Years ago I was flat-sharing in Bondi, and it seemed all of Pop Culture-Dom was losing its shit over, and putting its collective heads together to solve, the mystery of who killed Laura Palmer. My then flat mate would set the VCR to record 'Twin Peaks', if she was going to be out during the scheduled programming time. This was pre-Netflix etc. From memory it was Laura's father who killed the poor bitch before wrapping her corpse in plastic, which spawned one of the classic lines at the time, delivered by some character actor who sounded exactly like Huckleberry Hound: 'She's day-ud, an' wraaapped in plaast-eekk.' This translates to, 'She's dead, and wrapped in plastic', but I was trying to paint a picture with my words by typing the sentence in phonetic, backwoods, sibling-fucker dialect. Yes, it was a mystery that had everybody glued to their television sets. I also remember the all time greatest cliff-hanger that launched many a conspiracy theory and a long, long list of suspects: Who shot JR? For those of you who can't remember, or who want to know but haven't had the nous to Google it, the answer is Bobby's sister-in-law, Kristin Shepherd. Aaaah, those were the days.
Now, we've got people wondering who is 'Becky with the good hair'? Honestly, who fucking cares? I sure as shit don't! Reports and theories are clogging my newsfeed, and the notion that Beyoncé is taking a swipe at an unfaithful husband whom it would appear, if the lyrics are indicative, has cheated with someone who has nice hair. I will take the opportunity to suggest that Beyoncé not worry too much if someone has been blessed with lustrous locks - she has an arse that could crack walnuts, which is nothing to be sneezed at. I have just seen an article by a woman who claims to have been the inspiration for 'Becky' - she gave Beyoncé's husband Jay Z a blowie in the front of a car many years ago. It should be noted the woman's hair is nothing to write a poem about, either. I cannot understand why anybody would wish made public an incident in their past wherein they fellated Jay-Z. Oh wait, maybe I can; it's called Fame/Notoriety & Possible Cash Grab. Also, why are people rhapodising about Beyoncé's film clip, the one in which she is dressed in a long, ruffled mustard-coloured dress and bashing the shit out of some car windows? Everybody is likening her to some kind of Boudiccea/Amazon/Jeanne d'Arc hybrid. All I see is someone wearing an immensely unflattering and ugly rag whilst committing senseless vandalism.
It's that time of year, and the advertisements are hawking the Mothers' Day merchandise. We are told to 'Spoil Mum this Mothers' Day with a CD...' Now, where this mother-of-two is concerned, the problem is this: the anthologies suggested as gifts are really nothing more than a manifestation of the truffle butter produced by Satan and his missus. If you're wondering what 'truffle butter' is, Google it. I encountered this colloquialism on the urban dictionary last night, by complete accident. I was looking up 'glory hole'. Why I was looking up 'glory hole' is because it was mentioned in a passage I was then reading, with no clue of the definition in the context or subtext. So I did the sensible thing and looked up the definition. I then saw a list of related trending phrases, and clicked on the intriguingly titled 'truffle butter'. The definition made me go 'ick', but it also gave me a new phrase to use when in need of a metaphor for my writing. I usually use Satan's bodily fluids as a metaphor, but everyone is used to me describing something as the smegma from Satan's foreskin, so I needed something new. And yes, a Satanically generated mass of truffle butter is a good way to refer to the suggested Mothers' Day compilations. These CDs feature, without fail or variance: Lionel Ritchie, Michael Bolton, Michael Buble, Barbara Streisand, Most-Recent-Winner-Of-Reality-Television-Talent-Contest et al. And without fail or variance, my initial reaction to such a CD would be skeet practice. I wish advertisers and music industry types would promote some other stuff for us mums. Along with these middle-of-the-road CDs (a good place to leave them), they always suggest buying a DVD, and the DVD usually has a wishy-washy storyline, and stars Ryan Gosling or Jennifer Lawrence. Sometimes they feature Cameron Diaz, or Julia Roberts, or Richard Gere. Most often they have Hugh Grant playing, well, Hugh Grant (notwithstanding he is damned cute). Do marketing types not realize there are mums out there that actually favour Quentin Tarantino movies, and listen to hard rock and metal? I was tempted to type 'if Mr Bingells and Masters 14 and 11 are reading this, hint, hint...', but they know my tastes. In any event, I will put in an early Happy Mothers' Day to all the mums reading this.
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