and a squad of special forces inside a spooky old mansion in the middle of nowhere to find your buddies who were also sent on a similar mission. All sorts of nasty experiments had been conducted in secret labs inside the mansion and as a result, it's inhabitants are now all zombies in lab coats and civilian clothing. The mansion was huge and within it's dimly lit hallways and extravagant decoration, numerous secret passages and hidden rooms awaited your exploration should you have felt it necessary to traumatise yourself/find secret items. The constant feeling of isolation combined with the (for it's time) photorealistic graphics and it's famous symphonic soundtrack made for a particularly haunting experience and a game that i probably should have left until i was older.

As soon as i got Resident Evil home and popped the disc in my playstation i was hooked. I spent that entire Saturday inside the mansion, stopping only for toilet breaks and the occasional sandwich that was consumed whilst playing the game. I maximised my progress by taking half of the sandwich in my mouth at a time, thus allowing both of my hands to remain on the controller whilst simultaneously receiving the essential fibre and nutrients that you can only gain from a mouthful of bread and vegemite. Ten hours had passed and i soon realized that i'd played the game from 10 o'clock that morning to 8 o'clock the same night with about ten minutes break in total. This was unprecedented for me at the time as my gaming sessions were normally limited to 2-3 hour bursts. It became a case of not wanting want to play the game because i liked it, but because i just wanted it to be over. I woke up at 3am that morning, sweating profusely with a high temperature, shaking violently and feeling like my head was going to explode. I'd been having flu nightmares about a zombie apocalypse resulting from prolonged exposure to scary mansions and an extremely concentrated dose of Capcom. It was the first time i'd been scared of death, which was insane because due to my childish ignorance, i'd narrowly escaped it a few times prior. I had to go to hospital straight away and theories of epilepsy were thrown around but instantly cast aside when the doctors were made aware of my exploits that day. It was recommended that i stay away from the Playstation for at least 48 hours, drink as much water as possible and to take 15 minute breaks for every hour that i spent in front of the television.

The next morning i woke up and started playing Resident Evil again. My eyes weren't even fully open yet, which didn't really matter because i'd become so comfortable with my console that if i wanted to, i could operate it using only my mind. I escaped the mansion and it's unimaginable horrors after a four hour revolt against health and safety and the feeling was indescribable, even if i was starting to look like the very zombies i was mowing down in the game. I assured myself that i'd built up an immunity to video game fatigue and that the night prior was merely a hurdle that all gamers must cross before their addiction becomes fully fledged. Since then i've played more epic games for longer periods of time with nothing more than a slight headache or the odd exile from my friends.

As we reach the tail end of 2009 gaming has become 'cool', nerds are the new black and Microsoft, Sony and Nintendo are all manipulating pop culture to the same extent as MTV, Asian people and Stephanie Meyer. Extreme cases of video game addiction are becoming commonplace on an international scale and mainstream media are all too happy to cover it's negative effects in the form of 60 minute specials on World of Warcraft and unfounded articles discussing how violent and accessible video games have become. That's life though, we're yet to find a cure for 'douchebag'.

Luckily for me, a little documentary called 'Second Skin' exists. It was actually released a while ago and follows seven gamers, all from different walks of life and the ridiculous lives they lead as a result of their dependence. Couples finding love over Everquest, grown men lining up for expansion packs and even the odd suicide are the nature of this presentation and i urge anyone that has ever held a controller in their hands or woken up at 3 o'clock in the morning with possible brain damage after a 10 hour zombie marathon to watch it.



That's what i was trying to say this whole time.