Archive for the ‘Destroy All Art’ Category
For some reason, there are many songs about kebabs on the popular video-sharing website Youtube.
Actually, that reason is pretty obvious. Kebabs are a foodstuff often consumed following the consumption of alcohol.
So, as investigative journalistas, let us take a closer look at the greasy underground of The Homemade Kebab Song:
From Liam, John and Neil comes this effort:
From when I saw the title, “A song, upon the subject of kebabs”, I knew I was in for a meaty treat. I was not disappointed. The most lyrically complex kebab song on offer, these boys sing with the voices of angels. Try to hold back a garlicky tear when they reach the rising crescendo of “Lettuce, Tomato, D-Grade Meat”.
Uberklunt could not have been more wrong when he wrote, ” haha! pitta-ful!” 5 Stars.
Bazzaholtom provides us with this little gem:
A confused song, Mr. Holtom begins by describing unlikely medical maladies derived from eating a bad kebab (diarrhea, yes, but are we to believe that food poisoning would cause his penis to shrink?) before telling of how he would sell rats and cats found on the street to his local kebab shop in exchange for free kebabs. Nevertheless, he would still have a kebab every day if he had his way. All over the place, in the way that a good kebab should not be. 3 stars.
LiptonOwnz brings the noize:
I have no idea what is going on here, but it is mercifully brief. There appears to be an actual kebab being consumed to the left of the action. For that, and the Youtube username, 2 stars.
gitarfreak1 drops it like it is a hot kebab:
A classic of the genre. Gitarfreak1 is not even sober enough to keep the end of his song attached. 0 stars.
And to finish, GazlazML5:
A surprisingly well-produced musical number, though what else would you expect from the unofficial anthem of the Aberdeen Argyle Accordion Band? Again, the subject of intestinal distress is raised, but what else should the AAAB expect from what appear to be home-delivered kebabs (an outrageous concept)? 4 stars.
Now, the front page story in the Herald Sun today was the story of how Melbourne City Council grants have been given to two artists whose art consists of building and then dismantling brick walls. OK. That’s a pretty crucial news story. Bravo, investigative journalism etc, well done on avoiding sensationalism and triviality.
I’m not here to quarrel with the front page story. I am here to quarrel with this editorial on the same subject:
This story starts like this:
“A MELBOURNE City Council grant to pay artists to build a brick wall, only to knock it down again, gives new meaning to ‘thick as a brick.'”
Now here’s the thing, “staff writer”…
No it doesn’t. I concede that you’re just following a trend here, the trend of finding a commonly used phrase with some oblique connection to a story, and then saying “gives new meaning to” in a sad and almost-touching attempt to be witty. I concede that 95 percent of these usages do not in any way demonstrate a new meaning being given to said phrase.
BUT that is no excuse! Can’t you think for three seconds before you write?
I mean, how the hell does that give new meaning to “thick as a brick”? If the artists were dressing up as bricks, perhaps, but they’re not, are they? They’re just building and dismantling walls. And you see, “thick as a brick” means the same thing as it always did, doesn’t it? If you said these artists were “thick as a brick”, it wouldn’t actually develop some devilishly clever double meaning. Dickhead.
And you probably think, OK, “staff writer” has pulled the wrong rein there, but everyone’s allowed one wrong rein-pulling in an article, as long as it is an isolated case.
This is the HERALD SUN, where sensationalism walks hand in hand with semi-literacy, and scaremongering rides tall in the saddle occasionally sipping from a canteen full of cool fresh not-as-funny-as-they-think.
Because it ONLY GETS WORSE. Later in the editorial:
“Another brick in the wall, as we are reminded by the Pink Floyd song, is to cost ratepayers $5500.”
Now I was stunned by this assertion, and immediately ran to my turntable to give “The Wall” a spin. And here’s an interesting fact:
At NO point during the song “Another Brick in the Wall” does Pink Floyd either say, or paraphrase, the sentence, “Another brick in the wall is to cost ratepayers $5500″.
Check it out, Herald Sun! The album is readily available! There is, in fact, no reference to ratepayers at all!
In other words, if you were to listen to any of the three parts of the song “Another Brick in the Wall”, you would not be reminded in any way of the cost to ratepayers of another brick in the wall. What is more, I doubt that this was ever Roger Waters’s intention! It seems, to say the least, far-fetched to suppose that as he sat down to compose his masterpiece, he thought, “Now we need a real epic protest song so that people will never forget how much it cost City of Melbourne ratepayers to hire two women to build and tear down small brick walls. It was $5500, and after this hits the charts, EVERYBODY WILL REMEMBER THAT!”
I do not think this happened.
And to pile outrage upon outrage, it’s not even true that another brick in the wall will cost ratepayers $5500. That is the cost of the entire installation – so one brick would be just a fraction of that. GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT HERALD SUN!
And even if you don’t, please note that a newspaper editorial is, ideally, a considered commentary on current events. The purpose of editorialising becomes, at the least, blurred, when the editorial morphs into some kind of bizarre comedy routine/1970s prog-rock medley.
THINK about it.
Here is a fact that you can take to the bank. Now, the teller is probably going to say something stupid like, “I am sorry, Mr. Smith, you cannot deposit that.”
If they do, you should tell them, “Mr. Smith is my father’s name. Call me Cam.”
Then ask to speak to the manager. The manager might kick up a stink. Just calmly explain to him that, as a customer, you are right. If he still won’t accept this fact, well good. I am glad you are having a bad time of it because I am fairly sure you are trying to steal my identity. Anyway, here is the fact:
Crowded House are creepy as fuck.
Take, for example, the song Fall At Your Feet and these particularly creepy lyrics:
“I’m really close tonight, and I feel like I’m moving inside her.”
Bit creepy, Crowded House. Why not move into a semi-detached townhouse? Or a bungalow?
And then there’s Don’t Dream It’s Over.
Don’t dream WHAT’S over, Neil Finn? Your hobo-killing spree?
An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day, of asphyxiation after being buried under a pile of his new money
It’s a black fly in your Chardonnay, a few seconds after you said, “Gee I’m glad there’s no fly in my Chardonnay”
It’s a death row pardon two minutes too late, because you took a few minutes transcribing your application into neater handwriting to impress the governor
And isn’t it ironic… don’t you think
It’s like rain on your wedding day, after you paid ten thousand dollars for a special rain machine so you could simulate rain for some romantic “wedding in the rain” photos
It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid, particularly if your partner told you there were free rides and you didn’t believe them so paid for your ride and then right afterwards it’s like, “free rides everyone, step right up!”
It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take, probably regarding the free ride, or possibly the advice about not taking all your lottery winnings in cash
Who would’ve thought… it figures
Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
“Well isn’t this nice…”, because it turned out that unbeknownst to him, being in plane crashes gave him a profound sexual thrill, and his timidity all these years had denied him true happiness till this day
And isn’t it ironic… don’t you think
Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything’s okay and everything’s going right
Although it would be unreasonable to try to attribute some kind of sentience to the phenomenon
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything’s gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face
Like for instance maybe you get a big payout from the company that caused the explosion that allows you to live in luxury for the rest of your life, albeit very badly scarred
A traffic jam when you’re already late, because of a short circuit in the traffic light system that you actually orchestrated in order to facilitate your terrorist attack, which you are now late for
A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break, which was put up as a direct result of your three-year campaign for more stringent occupational health and safety rules in the workplace
It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, because you filled out the cutlery requisition form incorrectly, because at the time you were feeling really light-headed because you hadn’t eaten for a while, because the only thing in the kitchen was cereal and at the time you didn’t have any spoons
It’s meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife, who is an international criminal who has stolen your identity
And isn’t it ironic…don’t you think
A little too ironic…and, yeah, I really do think…
Erstwhile Australian Idol contestant Toby Moulton apparently “hopes his high-profile passion for teaching will encourage more young men to consider a career in the classroom.”
Alex Hallatt is once again sailing close to the winds of political correctness with her papier-mache insights.
Is she a visionary? Or just a bigot?
Oh my boots and braces, somebody please call 000 and explain to them that this is not a prank, but that I have literally split my sides hyper-chortling at this cartoon.
And I’ll tell you why.
It’s because it’s hilarious.
What we have here is a little something that we in the ‘biz like to call a “Triple Hitter”.
This is a concept that may seem alien to Southerners, who have been raised on a diet of shallow surface-level editorial cartooning where everyone is either walking into the sunset (because Mark Knight thinks he can’t draw noses. You can, Mark. You’re too hard on yourself) or everything is happening behind a dust storm (because Bruce Petty has a dark Cold War secret that he drinks to forget). While this Southern tripe may only tackle one issue at a time, the Triple Hitter takes on 3. Madness.
Let’s take a look at this Wicking offering.
Issue 1. There are many lesbians in Alice Springs. There were reports that Chinese men were searching for a lost Swedish city populated entirely by man-hungry lesbians. For more information, see the accompanying article, ‘Welcome to a town dyke Alice’.
Issue 2. Lesbians don’t shave their armpits and have monobrows.
Issue 3. Asians have wee squinty eyes and talk funny.
Served on mashed yam with a jus of ‘a clever reference to a tourism campaign that ended in 2007′, these disparate elements come together to create a truly transcendental work of art.
The other day I was wrong about men eating peaches. It was a real crying shame.
And I’ll tell you why.
I had been telling everyone about this peach theory I had. I had been blogging about it, twittering about it, podcasting about it. I sent my mother a letter – registered mail. I told people I knew, and I told people I didn’t know. Librarians, cashiers, your mother.
I yelled about it in the City Square for 19 hours, taking only 5 minute breaks every 2 hours. A man from Guinness was there adjudicating. He said it was the longest peach-related rant they had ever recorded, but he would have to check if that was actually a category.
The point is, I told a lot of people the wrong thing. I told them we were not living in the future, because a man could not watch another man eating a peach on demand, yet a man could.
Either I apologise to each of them, or I change the parameters of the experiment to compensate for the deliciousness of peaches and the mind-blowing aesthetic qualities of the peach-eating process.
This morning I thought, “If we were truly living in the future, I could watch men setting carrots on fire. On demand.”
And can I?
Okay, so here is the thing.
I had a thought the other day about the future.
My thought was that if we were truly living in the future, we would be able to watch men eating peaches at the click of a button.
As I failed to find any videos of men eating peaches, I concluded that we were not living in the future.
It turns out that I just didn’t look hard enough. If I had clicked just one more button, I might have seen…
Today I had a thought, and the thought that I had was that we are truly living in the future.
Imagine, I thought, that if I wanted to see a man eating a peach, that amazing sight was only a few button pushes away.
If we’re not living in the future, where are we living?
The past? The PRESENT?
What if The Coming Insurrection was right???
What if the only way we can truly appreciate a man eating a peach is if we pick that peach from a peach tree that has grown tall and proud out of the ashes of the failed capitalist system?
It’s just not the same. If everyone could please take to the streets immediately, it would be much appreciated.