You always got the feeling that Godzilla was treated a little unfairly by movie makers. One minute the scourge of humanity, the next their saviour, no-one ever seemed to stop and think about what it might be that Godzilla himself was feeling. What was his internal monologue? Surely something had to be fuelling all that destructive, childlike rage. Something deep. After all, monsters aren’t found; they’re made. Even when said monster has emerged from the sea to wreak vengeful destruction upon Tokyo and surrounds. Maybe he felt under-appreciated by the humans whom he strove so ceaselessly to defend (when he wasn’t trying to destroy them – it really changed from film to film, and there were 28 of them… it was hard to keep track). Maybe he was having issues with his son, Minilla. Or maybe he was just an asshole.

Well, fortunately for those of us for whom these questions are a pressing concern (anyone?… anyone?… anyone?… sigh), someone by the I’m-almost-certain-that’s-not-on-his-birth-certificate name of SamuraiFrog has created a Tumblr dedicated to allowing the great green lizard to express himself. In haiku form. And let me just say, turns out the guy is complex. Like really conflicted. Like I would not let a female friend of mine go out with this dude in a million years. Mostly because of the eating, killing and whole inter-species thing, but also because he’s obviously an emotional wreck.

But still, you know how it goes: 100 metre tall, 60 000 tonne, prehistoric dino-lord meets girl, girl meets 100 metre tall, 60 000 tonne, prehistoric dino-lord, sparks fly, girl is incinerated, 100 metre tall, 60 000 tonne, prehistoric dino-lord goes off to cry in a corner about being lonely. Typical 100 metre tall, 60 000 tonne, prehistoric dino-lord. Typical.

More over at Godzilla Haiku

/Luke

Four-odd weeks ago I had some light surgery on my left knee. As a result I have been somewhat restricted in my movements and unable to take part in my daily recreations, such as pogo-sticking, ballet-polka-rollerskating fusion and nudging the homeless with my very expensive patent leather loafers. I like to call it “loafering the loafers”. But this operation has also meant that I’ve required walking aids in order to be able to move about, and not being one to just wear my disability on the chin (or the knee as the case may be), I decided to upgrade from my hospital issue elbow crutches to a more striking/pretentious vintage walking cane. Which at least has allowed me to prod the homeless instead. “Prodding the loafers” doesn’t have quite the same ring, but it’ll do.

As is his wont, Paul was looking for a way that I might be able to weaponise my cane. He suggested an investment in this rapier/umbrella concoction (which I imagine would be a bitch to get through customs). But I, for one, think there are better, more honourable alternatives to hiding a blade within an umbrella. Behold: Bartitsu. The phrase “Have at you!” doesn’t even begin to do it justice:

Things we can learn from this picture:

1. An extravagant moustache is the most important part of Bartitsu. It intimidates your opponent. It also protects your upper lip from glancing blows and impresses the ladies. Before you prod them with your cane. Not a pun.

2. A cravat is the second most important part of Bartitsu. A sufficiently stunning cravat will distract your opponent, allowing you to prod him with your cane.

3. A slightly dazed, war-veteran style thousand-yard stare is the third most important part of Bartitsu. Look at that guy’s eyes. He’d be capable of anything. I bet he killed a man with his bare hands in the Boer War. And now he’s got a cane. Run, you fools!

4. Before commencing fisticuffs, you first must do the Dance of the Thrown Overcoat.

5. If full Edwardian garb is not available, a casual skirt may be worn.

Informative. Still confused? Well, then here’s a video of the martial art in action

I guess after that we can probably also add:

6. Jaunty piano soundtrack, while not mandatory, is very much recommended.

But look at that speed, that style, that grace. Those bitching hats. Those impractical-in-summer coats. I mean, it’s not much to ask, but if we can make this an exhibition sport at the 2020 Olympics, then I will be able to die a happy, happy man. My body encased in bronze, and my cane jutting into the throat of anyone who came near.

Something to aim for.

/Luke

Some genius has managed to do a breakdown of how to make pancakes like a crackhead. It’s adorable delivery is only just able to counter the crackhead theme of the whole thing, but it also struggles against some incredibly vitriolic entries in it’s comment section. It’s startling how some people just ‘get’ comedy:

‘Next time i see a smack head in town im gona get his scrawny lil neck place his mouth over da curb then stamp on his head that makes his bottom jaw smash off then be in bad pain oh yeah and smash ur teeth out if any left daft cunt.’

WHIMSY!

You see, most comments seem to be about how the post isn’t funny, or how crackheads should die, or, bafflingly, how irresponsible it was for the post to show how to make pancakes OUT OF CRACK. However, as Luke told me once, NEVER FEED THE TROLLS. Otherwise this can happen. And despite what you may think, nobody – and I do mean nobody – wins in a butter eating contest.

/Paul

If you still need convincing, here’s the MP3. It took me until the sixtieth or seventieth listen to really get it, but boy, when I got there, there was no turning back. I also developed a bit of an obsession with pimp hats and bright red waistcoated jumpsuits, but I’m sure we can all agree those are two things that Australia definitely needs more of.

Definitely.

[via @dandebuf]

/Luke

William Shatner is pretty much one of my favourite people on the planet.

Not only is he prolifically self-effacing and a hell of a recording artist, he’s been through various periods where he’s… well, let’s just say he was pressed to find viable work at several points throughout his esteemed career. I adore the guy, and he’s certainly received the accolades he deserves, but below is a commercial for a supermarket chain named Loblaws. I frankly can’t moved past the similarity the name bears to a certain Arrested Development character, but I hope you enjoy this nauseating slice of yesteryear.

See? Even when he’s bad, he’s good.

/Paul

Ahh, bacon. Scourge of pigs. I recently became a vegetarian, and the one thing I’ve missed is the pork family (although seafood is still pretty prominent on my list of ‘foods I want to have sex with’). As many friends and loved ones will attest to, one of my favorite breakfast pastimes was getting crazyawesome french toast, bacon, and drowning all of it in icing sugar and maple syrup. And icecream.

I have the metabolism of a rhinoceros, evidently.*

Anyhoo, I have two things to say about bacon. The first is that one time, back when I was doing film at university, I had a very good friend named Mikey. Mikey was great, and was a member of a hugely devout Jewish family, although I suspect his beliefs were more pronounced around his parental units in order to extract the sweet nectar of familial compliance (read: epic allowance). Regardless, he wouldn’t eat anything that came out of a pig. After a particularly taxing lecture and a Cassavetes screening, we made our way to the food court on campus, and settled on a Chinese dumpling stall. Mikey, who was being a simmering little shit sandwich that day, asked me to grab him two chicken buns whilst he made a phone call. I got him two pork buns, let him eat most of one, and then asked him how it tasted. “Good”, he replied, chewing happily. “Why?” “Because”, I replied, “it’s pork. And I’m not sorry, Mikey, I’m not sorry”.

Sufficed to say, he almost punched clean through my arm. I still think that institutionalized religions which control diet/clothing/gender rights/the right to choose/gay rights/the rights of people to kill other people/etc are pretty much all tinsel and bullshit, but I will concede that I may have crossed the line. And all because of delicious bacon. Delicious, evil bacon. Ever seen a pig NOT setting fire to libraries or peeing in the mouths of baby rabbits? I didn’t think so.

Didn’t I have a second point? Oh, right. Bacon, when uncooked, is abhorrently grotesque. And to illustrate that point, here is a guy being draped with hundreds of wet rashers of the stuff.

I probably ought to have waited until AFTER breakfast to post this.

/Paul

*A rhinoceros who ought to have diabetes.

Sometimes I look about at the state of the world and it makes me long for the days of yore, simpler times all, where a man was a man, a woman was a woman and midgets were included in the food pyramid. Gone now are the days of easy utilitarianism, where the ends always justified the means because the ends were, frankly, kicking. Penicillin? Fuck yeah! Cecil George Paine just gave it to some babies and hoped for the best. And here we are, 80 years later, with the ability to cure syphilis. Thanks babies!

But none of that these days. No, these days we are mired by an excess of knowledge, a cynicism toward understanding and a seemingly endless parade of “ethical qualms”. And in few places has the magic of discovery been more actively suppressed than in the field of SCIENCE!!!!. The pursuit of scientific knowledge is one of mankind’s great strivings, one of the fundamental drives that separates us from the animals. Except, that is, when said scientific pursuit involves animals quite personally. I mean, I’m not entirely sure they always know what’s going on, but I like to think they appreciate the fact that it’s all for the greater good.

I have previously waxed lyrical about such endeavours in this rousing piece about the ongoing practice of feeding animals psychotropic substances, but today I’m striking a more nostalgic tone and looking fondly back at the glory days of mule experimentation. Well, one experiment in particular – the 1878 demonstration of the first ever instantaneous photograph. A development that, at first glance, might seem to have a pretty tangential relationship to your average household mule, but don’t forget, this was in the glory days of science. Days where a man was a man, a woman was a woman, and a mule was an integral part of new advances in the photographic sciences. From an 1881 issue of Scientific American:

“It became necessary, one day, at Willet’s Point, to destroy a worthless mule… The mule was placed in proper position before a photo camera and duly focused upon the animal’s forehead, a cotton bag was tied containing six ounces of dynamite.”

Now, “necessary” is a big call, but I think we can all be thankful that at least they stayed away from the prize mules for this demonstration of what exactly it looks like in the split second after a mule has had dynamite detonated in close proximity to its head. I’ll leave you to peruse the rest of the story/images over at Gizmodo Australia (You can probably lodge a reasonable guess as to the outcome. Gritty!), but nonetheless, I’m sure that I speak for everybody here when I declare “Thank you mighty mule! Your noble sacrifice shant be forgotten! Henceforth, every time we use our iPhones to take a photo of our naked torsos and send it to our local Members of Parliament, we shall remember that it was you who made it all possible!” Huzzah! Everybody with me?… Everybody?

Oh.

/Luke

Ah yes, the moustache. Even though I can grow one in four days and Luke can’t physically make one appear on his face (true fact!), the moustache is loved by us both. It’s gone through many different permutations over the centuries – early moustaches were pulled from the face and used to batter masatodon to death – but it’s always remained quintessentially the same*.

Nowhere, however, does the mo flourish like the fashion world of the seventies. Observe, if you will, a terrifying example of the moustache being used to beam charisma gamma-rays directly into the penises and vaginas of willing seventies youth.

I didn’t even understand half of the words being said there (did he say Crenoline? What in the name of Malcom McDowell’s fetid sack is Crenoline? If it’s on the periodic table I’ll shut up, but I sincerely doubt it is). It didn’t matter though! And do you know why? Because two slivers of groomed hair were jutting at me like sex-daggers the entire time. AND I LIKED IT.

Here, though, is the absolute peak of moustache sexiness being exploited to hock goods. You ready? Of course you’re not.

I guess the lesson here is…

I… seem to have forgotten what the lesson is. I think my frontal lobe just fused.

/Paul

*Read: creepy strip of hair above a sneering upper lip.

A Milli’ by Lil’ Wayne a.k.a. Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr. a.k.a. Snuggles

Lil’ Wayne has here produced a dense and multi-layered text with an excess of subtle references and well-placed metaphors. I attempt to unpack certain of A Milli’s lyrical complexities after the break.

[Vol. 1, an analysis of Prince's self-descriptive 'My Name is Prince' can be found here]

Young Money, Ya Dig
(Dig what?)
A millionaire, I’m a young money millionaire
(Lil’ Wayne has a million dollars in freshly minted bills)
Tougher than Nigerian hair
(Oooh, and that’s like concrete!)
My criteria compared to your career this isn’t fair
(Nor are they two variables that can be sensibly compared)
I’m a venereal disease like a menstrual bleed
(I… always thought that was normal. Perhaps not if it happened to Lil’ Wayne)
Through the pencil and leak on the sheet of the tablet
In my mind ’cause I don’t write shit, ’cause I ain’t got time
(Lil’ Wayne is too busy to actually work on his rhymes. I presume he’s otherwise occupied with “ho-ing”. And suchlike.)
’cause my seconds, minutes, hours go to the all mighty dollar
(After further clarification, it appears Lil’ Wayne is busy pursuing a career in accountancy)
And the all mighty power of that ch, ch, ch, ch chopper
(Lil’ Wayne has diligently saved his money up and now has a helicopter. Well done, Lil’ Wayne.)
Sister, brother, son, daughter, father mothafuck a coppa
(Lil’ Wayne is related to several members of the police force. He appears to be ambivalent about this fact)
Got the Maserati dancin’ on the bridge pussy poppin’
(There is no possible way you can make this sentence make sense)
Tell the coppers hahahaha you can’t catch ‘em, you can’t stop ‘em
(This section could really deal with a few more proper nouns)
I go by them goon rules if you can’t beat ‘em then you pop ‘em
(And would it kill him to include the occasional definite article. This is an interpretative nightmare.)
You can’t man ‘em then you mop ‘em,
(See Spot Man. Man Spot, Man)
You can’t stand ‘em then you drop ‘em,
(I say Mr. Wayne, you throw simply the loveliest garden parti-AIEEEE!)
You pop ‘em ’cause we pop ‘em like Orville Redenbacher!
(Turns out Lil’ Wayne was actually talking about popcorn. And here I was thinking he was going to kill a man)
Motherfucker I’m ill
(Lil’ Wayne pleads for medical assistance)

A million here, a million there
(Money! This appears to be a recurring theme)
Sicilian bitch with long hair
(Lil’ Wayne is friends with women from all nations)
With coke in the derriere
(Especially if they have smuggled drugs into the country via their rectums)
Like smoking the thinnest air
(Well I guess it’s better than cigarettes)
I open the Lamborghini hopin’ them crackers see me
(Oooh, that’s me! I’m a cracker!)
Like look at that bastard Weezy
He’s a beast, he’s a dog, he’s a motherfucking problem
(I’d never say such hurtful things about you Lil’ Wayne)
OK, you’re a goon but what’s a goon to a goblin?
(I’ve got the best deals anywhere!… On further consideration, Lil Wayne probably doesn’t play WoW and therefore doesn’t understand that reference)
Nothing, nothing — you ain’t scarin’ nothing
(I was just trying to be friendly)
On some faggot bullshit call him Denise Rodman
(Oh yes, Dennis Rodman definitely needed to be further feminised)
Call me what you want bitch, call me on my sidekick
(I shall call you Trapezius Westerbury, Lord of the Dragons)
Never answer when it’s private, damn I hate a shy bitch
(As my mother always said, never say “hate”, it’s rude. Say “intensely dislike” instead. “I intensely dislike a shy bitch”)
Don’t you hate a shy bitch?
(Um… yes?)
Yeah I ate a shy bitch
(Mmmm, cannibalism)
She ain’t shy no more, she changed her name to my bitch
(Ahhhh, cunnilingus. I get it now)
Hahahaha, yeah, nigga that’s my bitch
(Don’t let Lil’ Wayne perform oral sex on you)
So when she ask for the money, when you through don’t be surprised bitch
It ain’t trickin’ if you got it
(Lil’ Wayne expresses his solidarity with the feminist movement)
But you like a bitch with no ass, you ain’t go shit
(Hahaha. So true! If there’s no ass then where does the shit come from! Oh Lil’ Wayne you are such a wit)
Motherfucker I’m ill, not sick
(Oh, ok. Don’t worry, put the stretcher away boys)
And I’m OK but my watch sick, yeah my drop sick, yeah my glock sick and my knot thick
(Lil’ Wayne’s goods may all be faulty, but gosh darn if he can’t tie the shit out of a length of rope)
I’m it!
(Tag!)
Motherfucker I’m Ill!
(Yes, you most certainly are)

There is another stanza, wherein he badmouths many of his hip-hop contemporaries before claiming to have made our bowels “loose”, but I’m sure we get the idea. In summary: Mr. Wayne is rich beyond compare, yet suffers from an undiagnosed malaise that he treats with bitches. We can only assume his penis could beat me in an arm-wrestling match.

Sigh.

/Luke

Here is PMT acting his dick clean off in order to depict THE HORRORS OF DURGS.

And here is PMT singing his dick clean off in order to (inadvertently) depict THE HORRORS OF DUUURGS.

How you feeling? Pretty rough, huh? Yeah, me too.

Me too.

/Paul