Misogyny test
Seeing a man doing idiotic burnouts in his overpowered status car and thinking
“Why does he do it?”.
Seeing a woman tottering down a footpath in her crippling shoes and thinking
“Why do they do it?”.
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Neurodrooling 
I got one: Males upon receiving a conviction when found guilty of murder are said to be feeling remorse from the look on their face; but the slut who has an abortion, is forbidden to grieve.
Doesn’t Iggy look drop dead georgeous-in that frock of deepest arsenic green! He’d certaily give Barbara Windsor a run for her money in a “Best Babe of Post-War Britain” poll.
A gawdess I admire is Susan Tyrrell, she and Iggy were in a movie together Cry-Baby. I
think that’s her frocking dress!
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I need to be careful about slut-shaming and sinking the boot into those who grieve over aborted foetuses. It’s largely women who perpetrate those particular misogynies and I wouldn’t want to remind them who the real enemy is.
Credit where it’s due. Us blokes just couldn’t manage the patriarchy without an army of Lady Quislings backing us up.
I bet as I write Sid James is scratching at his coffin lid trying to get at him.
I think Iggy’s see-through jeans are the big hit with the ladies though. He sure knows how to hypnotise chickens. No hen party is complete without him.
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Just checked out Susan Tyrell’s real name. Stage names can be pretty important sometimes.
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Iggy’s astro-details are available so I looked up the degree symbol for his black moon lilith.
I agree, it is large women who perpetrate particular misogynies. As a genuwhine bogan
crone, I have worked devotedly to divest myself of following unwittingslow circuslike in the orthopaedic heels of my foreharpies and great grandshrews. That’s my excuse and I’m
flogging it on craigslist.
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You only said that because yesterday was Magdalene’s Day. I smell a closet papist.
According to an unrepentant whore I know Mary Magdalene wasn’t really a prozzie at all. Apparently she did that hair-foot fetish stuff because she liked it.
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I wasn’t aware yesterday was Magdalene’s Day. Learned something new.
However, notice that you didn’t interpret that symbol – firstly, from a different
context. Kinda dark in that closet, isn’t it?
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Huh?
OK, I’ll bite.
Which symbol didn’t I interpret and in what context?
I thought I’d picked up a bit of astrology (along with various other pathologies) from my Mum but to me ‘degree symbols’ are those little circular superscripts that tell you a number is meant to represent an angle or a temperature.
And hey, I notice you didn’t click on the link to Iggy’s plastic daks I so thoughtfully provided, so you would have missed how clever my reference to chickens and hen parties was. You would also have missed a performance by Iggy-fuckin-Pop!
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And how did Barbara Windsor get voted “Best Babe of Post-War Britain” anyhow?
Hadn’t Susan George been invented yet?
Or did her surname carry the day with all those pommy royalty perverts?
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Aah, dude, I have a s-l-o-w dial-up connection that is painful with a capital Puh! But I did get a DVD of Iggy today from the library, In the Hands of the Fans-Iggy and the Stooges Raw Power
LIVE. Um…..I don’t recognise Mo, Larry & Curly though.
Moving right along….I was yanking your chain about the “Best Babe of Post-War Britain”
thang. I think Susan George and Sarah Miles hadn’t been hatched then if there was a poll.
Ya gotta watch me, I’m tricksy.
Degree symbols in astrology, one bunch are called the Sabian Symbols. I’m a Sabian Astrologer
when I’m not taking the mick. (gosh, there’s that closest Papist again, who left the stable door
open?)
Why do we automatically assume a woman washes a man’s feet and dries them with
her hair is able-bodied? Has use of her upper limbs and hands….
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Why dinchya say so?
I had the same problem up until I moved house a few months ago and got a phone line that’s not just a bit of string connecting empty baked bean tins.
I’d assumed you woke up every arvo, crawled out of the cardboard box in the bus shelter, tripped over last night’s empties then drooled and ponged your way to the local library to scrounge some free internet access. I was hoping the soft core Iggy clip would give a bit of a pick-me-up to all the elderly church-going ladies reading Fifty Shades of Grey between fake Jane Austen covers.
Here’s the same clip I’ve set up so you can download then play it as an MP4. It’ll probably chew up all your bandwidth for 40 mins or more so best to click on it just before you settle back to watch your Best of The Paul Hogan Show DVD (though I guess that’ll still leave you over 35 mins to kill).
Sadly my MP4 of Iggy playing live in San Franscisco in a leather mini-skirt, garters and fishnets is too big for me to upload that way. (I kid you not, BTW, but it was Frisco so half the guys in the audience were probably dressed the same way).
Ahh, so now you know.
Wanna try to imagine what it’s like to be down the front at a performance like that? To be pinned under Iggy’s feral gaze from a foot away? To have the maniac fly through the air and land on you when you’re already about to croak from ecstasy, exhaustion, dehydration and anoxia?
That’s why I’m permanently head-fucked. Too many Iggy ODs.
Sadly both Ron and Scott Asheton have gone to that great gig in hell so you don’t get any more live performances from the Funhouse line-up. But the Raw Power line-up with James Williamson on lead is a second-best that’s still light years ahead of the best anyone else has ever managed.
I’m afraid your literacy has let you down there. You obviously mean Sabian Cymbals. If you’ve been seeing stars you’re standing too close to the drum kit.
I wouldn’t have made any such assumption about her body.
Her mind on the other hand …
Silly.
Being a natural woman isn’t about how you feel. It’s about how you’re felt.
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I don’t think there’s any footage of the concert in which Iggy distilled punk to its absolute essence.
Over an hour after he’s due to come on he grabs a mike and explains to the audience he’s hanging like a c*** and has no cash for his dealer. So he needs a whip ’round to raise some drug money. No problem as it turns out.
Iggy goes backstage for a while then returns looking a whole lot happier. The band launches into the opening bars of Down on the Street and right on cue he vomits and drops. Out cold. End of concert.
How Zen can you get?
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I think Iggy doesn’t have the power to make me feel like a natural woman. He’s not
wearing a shirt I can iron.
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Ta. I’ll get that the next time I hit the library.
I was trying to remember if I actually noticed Iggy back in the 70s. The only song I recall hearing
is Real Wild Child but didn’t know who sang it. I was into Acca Dacca & Bon Scott back then. Alice Cooper. Then I went to live in New Zealand and, musically, the early 80s are just a blank for me. Hmmm.
You’re braver than me gunga-din; I would have been scared.
*pout*
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I didn’t notice Iggy until the mid 70s, even though my rock’n’roll obsession started with Detroit (the very first album I bought was Suzi Quatro’s Can the Can and as soon as I heard Alice Cooper’s School’s Out I started saving up for his whole back catalog). It was only with what I then thought was the advent of punk that I kept noticing covers by my favourite bands were credited to The Stooges and thought I’d better check ’em out. Hearing Funhouse was a game changer and I don’t think much has happened with my musical taste since then. You can’t improve on perfection.
I didn’t catch him live until ’83 and he was a bit of a fucking mess at the time but I’ve seen him five times since and he never failed to deliver. At The Big Day Out in 1993 he was onstage with ultra-hot rock goddess Kim Gordon (Sonic Youth) and I just didn’t know where to look. It’s testament to how fucked up with depression I was that I missed his 2006 and 2011 tours with the reformed Stooges.
You know that’s a Johnny O’Keefe cover, right?
You think I wasn’t?
It’s not a proper gig unless I’ve gone through every emotional extreme and emerged deaf, bleeding, exhausted, ecstatic and at least two kilos lighter.
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Geez, how could I have forgotten Suzi Q!! Heart – Magic Man. KISS!
Those were the days…Detroit Rock City I made a collector very happy at one
of my garage sales in the 90s.
I do now. Recently watched the DVD of Sunbury 73 with JO’K
Didn’t know about the collaboration with Bowie either.
Now I know why my memory of the early 80s is blankish – used to go to the
pub gigs for Mother Goose and then to the Renown in Nth Fitzroy
each week to see some bush-folk band, whose name escapes me, with some
old high school mates who lived in the boonies of Bundoora. Then when
that phase ended, would hit the discos and nightclubs with the girls after
we finished work at midnight.
Oh, fuck, now I’ve given myself flashbacks from the Summerville and Meadow Inn….
get behind me Satin flares!
I remember seeing Desperately Seeking Susan so Iggy’s “Lust for Life”
must be kicking around in my subconcious someplace.
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Despite wearing suits on stage J’OK was definitely the real deal. I’m sorry I never saw him perform. I still sometimes get Shout! as an earworm, though it must be decades since I heard it. His brother was a nebbish magistrate whom his fellow beaks referred to as ‘The Mild One’.
Ah, Mother Goose. That brings back memories. (“Baked beans, oh baked beans. Baked beans, oh baked beans …“.) One of the packs of Dunedin loons who invaded our pubs in the 70s and early 80s. Toy Love, Straightjacket Fits, The Chills, The Tall Dwarves, The Verlaines … As far as I’m concerned the rest of the Shaky Isles are a talent free zone. Except for Flight of the Conchords of course.
Craig, the vocalist in the sailor’s suit, once blessed me with a bash to the bonce with a stuffed duck at our local blood & spew bucket, The Ocean Beach Hotel.
Funny how easily the names (and songs) of bush bands slip into the Alzheimer’s Zone. Maybe it’s because you had to be very drunk to sit through a performance. If you could stand up you’d walk out. The one exception I can think of is the name Moose Malone and His Country Casanovas. Can’t remember anything else about them though.
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As an aside China Girl is playing on my radio now.
He certainly was. I saw him as King of Moomba in 1968, when I was a little tacker.
Wot about Marc Hunter?? Split Enz – the Finn brothers??
What I remember about living in New Zealand is that we made our own music.
Used to work in the pub six days out of seven, and every night we’d go back to
someone’s place and after a while, a maori would grab the guitar and we’d sit around
singing. Never ceased to amaze me that after all the good booze was gone, there
would be the ubiquitous bottle of Creme de Menthe; which was the cue to go home,
catch a few zzz’s, then get up, go to work, party, sing. Goodnight kiwi!
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I rest my case.
I’ve never been to NZ but a friend of mine got a long term promotional gig for Flying Nun Records. Lots of free albums. Lots of free gigs. Backstage passes.
Another friend of mine worked with Neil Finn and assured me he’s a lovely bloke. Shame about his brother. Shame about his music.
One of the best pieces of subvertising I saw was a Town Hall station billboard of Marc Hunter telling us “Southern Comfort tastes like … ummm”. Some wag with a spraycan and stencil had put a “c” in front of the “ummm”.
God knows why Hunter turned to CAM to help him die of cancer. He had an inside line on some of the best smack available in Australasia. Terry Clark’s #1 Reserve White Rocks.
Howz your crabby carcinoma doing, BTW?
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It’s bored shitless, can’t you tell?
Thanks for asking.
Howz the genocide of your friends going?
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Well at least I’m not shitless. One of the side-effects is keeping me close to the dunny.
The clinicians supervising my course suggested I decrease my fluid intake and scoff Lomotils! Do you fucking believe it? The goddamn course (and my arsehole) runs for three months!
Apparently most of the other patients are getting the runs too, so if they’re getting the same advice I’ve been getting the clinicians are gonna start recording headaches, hallucinations, convulsions and chronic gut infections as side-effects of the course when really they’re side-effects of the idiotic suggestions of the people running it.
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You could take ferro-f-tab which is an elemental iron & folic acid supplement to ‘bind’ you
up a bit and slow things down. That’s if you’re not already on iron supplements? Using
Have a think about what you scoffed as a kid that had a hardening effect and include that
in your daily intake. (Touch of voudou homeopathy there)
Have you and the other folks organised yourself with a support group on Facebook or
something so you can trade notes directly and not have the clinicians as gatekeeper?
Shitting through the eye of a needle is a major issue for folks with colo-rectal cancers, everything you want to know about how to sort it, you can cruise the forum of The Colon Club (click my name).
Lots of people in there are doing trials; you might recognize the name of the meds.
Yep, I hear you loud and clear on that; ain’t no cure for stupid. That list of reactions you got there are not to be fobbed off. When you’re not so busy dropping the kids off at the pool, drop me a line if you need someone to swing a chook..
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I am. That’s on account of the pills trashing my platelets and haemoglobin.
If that means going back to my Mum’s cooking I think I’d rather just shit. Hell, I rather eat shit.
As far as I know I’ve never even met anyone else on the course. Apparently we’ve all got different consult times. Mine are early Wednesday arvos. And if they did give me ID info about other patients I’d have their balls for breaching confidentiality. We’re mostly former or current junkies remember.
Next time you’re at the clubhouse say hello to Boy George for me.
What the pills are doing to my guts are a pretty minor issue for me. I did spend almost five years in India after all. And unlike the finest medical minds in the country I understand the importance of maintaining hydration and salt levels.
I’ll check the link but I think I’m in a more exclusive club than them. There’s less than 120 people in Aus who’ve received these little shit squirters.
I’d never drop kids off at a pool. You can get into a lot of trouble for water pollution these days. I always bury them in the backyard.
So are your email addresses for real then? You seem to have a few dozen of them.
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There are seven types of stools (faeces) according to the Bristol Stool Chart. The Bristol Stool Chart or Bristol Stool Scale is a medical aid designed to classify faeces into seven groups.
A nurse told me about this BSC when I was in hospital. I’ll point my finger at the numerical
connection of seven chakras with seven turds;
You have a marvellous opportunity here, dude. This chart is almost 20 years old, needs to be upgraded and with new data included. Plus it was developed by scandinavians in the first place, so full of red herrings.
Now you know what your higher purpose and mission for this lifetime is. Sic ’em, Rex!
http://www.continence.org.au/pages/bristol-stool-chart.html
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Hell yeah!
I reckon I’ve done at least twelve different kinds of shits this morning alone. I may have finally found my calling. Maybe they’ll name a turd after me.
Oh Dunny boy, the poops, the poops are calling …
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The current one is for real.
I was just thinking that maybe there was a noticeboard and a flyer could be put up, “any participants in XYZ trial want to swap notes, Facebook group at..” that sort of thing. Well,
I might have missed the part about everyone being mostly former/current junkies, which
makes me wonder about embedded prejudices in the clinicians overseeing the trial.
Nah, more along the lines of those sticks of Kraft cheese and stodgy white bread before the days of high fibre, stuff like that which slows down the motility.
You poor buggar!
http://www.spike.com/articles/95f9um/the-top-eight-perfect-songs-to-poop-to
Gotta love the internet.
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I think the clinicians are cool with us ex-junkies. They’re liver specialist so they’ve been dealing with us for years.
I used to run across cranky old doctors who hated junkies pretty often in the old days. One guy in Kempsey told me he didn’t like people like me because we financially supported drug pushers. “Oh,” I said, “So you’ll be waiving your fee for this consult then? I’m sure you’re not some kind of hypocrite.” It took a couple of minutes for him to get his alcohol-fried neurons around that one then he started yelling and kicked me out.
Truth be told, even that paragon of drug law reform, Alex Wodak (who I used to work with as an activist), is pretty contemptuous of addicts. He starts with the assumption they’re all liars and manipulators. Well, of course we are. But I bet he doesn’t treat drug company reps like that.
Mostly nursing staff, etc are OK though. And Ingrid Van Beek simply stole my heart.
As a matter of fact I’ve been eating a lot of grilled processed cheese on toast for just that reason. Unfortunately I can’t resist smothering it in chilli powder, which kinda defeats the purpose.
But nothing could compare with my Mum’s cooking. She had two recipes.
1. Vegetables.
– peel everything, even the defrosted peas
– chuck it all in a huge saucepan of water and bring to boil
– keep boiling until the contents are an homogenous puree
– serve with a ladle, making a satisfying splatter on the plate
2. Meat
– cover the bottom of a frypan with a thick layer of the cheapest, most rancid vegetable oil available
– chuck in the meat and put it on an electric hotplate set low to medium
– continue cooking until the fat festers, the lean is like leather and the whole mess is greasier than a car salesman packing a sump with sawdust
– serve with a threatening glare and a story about children starving in Africa
She could make the whole digestive process superfluous.
If it wasn’t for my Nan’s Sunday night chicken roasts and the fresh fruit from my Pop’s garden we probably would have been getting aid packages from Biafra.
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My mum was a fitter and turner as well. .You’ve just described to a “T”
how my mum would cook. Dad was a recreational fisherman and she
didn’t bone the fish so good. Russian roulette redfin and my folks used to
worry I would choke to death on a pencap.
Mum was good for banana splits, sundaes, trifles, salads and fried rice, that
would ‘catch’ on the bottom of the frying pan and be really nice and crunchy.
She took the knack for that to her grave.
Try paprika on the grilled cheese.
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Jesus. Banana splits? Sundaes? Trifles?
The closest we got to that sort of thing was licking the pictures of it we saw in magazines. At least that used to make the people ahead of us in the doctor’s waiting room leave. The most exotic I dessert I ever saw was Neapolitan ice cream on my birthdays. However my Pop grew strawberries! (sigh). For some reason he could never get them to taste like the artificially flavoured strawberry milk we got at school though (I think the secret is to leave the bottles standing in direct sunlight from 8am until recess).
My Mum could do salads though. What can go wrong with quartering a few tomatoes and chucking them in a bowl with some iceberg lettuce? She rarely found any use for them though. “Whaddya mean, ‘dressing’? You’re old enough to dress yourself now, you snotty nosed little ingrate.”
Mum couldn’t do fried rice but Nan did. Hers was strangely black and kludgy. I think she boiled it in soy sauce before finishing it in the frypan. Mostly she used it as stuffing but sometimes she added a couple of spoonfuls to a meal as a kind of condiment.
Yeah, I’ve actually been substituting smoked paprika for chilli powder on the cheese for the past couple of weeks, truth be told. You don’t get the same capsaicin hit from paprika though. I might have to go out and bait a cop until he gives me a snort of the good stuff.
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I can see the headlines now:
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Reblogged this on God's Bastard and commented:
Note: this tool works whichever way you hold it. It’s magic, like.
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