Perhaps it’s a tried and tested formula that producers believe needs to be included to be commercially successful, similar to Today Tonight always including a story blaming all of Australia’s problems on immigrants.

I can’t get a job? Immigrants.

The land values in Blacktown are expensive now? Immigrants.

My neighbour has 28 cats? Immigrants.

Dodgy real-estate agents? Immigrants.

My daughter had a $500 phone bill last month? Immigrants.

I have lung cancer? Immigrants.

I spent all my money on the pokies at Wenty Leagues and now nobody will help me with my gambling problem despite this obviously not being my fault? The Labour Party.

Sorry, back to my story: blokes want to see 4 things in a movie – guns, explosions, big machines and Angelina Jolie. If the addition of a sex scene is really that necessary to win an Oscar, include it in the first scene, blow the love-making couple up with an AK-47 and then get on with the fucking movie.

Some movies that would’ve been better without a love story include:

Pearl Harbour…this would have been more enjoyable if the director just focused on the bits we wanted to see – the bombs, guns and explosions. A love story involving the heroine and two guys should only have been included if it resulted in a three-way.

The Castle…a classic Australian movie unfortunately tainted by the unrealistic newly wed love story between Con and Trace. In reality, bogan brides 2 months into their marriage wouldn’t be cavorting around Bonnydoon but would most likely be in the labour ward of a public hospital.

Titanic….an informative documentary totally ruined by a love story taking centre stage. To get my fix of big machinery I’ve since succumbed to watching Mighty Structures.

Ice Age 2….the sexual tension between Sid the female woolly mammoth and the two possums detracted from the core theme of the movie; the central character’s desire for self-actualisation by fore-warning society of the detrimental ecological impacts of climate change. Reflect upon the physical logistics of the scenario between the woolly mammoth and the possums; what were the perverted producers thinking anyway?

Romeo and Juliet…..don’t even get me started on this. This film was supposed to be about bikie gangs right?

In the wild, a sexual partnership between a woolly mammoth and 2 possums is statistically unlikely

]]> http://jeffro.com.au/2012/05/15/great-movies-ruined-by-irelevant-and-distracting-love-stories/feed/ 0 Jeffro iceage23 http://jeffro.com.au/2012/05/01/shopping-list-combinations-that-will-get-you-odd-looks-at-the-checkout/ http://jeffro.com.au/2012/05/01/shopping-list-combinations-that-will-get-you-odd-looks-at-the-checkout/#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 07:24:59 +0000 jeffro81 http://jeffro.com.au/?p=334 ]]> Preparation for Date Night

• 2 x bottles – Wolf Blass Shiraz Cabernet Sauvignon Red Label
• 1 x packet – Double Coated Chocolate Tim Tams
• 2 x packets – unscented tea light candles
• 1 x packet – Durex Fetherlite Ultra condoms
• 1 x HomeBrand size 14 green female school uniform
• 1 x wooden spoon

Terrorise This

• 1 x 10L red bucket
• 1 x 10KG bag – pool chlorine
• 1 x 500ML bottle – Castrol Brake Fluid
• 1 x 2L bottle – cloudy bathroom amonia
• 1 x ball of string
• 1 x packet – RedHead matches

Bachelor’s Shopping List

• 1 x box – McCain Ham & Pineapple frozen pizza
• 5 x tubes – Durex Play Sensations Lube
• 1 x packet – Chux Sensitive disposable rubber globes
• 2 x fresh continentel cucumbers
• 1 x checkered tea towel
• 1 x packet - Band-aid Plastic Strips Extra Wide
• 1 x fluffy pillow
• 1 x 24pk box – Panadol Pain Relief Caplets

• 5 x bottles – Wolf Blass Shiraz Cabernet Sauvignon Red Label
• 5 x packets – Mortein rat poison

• 1 x 440g packet – Kantong Hokkien Noodles
• 1 x bunch – fresh buk choi
• 1 x 250ML bottle – Soy Sauce
• 1 x 500ML bottle – Maggi Oyster Sauce
• 1 x 1.1KG can – Chum 3 Meats, So Chumpy You Can Carve It

This product is often a source of confusion in Chinatown Woolworths

SOL is an abbreviation for snotted-out-loud, the process of ejecting mucus from the nasal passage when caught by unexpected laughter. SOL is often experienced by couples on their first date.

PML, an abbreviation for pissed-myself-laughing, is the repeated inability to control urination during intense bouts of laughter. Use of the term has gained popularity among Irish backpackers and in retirement homes.

FOL-BEUSML, an acronym for farted-out-loud-but-ended-up-shitting-myself-laughing, is a condition of flatulence immediately followed by the forceful expulsion of diarrhea during laughter. FOL-BEUSML is most frequently enacted during the popular annual Indian Curry and Comedy festival. Although similar in pronunciation, the term shouldn’t be confused with the French word “fol bours ameli” which means ‘fuck off you tourist’.

PGOL, an abbreviation for polite-giggle-out-loud, is the act of politely making noises of appreciation when part of an audience of a comedian who struggle to inspire laughter.  The term originated in comics lounges in Melbourne when aspiring comedians who failed to provoke laughter, only roused ‘sympathy giggles’. Today FGOL is often used at Peter Helliar stand up shows.

OMGFL is a term that describes the act of intellectually-challenged females yelling out “oh my god!” followed by 2-3 seconds of loud fake laughter. OMGFL is commonly undertaken when engaged in animated conversation with similarly challenged females. It is associated with tanorexia nervosa and is often accompanied by frequent stroking of one’s own hair. OMGFL is frequently employed in school-yards and the media and advertising industry. Psycho-graphic studies have shown that a typical OMGFL often suffers from severe delusions of being a resident of Orange County, even though the participant may actually reside in an Australian middle class suburb.

In Melbourne, cycling in Lycra is not just tolerated, it’s actually considered a healthy mode of transport by normal people.

Each morning, hordes of Cadel-wannabes don their ultra-short-shorts, ultra-skin-tight shirts (many with ‘sponsors’ printed), hop on a thin rubber platform wedged between their butt-cheeks, put on an air-restrictive ‘helmet’ and break into a sweat. Not that I’m implying anything…but…hmmm…

In Sydney, cyclists occupy the bottom rung on the motorist food chain, slightly lower than Asian-drivers. They’re an extreme rarity these days; most have died out due to respiratory problems or have been victims of road rage (I’m talking about cyclists here, not Asian drivers…but…hmmm…no comment).

In Melbourne, if you cross a cyclist, be prepared for a torrent of violent abuse. Although admittedly it’s rather difficult to take abuse seriously from someone dressed head to toe in Lycra wearing a crash-helmet with air-holes.

I have a theory on why cyclists are always so angry. They were the vertically-challenged guys at school. Combine that with extensive social problems resulting from being breast fed until 7. Now they’ve evolved into an angrier beast altogether – homo rageis cycliens. Even though they are still relatively few, their effect on motorists at large is significant. If Winston Churchill were alive today, he’d say “Never in the field of motorist conflict has so much anger been vented upon so many by so few“.

Many cyclists don't even give directions when asked

Translation: I reckon that mole complains a lot

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Translation: Rommo where the bloody hell are ya?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun

Translation: I’m telling ya mate, this bird Julz is a 10

True is it that we have seen better days

Translation: We’re fucked

For the rain it raineth every day

Translation: It’s been pissing down all week

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Translation: You’re hot

He hath eaten me out of house and home

Translation: My boy’s 28, still at home and eats like an All Black. He’s gotta go

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!

Translation: My kid is a spoilt little shit and he’s doing by head in

A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

Translation: Whaddaya call this love? Ice cream.

I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it

Translation: Castle Hill Tavern is bloody awesome

The miserable have no other medicine but only hope

Translation: So that’s why dole bludgers buy lotto tickets

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him

Translation: Oi fellas, don’t you reckon Tony Abbott’s a dickhead?

Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow

Translation: I’ll see ya tomorrow hey

For you and I are past our dancing days

Translation: It now takes me 3 days to get over a hangover

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

Translation: I can’t understand what he sees in that mole

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is

Translation: What was that ranga bloke’s name again?

Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?

Translation: Stop fucking with me

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Translation: I’d love a beer right now

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

Translation: What the hell kind of nickname is Wanga?

To be, or not to be: that is the question

Translation: What the fuck should I do?

The king’s name is a tower of strength

Translation: Wally Lewis is a living legend

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers

Translation: The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

Translation: I love ya, everything’s going to work out fine, I love everyone, this pill’s fucking awesome

Reading Shakespeare makes you cultured and shit

Tanorexia nervosa is a psychological disorder characterized by obsessive repeated self-tan application. The terms tanorexia and ‘female with self esteem issues’ are often used interchangeably [citation needed], however tanorexia is simply a medical term for spending over 25% of one’s disposable income on tanning products. Tanorexia nervosa has many complicated implications and may be thought of as a lifelong illness that may never be truly cured, but only managed over time.

The average self-tanning application intake of a person with tanorexia nervosa is one 400ML bottle of Le Tan Bronze per day, but extreme cases of complete obsessive tanning are common. A person suffering from this condition is commonly referred to as a fucking mental nut bag [citation needed].

While it can affect men and women of any age, race and socioeconomic and cultural background, anorexia nervosa occurs in the media and advertising industry at an alarming level of 65 times the normal population. It is a serious mental illness most common in countries including Australia, USA, Canada, Britain and New Zealand. Incidences of the condition are relatively low in Africa, sufferers are often labelled ‘Afritans’.

While tanorexia nervosa is quite commonly (in lay circles) believed to be a woman’s illness, it should not be forgotten than 3 per cent of people with anorexia nervosa are male. The rate of the disorder is disproportionally high amongst Aussie Rules players.

There are 4 known common forms of the disorder:

Tanorexia moleski is the most common form of the illness, affecting 83% of all tanorexia sufferers. After excessive self-tanning applciation, sufferers usually resemble the output of a cross pollination experiment between Oprah Winfrey and a butternut pumpkin.

Tanorexia sweatalotakis is a variation of tanorexia moleski and is most commonly found amongst exercise enthusiasts and people with a BMI greater than 30. Perspiration ‘rivers’ often trickle down a sufferer’s neck resulting in a neck that resmbles ridges and valleys on the surface of Mars if it had an atmosphere.

Tanorexia orasian is a form of the disorder common amongst Asian populations. Sufferers often commit the mistake of purchasing self-tan products designed for Anglo-Caucasian skin. A sufferer’s resulting skin appearance closely matches the colour and texture of a valencia orange.

Tanorexia rangatan is a form of the illness suffered by red heads. Let’s face it, ranga’s weren’t designed to sport tans. Just give up already.

In fact it’s my personal goal in 2012 to increase my blog readership by 20%. I’ve set the stretch goal of 6 readers a year now.

I’m sitting on the couch with a quarter full bottle of ‘white’ wine that I found at the back of my fridge. I suspect the wine has been hidden here for 901 days. Note that ‘white’ is an operative word; Dulux would describe the colour of the furry liquid in my glass as ‘stage II melanoma brown’.

Oh well, surely there should be some alcohol in this glass coexisting amongst the numerous questionable orange-coloured floaties. hmm…it’s certainly having an effect, it feels like I’ve consumed a bloody mary followed by a swig of premium unleaded.

“So Jeffro what have you been up to in the past 901 days” I hear you ask? Well, not much:

I moved to Melbourne. Yes…the land of Mexicans, a unique part of the world where people drink coffee at any time of day or night. No wonder why Shane Warne has so much energy for an elderly man.

Melbourne is also an artsy place. Everywhere you look there’s a fucking art gallery. There’s a growing trend of bored unemployed 20-somethings (i.e. philosophy graduates) to open art gallerys in their houses.

The other day I walked past an art gallery showcasing watercolour paintings of microwave ovens. On the subject of artsy, it’s socially acceptable in suburbs north of the river to wear a beret. Seriously, in Sydney you’d get beaten up for even saying the word ‘beret’. In Melbourne there’s specialist beret-shops.

Shopping in Melbourne is a favourite past-time. Many people develop a painful aching of the wrist known as ‘swipe-itis’ caused by frequent swiping of credit cards using the right hand. It’s most common in women, if a bloke said that he’d get laughed out of the pub.

I’ve visited far away, foreign places such as India, China, Spain, HK and Tasmania. Each of these exotic places taught me something new e.g. how to practice positive visualisation when crouching over a toilet bowl in extreme agony with Bombay-belly, how it’s best not to ask what category of animal you’re eating from a street-stall in China, how to save face when being robbed by two Spanish girls, how the practice of abandoning soiled underwear in a nearby bathroom is not socially acceptable after doing the world’s highest bungee jump in Macau, and how to avoid bogans.

I’ve started an MBA. No, not the ‘Mexican Bogan Academy’, ‘Mindnumbingly Boring Artgallery’ or ‘Mary’s Bloody Arsehole’. I made the decision to go back to uni part-time after my enthusiasm for various other extra-curricular activities waned. I tried my hand at stand-up comedy for a while but mostly got as many chuckles as Tony Abbott addressing a group of assylum seekers. Hosting a community radio show was fun for about a year, however when the ratings came out we finished lower than the Victorian Dyslexic Alpaca Farmers Talkback Show.

A couple of numbers from the past 901 days:

901 = number of days I’ve thought about sex

3 = number of Christmases I’ve been disappointed by my present-haul

1 = number of times I’ve been robbed by two girls in Madrid

Our forefathers fought for this

You know those ads that you see when you’re using Facebook? They always seem to be so tailored; it often feels like Mr Facebook himself is looking over your shoulder.

I’m especially bothered by the ads that start delving into your personal life and exploiting your insecurities.

Why am I being offered penis-extension services? I’ve now developed a complex. Did Facebook examine my beach holiday photos and decided that my bulge just didn’t make the cut?

Two days ago Facebook displayed an ad saying “Jeffro, are you tired of having so few friends?”. Thanks guys.

Yesterday I was greeted with a Facebook ad that said “Finally, it’s time to lose that beer gut”.

Today the first Facebook ad I saw said “Find out if you were adopted – the easy way”.

What’s next, ads that say: “You ugly, lonely, fat excuse of a man. Buy the Ab-Man 4000 for rock hard abs today. We know you can afford it because you listed your job title and company.”

I think the creator of Facebook was bullied at school… I guess this is his way of hitting back and cyber-bullying every person in the western world.

Advertising 101 teaches building trust and rapport with your target demographic.

Facebook’s advertising policy is simple: Abuse the hell out of your subscribers, shatter their self esteem and hope they buy your advertisers products before they have a bath and plug the hair-dryer in.

And it’s not just Facebook; even my emails  intelligently invade my personal space somehow.

I sent an email to a good mate of mine, complaining about my over-bearing mother. Gmail (the cheeky-buggers) kindly displayed an ad next to my sent email entitled “Professional hit-man for hire. Great rates, 100% effective.”

The Brits have it good, although though they do love a good moan about the weather, the tube, their cricket team, the price of mince meat, newspapers with ink that rubs off in your hands, the fact that a weird-looking Australian tried to encourage fellow passengers on the 214 bus to get involved in a GreenDay sing-a-long at 7pm on a Friday evening on the way home from Sainsburys.

In fact, I frequently tell all my Brit mates that the UK is so great, that I consider it the second-best country in the world. For some reason, they’ve never appreciated this compliment. Ungrateful bastards.

So, in no particular order, here’s my list of the 5 things I miss the most about London.

1. Dunnyman. A uniquely British creation, Dunnyman (or the female equivalent – Dunnymole) is the lovable ‘attendent’ that dispenses handroll, after-shave, condoms, women-advice and philosphical mantras in the pub toilet. He is well dressed, welcomes everyone with the stock-standard  ‘Freshen up boss!’ greeting, and is almost always from a war-torn or famine-afflicted nation. Despite working in barely-tolerable, unhygienic conditions and copping daily abuse from drunk arrogant punters, Dunnyman is always smiling. I thought Sydney taxi-drivers copped a handful taking my mates home on a Saturday night….I’ve finally found someone with a thicker skin – Dunnyman.

2. Fried Chicken Joints. On every street corner in London, there is a fried chicken joint selling £1 fried chicken pieces, deep-fried in month-old vegetable oil. They’re a cornerstone of the British diet, and have been around for centuries. During the Victorian era, London town-planners laid out the city in such a way that every pub would be no more than a 50m stagger from a FCJ. However, the typical modern-British male is ashamed to frequent a FCJ, often waiting until his friends are on their way home in a cab before checking over his shoulder. In fact they’re sometimes so discreet, a casual observer would believe he’s entering an adult shop.

3. The Church. Every Sunday afternoon between 12-4pm, a “nightclub” in Kentish Town holds a massive piss-up called The Church. Completely dominated by Aussies and Kiwis, it’s a perfect excuse to end the weekend much the same way it started – drinking beer, being loud and obnoxious, eating 5 chicken pieces and a kilo of fries from a FCJ, then passing out in a cab.

4. English Accents. Don’t get me started here, I love English accents. OK, let me distinguish for a minute – I’m not talking about the chav accents from South Ruislip that sound rather like down-syndrome strawberry farmers. “O’ight geezer, giv’us one of ya fags love… innit”. Instead, I’m referring to the educated public-school London accents that you hear everywhere. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit (and please don’t tell my mum) – posh female English accents give me the horn. Often I’d re-check my voice-messages just to hear the lovely Buckinghamshire Vodafone lady tell me that I have no new messages.

5. Apathy Towards Terrorism. While the rest of the world is cowering in fear at the thought of mass-murder on their public transport systems, the Brits simply don’t care. During my first week in London in mid-2005, bombs went off on buses and trains all around central London. The locals simply carried on their day-to-day business without even blinking. I thought what a crazy place to live, no one seems to mind!

Vehicles manufactured in Korea are often of inferior quality.

Me: How was your day mate?

English Friend: Yeah was fine old chap, but the tube was delayed because a bomb went off on the Piccadilly Line…I wish the London Underground would just get their act together and stop making excuses.

Me: So you honestly don’t mind all these bombs going off. What would you do if a suicide bomber sat opposite you on the tube?

English Friend: I wouldn’t care. Well, as long as he doesn’t try and start a conversation with me.

Predictable really, considering that I’ve touched more timezones than the swine-flu in the last 24 hours.

Apologies in advance, as this will probably be my dullest post ever. I’m using you (the reader) as a selfish means to get to sleep. I’m hoping the act of blogging will exhaust me to slumber, rather like the midnight quickie.

Hey, at least I’m being up-front an honest.

Although I must admit, blogging does engage the creative juices a lot more – sorry to all the romanticists out there.

And you have to use your fingers a lot more when you type.

When trying to sleep earlier tonight, I attempted all the usual. Unfortunately, all made my mind more active and alert.

1. Counting sheep – but then I thought of lamb kebabs and became hungry.

2. Counting backwards from 100 – but once I reached 0, I had a crisis. What now? Do I go back up to 100? Or do I go into the minus numbers? Or should I do it again but count backwards in roman numerals?

3. Staring up at the black ceiling until my eyes fell drowsy – but my hyper-active mind started visualising dark shapes moving around on the ceiling and I freaked out. Were they cockroaches? Or a weird alien blob life-form that breeds on the ceilings of Bondi apartments?

4. Writing down my thoughts – which is what I’m currently doing, electronically. Hence, the reason for this post.

Well, I’m going to give it another crack, after all I have to be in the office in 5 hours to read my expected 300 new emails from the past 2 weeks. I’ll make the next post more interesting, promise.