Some reasoned, unabrasive debate on Tiger Woods:

December 17, 2009

Done for college, hence: No links, no images, no swearing. Insert words like ‘fuck’ where and when appropriate.

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Uh-oh, it looks like famous people are having sex again. Who would’ve thought that the more glamorous side of human society also took part in this act? Yes, famous people who do sport are all having sex. Just like your granny did. Horrible, isn’t it? Just absolutely horrible. Dirty, pre-, post-, and mid-martial sex; glorified rabbits banging away like carpenters at wood and nails, and no amount of innuendo-filled sentences will hide that fact from us.

Well, so long as we keep reading about it. After all, we continue to read, so details continue to raise their heads up at us, blinking innocently from behind the Tellytubbie hill as if to say, “Should I come out now? I may also of had sex with Tiger Woods.” This ‘expanding’ sex scandal, as the online news site the Huffington Post so eloquently put it, is just the latest one to capture our lust-filled, craven imaginations.

So, what are we to do with this ever-expanding scandal? At this rate, it could reach a good 3-metre girth by this Thursday, and after that, who knows? We’ll need at least a weekly pullout supplement to contain all the sordid details. We could place it neatly between the Health pages on a Monday, complete with Victoria’s Secret leaflets and sexual health coupons.

So, allegedly, it appears Tiger Woods has been having sex with women other then his wife. If even half of the plethora of working class heroines is to be believed, then this has been going on for a while. Thankfully, one of the waitresses, Mindy Lawton, has assured us that he is “very well endowed” and “knows his way around the bedroom.” Promptly after that piece of expansion, the nation heaved a collective sigh of relief as the pun about his 9-wood was avoided.

In other news, ‘allegedly’ is fast becoming the most popular word of Collins A-section and this story might just help it pip ‘anecdotal’ at the post.

It all started to come out a week or so back, when Tiger crashed his 2009 Cadillac Escalade into various upright objects, ending with a hospital trip for some minor facial cuts.

If it had ended there, we all would have slept happier. Columnists wouldn’t have to keep their lights on for fear of a newly sexualised Tiger Woods coming in and invading their home, maybe humping your bedpost like a dog in heat. Roadside-Diner waitresses wouldn’t have to fret over whether to go public with the fact that Mr. Woods may of winked at them. The commentary that followed seemed to bring a whole new meaning to the idea of the tiger as a predator.

After some obligatory National Enquirer (an American tabloid that is notoriously liberal with the truth) allegations, a few apologies, broken up with some shrugging on all our parts, San Diego cocktail waitress Jaimee Grubbs revealed that she had a two and a half year affair with the golfing icon. Then each gate of hell successively opened, and at time of writing the affair count is up to seven (Or nine. Or seventy-four. Depends on how loose your definition of fact is). It’s getting to the stage were everyone who hasn’t had sex with Tiger Woods are starting to feel a little low on confidence.

And of course then come the cries of anguish; the people who tell us “He should of known better”, the women who see this as just another man chasing skirts, the men who see this as another stick we can be beaten with. The parents, oh! The poor parents! Those frontline soldiers who are gathering up their sons’ and daughters’ golf clubs for a public burning, the fathers of teenage boys pushing them towards Wilkinson’s latest 27-blade razor for their first shave. The laminate clean role model has been stained and how dare he do such a thing to us!

But, bluntly, Tiger Woods is just a guy who plays golf. White ball goes on plastic thing. White ball hit with metal thing. White ball goes in hole. Repeat. Admittedly, it’s a bit more complicated, but if you asked a software engineer what they did for a living, most people would require a similarly layman-like description. This is his job, this is what he does, and because he does this on TV shouldn’t make him any more or less of a human to look up to. If he’s to be a role model for our kids, let’s confine it to his golfing abilities. Yes, we can ask (and ideally expect) everyone to act in a moral and respectable manner, but if your next door neighbour starts to sleep with his orthodontist, do we splash it all over the papers, hang it over their heads publicly like underwear off a doorknob? Disgraceful behaviour indeed, but on the whole: none of our bloody business.

Why should sport stars be expected to be any better of an example then rock stars? Most parents wouldn’t like to have a son basing his moral and ethical codes on someone like an Axl Rose or Rapping-rappy McRappington, or whoever, so why do we think differently of sport stars? Both lifestyles are radically different from our own; both often incorporate a seedy side (as we look in from our puritanically-phallic ivory towers), and both usually consist of young people being thrown into the limelight, with little more then talent in their hands and the giddy expectation of a lifestyle that most youngsters dream of: Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ golf clubs. To argue that because they train daily and diet makes them better belittles the extensive work done by musicians behind the scenes, in the recording studio or song writing with the band.

Tiger Woods is not the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi: Even if it turns out that he is a lothario of equal measure, he was not elected to represent the public and he does not receive a wage out of our taxes. Sport stars are just people who entertain us. We pay them for this through television deals and sponsorships. To expect any more of them is naive. To deny them the privacy we would expect ourselves is just an example of the sadder side of human nature.


A Leader we can all Aspire to Mock

October 7, 2009

Berlusconi is fucking awesome.

[Background: Italian Prime Minister. Owns everything in Italy practically; Media, Football clubs, runs the God damn country. Also, he happens to be repeatedly involved in activities unbecoming of a Prime Minister. Oh, also? Idiot.]

Berlo

Berlusconi: Pre or post-coitus? I’m thinking mid-.


Of course, I mean that he’s awesome in that “all that stuff is happening, like, elsewhere, man. Like, yeah,… crazy shit?” Where were that here I would be openly training monkeys to fling poo in his direction.

That’s all I could do really: direction. You don’t expect me to be able to train them to actually hit him do you? I am a man of little to no monkey training experience and I imagine that at best I could point them and hope that all overused Internet jokes involving animal stereotypes ring true.

Anyway, what neatly summed this man up for me today was, much like a nice package you might get from the ‘Internets’ (or, Santa, or whatever is the ‘in’ phrase) I came, nay, stumbled, across a little article on RTE today. I shall provide the link…..

NOW.

[Lazy people link summary: Berlusconi is trying to bring in a law that will effectively make him above the law.]

You see, to sum it all up, much like the bear in autumn who gathers squirrels for their mid-hibernation snack (they do that, right?), Berlosconi here has been preparing. Getting himself ready. The fact that Mr. Silvio B owns everything in Italy, and runs the country, and is not Russell Crowe from Gladiator will soon even catch up with this old rocker. Berlo here has been trying to protect himself from the ramifications of really liking to have sex with hot, young ladies (You and me both buddy! High-cocaine snorting- five, baby!) by creating some laws, that could, you know, been seen as granting him a bit of a carte blanche. Assuming that the phrase ‘carte blanche’ means ‘I can do what the fucskio I want AND have my pizza too.’

Oh, before I forget, Warning, borderline racism and poor understanding of French can be found above.

Now, if Lethal Weapon 2 has thought us anything, it’s that this is a damn fine idea, and power to ya mate, go for it. Dip-lo-mat-ic I-mmun-ity, or ahem, a law that “shields him from criminal prosecution” worked for that whole film until Murtaugh shot him in the head at the end. And Danny Glover’s 63 years old these days, so, you know, just keep out of his way and you should be fine.

Anyway, Mr. Berlusconi. As a bit of a heads up to other possible avenues to explore, here’s some other Lethal Weapon plot angles you could try and throw into everyday life. For kicks and shit. Some of them don’t even need ‘Dip-lo-mat-ic I-mmun-ity’.

  • See if any of your stripper friends can get their way out of a straight jacket.
  • Every tried booby trapping someone’s toilet?
  • Offer Patsy Kensit a secretarial job.
  • Spend Christmas with a stranger’s family and endear yourself to them. Flirt with the daughter perhaps?
  • Attempt to strangle Gary Busey, realize he’s not worth it man!, and then shoot him later anyway.
  • Befriend Joe Pesci. Get him to act like exactly he did in Goodfellas to fit in around the home. Or Casino, it’s practically the same character.
  • Get involved with…. I dunno, triads or something?

Whatever, the 4th film was shit.

Lethal Weapon 4

Mel Gibson’s short hair + Chris Rock = You’re just taking the piss, Hollywood.


Paul writes about his attempts to buy a toothbrush. Eventually.

March 24, 2009

I was walking to Dunnes the other day, right. Yeah, on the way to Dunnes, and, well, hard to say really. The usual dumped car was there, a Porsche too come to think of it.

Well, it mightn’t of been a Porsche, but I kinda see all nice cars as Porsche’s, because I really know not a lot about cars. I’d recognize a car from, say,  a lorry, but only from the side profile. Up front, God only knows, it might go back 9 feet, it might go back 30 feet, I am not in the know about such things.

Anyway, back to my semi-fictional story about going to the shop.

I mentioned this was semi-fictional right? I mean, I have been known to frequent the thriving consumer heaven that in The Bishopstown Dunnes Stores, from that tasty blond girl who I know wants me, to that tasty pensioner who I know wants me. Anyway, I needed a toothbrush.

That part wasn’t fictional. I did need a toothbrush. Its one of things that we all need really. So, in a way, saying I need a toothbrush could never be fictional, whether I had one or not, I would need it. Even if I was of the mind of not brushing my teeth, the need would still be there.

But some of this following story may of not actually happened. I have yet to see spindle shaped toothbrush packaging.

Anyway, I digress. Digression is useful here though, because, really, I have no idea what would happen next on this semi-fictional journey to Dunnes. Should I add some semi-fiction now? Perhaps I had best stick to the facts now, to set the scene, and then proceed into farcical whimsy later? Or perhaps not? Insert a likely event into a magical setting.

No, better I put my musings to a more worthwhile cause, one that will possibly be about a place that someone may have found memories of, so they can read this and go “Mmm…yes. I remember that place/situation. It was nice”. Because, I would like to think that someone, somewhere, would read this and think of something fond. A happy memory, times past where life was the colour of a healthy cheek, the shape of a well plucked eyebrow.

Also, perhaps, read aloud. So, at some moment, somewhere, buried in the static of snow capped cathode tubes, there could be me, musing on how happy I was that I could put capped and cathode together in a sentence, perhaps someone would then think of my beaming face as I you imagine me, chuckling like a mildly deranged loon at my own alliteration, that was in no way funny, but kept me amused for the duration of this sentence and hopefully when I go back over to spell check.

Deranged in the peaceful ‘I count floorboards but can’t look people in the eye’ loon, not the man-rape kind.

Of course, reading aloud could sometimes be seen as a bit mad, unless your surrounded by children, and then of course, the context of what your reading would have to be considered. For instance, words like context are unlikely to appear in a children’s fairy tale, or uttered by a Morbeg.

So, anyway, I’m standing there, looking at toothbrushes. 3 for 2, 2 for 1, 3 for 5, singled, doubled. Ones with plastic protrusions, ones with flexi-handles, ones with flexi-tips, ones with both that are just rolled around a sewing spindle. What to get? The eternal question. At what stage do I feel that my mouth is clean enough to be satisfactory? Do I want 2 euro cleanliness, or 5 euro cleanliness? Because 2 euro cleanliness feels pretty clean. For most of my life, it has sufficed. And I can’t imagine that 4 euro cleanliness is twice as clean as 2 euro cleanliness. It certainly doesn’t feel any cleaner. I look for percentages; “34% cleaner then the leading brand.”

Oh, that’s helpful.

Which brand is leading? I don’t know, these are not the questions I research before I shop for toothbrushes. I didn’t realize I should of done so. Silly me.

Leading brand…. all these brands have numerous toothbrushes. Which one is this brush 34% cleaner then? This flexi-handled one looks good, I can’t imagine any toothbrush giving me a 34% bigger cleaning sensation then that. Surely not.

Four for 89 cent? That’s….

Four for 80 cent? That’s 20 cent each. Does that do anything for my mouth compared to these others? These don’t flex at all. Surely these devil sticks would shatter upon impact with my gums, spearing through my cheeks, rendering me incapable of speech as I collapse over the sink, blood and toothpaste swirling into the drain like a famous Hitchcock scene. No, best keep away from those.

Yeah, I’m gonna need at least 3 bits where its flexes. And definitely gonna need some bristles where the angles are different. Oh, and that one over there with the rubber bristles at the side. I’m sure they’re completely necessary. Wouldn’t I look quite the fool in front of everyone as I speak, my mouth gaping up and down, in clear need of the cleaning that only 10 rubber bristles at either side of a toothbrush can provide.

I better get a few of the good ones I suppose, and chronicle their effectiveness against the evil germ nation that I’ve seen on TV. I’m not gonna let them get me, I’ve seen what they’ve done to those people in the pamphlets. Painting the mouth black and yellow, knocking down a few walls to create more space. I will not become a jaw-based home improvement show, no matter how much free furniture they offer me.

What toothpaste should I be using with these brushes? There’s a lot of them too…. do I need toothpaste? Maybe I should get some. I suppose I’ll have to get the right brand though. Surely Aquafresh wouldn’t work with a Crest toothbrush. The toothbrush might melt. Embarrassing.

“You see Paul the other day? Yeah, used the wrong toothpaste with his toothbrush. Talks like hes got a toothbrush stuck in his mouth”

My friends need to work on their similes.

What should I do I wonder? Tasty blond girl will surely laugh at my stricken state as she stacks the shelves, old lady surely feels my plight at this constantly accelerating dental world we find ourselves in.

Yes, I’d best just go home and research this further.


An Open Letter to Rosetta Seely, her Identical Twins and Fellow MSN Spammers

December 10, 2008

This was inspired by a few ladies (eg, http://www.bebo.com/BaileyU5 http://www.bebo.com/SuzetteZ38 and http://www.bebo.com/AmericaB93 among others) who felt the need to contact me. I post this in a hope to help others who are reeling due to the conflict of heart and brain.

Dear Rosetta and friends,

I’m sorry, but it won’t work. It can’t work. I know you and your identical sisters with different surnames want me, hell, I want me, but it just couldn’t work.

Your all the way from BBK, which according to a quick Googling, has something to do with financial products in Bahrain. I just can’t have a relationship with 7 different women who all live at their workplace. I mean, I have needs, I have feelings, I can’t be with women that are obviously so tied and engrossed in their occupations. I’ve been there. And it hurts,

I know, MSN Messenger seems like the next logical progression in our relationship, but really, where would that take us? As a group of football-loving individuals? Sure, the 8 of us could talk about our mutual love of action films and porn through the night, but can we really base a relationship on that? How long before you begin to resent me for having 7 lovers with only 3 different faces? ROck music, which I can only assume is a seriously hardcore version of rock music, will only help you bottle in your feelings for so long. You’ll need to release that anger, I don’t want to be the lightning rod to your bright sparks of fury.

And perhaps you live a warm climate, but I got friends here, family. Sure, I love ‘Getting naked in the outdoors’ as much as the next dude, but its just not feasible here on a regular basis to be included among my interests.
Plus, the one thing vast quantities of television has through is that long distance relationships never work.

No, I think we should end this now. Before we all end up hurt and broken. Its said that time heals all wounds, maybe a little bit of time is all we need.

Yours Sincerely,
Paul Kennedy.

P.S. Fuck Off