Thursday, August 20, 2009

Sex – The Wheel Deal

I have a theory.

It has long been suggested that a man’s car is an extension of his penis. So those little guys who buy a flash car with a big engine are actually saying to the world: “My dick is soooo small that I am seriously overcompensating.”

And if you’ve got the money, why not? For a woman it’s relatively easy (if expensive) to go down to the plastic surgeon and say: “Up the cups from A to D, please.”

I’ve watched Dr 90210. I’ve seen it happen. [Though I’m so out-of-date I switched to Dr 90210 thinking “I wonder what Kelly and Brenda are up to this week?” – up to a C-cup as it turned out.]

Because boobs are a woman's most obvious visual sexual feature.

A guy, on the other hand, can’t go down to the surgeon and say: “I’d like another six inches tagged on, please.”

Because there are so many factors involved with the male plumbing. Blood rushes in to make it hard and is held there in a series of chambers. If you make things too big, then there’s the risk of being unable to maintain rigidity and consciousness at the same time. You can't just insert a 13-inch implant and expect Oscar-winning performances.

"We did have to graft off half your arse to provide the coverage needed... and it does look a bit like a patchwork quilt now..."

But there are some options available. You can have fat sucked out of the love handles and injected into the male mushroom of love. But this doesn’t make it longer, just fatter. So you end up two inches long and three feet wide.

Instead of all these options – of which men are extremely wary anyway; especially when it comes to someone else playing with his python with sharp tools – it’s far easier just to buy a flash car.

I was driving to work this morning and some idiot in a late model Holden was tailgating me down the hill. He then detoured to take a slightly longer route at high speed so that he could emerge from a side street slightly ahead of me down the road and cut me off.

Let’s face it. He was a massive tool with a micro tool inside a massive tool.

And it then occurred to me that everyone’s driving behaviour is different. And I began to wonder: What if people drive like they make love?

Boy racers in their Subarus, fluorescents, mags and twin-turbo engines. These are young guys effectively masturbating in public. They “dress up” and “go out” hoping for some “easy action”. They are car sluts. Sexually Transmissioned Diseases out there hogging the beds of our roads. And if they don't score, they'll get it done themselves.

Other guys will just be rude about it. These are the one-night-standers. They haven’t been caught out enough to improve their behaviour; so they cut you off at intersections, indicate when they remember, and – while less speed-freaked than the STDs – have no real regard for the speed limit. They might even have a late model BMW they keep in a garage and only drive at weekends.

If you get one of these guys in a relationship, he will steal the covers at night, never remember your birthday and dump you when he's reached your credit limit.

Fortunately, many drivers are family guys. They might have some bad habits, but overall they obey the road rules. The well-trained ones are happy to wait just that moment longer at an intersection to improve your day. The generous lovers who want to reach their destination, but also have regard for the comfort of their passengers. They love their car and take time to keep it well maintained without obsessing about it.

[I try to be that guy... try... haha]

Women? Well, my theory might apply there, too. After all, insurance companies keep insisting that women are better drivers than men. I think it could be because they’re confident they’ll get there, but time – and therefore speed – is not of any real consequence.

They're generous, too. Often unselfishly thinking of others. They'll let you in; but most of the time just to be friends.

Now, I’m painting with a fairly wide brush here. But I think it bears thinking about. And I will continue to think about it, as I sit at the lights on my way home tonight, wishing death upon the moron in the ponced up Mazda in front of me.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

I Drive a Lexus ... Your Call

Car names attracted my interest at the weekend.

I find it odd that people are employed to come up with names for the company’s flash new vehicle. Some of them make sense – the Suzuki Swift, for example. Mazda’s series of RX2, RX3, RX7 and RX8s all reflected that they were experimental rotary engines.

Others we just don’t really think about: Ford’s long had the Falcon, which actually has no feathers at all. Holden has a Commodore despite the vehicle not technically being a yacht.

I saw one this morning actually, it was something like a Toyota Armada Illustrious.

When I was a kid my father had a penchant for Ford Zephyrs. He liked the Mark III with its v-fins and six cylinder grunt that allowed him to roar past the Wolesleys, Consuls, Singers and other ’70s shit that used to pollute the roads.

Zephyr – a light breeze. What were they thinking? Were they referring to the six-cylinder motor’s compression? Were they referring to the hurricane which accompanied one of these monsters passing you on the open road? They had the aerodynamics of a concrete slab.

But I digress.

I had an idea at the weekend that car manufacturers should be forced to name a car after its target market.

Like instead of the Honda CR-X you’d have the Honda Hot Blonde Chick.

There would be no confusion. You wouldn’t have some misguided middle-aged accountant accidentally driving around in a Honda Hot Blonde Chick.

No, instead the car sale ads would all be for the new Subaru Suicide; the BMW 5-Series Just Made Partner; the Volvo Moderately Successful Architect; the Mitsubishi Wannabe; the Ferrari I Make Way Too Much Fucking Money; the Porsche Drug Dealer; and the Toyota My Life Is Over minivan people-mover.

Hmmm... what would you drive?

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Mr Potter, I presume?

The end is nigh.

No, not doomsday; I’m referring to the end of the Harry Potter film trilogy. There’s only one book (two movies' worth) of information left to hit the big screen.

What amuses me, though, is the difference between those who have read the books, and those who say: “I’ll just wait for the film to come out”.

I’ve read the books. They’re light, easy entertainment and Jess certainly knows how to twist a good plot. The last book was a great thrillride.

Did you notice the pattern though? In each of the last four books an important character was killed off: Cedric Diggory in Goblet of Fire; Sirius Black in Order of the Phoenix; Dumbledore in Half-Blood Prince; and Harry (briefly), Voldemort and a handful of others in Deathly Hallows.

People were sad when Diggory died; shocked when Black died and virtually went into mourning when Dumbledore took a terminal dive off a Hogwarts tower.

So I went to see Half-Blood Prince at the cinema last week. At the end of the film there were two distinct reactions among the audience, depending on whether they had read the book or not.

Those who had read the book: Wow, that was fun. I love how they played the teen romance thing for laughs. That was the lightest Harry Potter film in a long time.

Those who hadn’t read the book: What do you mean Dumbledore’s dead? Does he come back? That’s sooo sad. I’m just going to have a little cry.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Squeal, little piggy, squeal!

There’s a new channel on my digital TV service – it’s called Wild.

Now you’d think it would be some hot music channel or maybe a teen party channel; possibly even an outback Alaska channel. Nope. This one is the hunting channel.

I watch it occasionally because it’s hilarious. Unintentionally, of course. There are great moments when a guy will be stalking a deer or something and he’ll turn to camera to explain his great plan.

“Whisper whisper!” he’ll say excitedly. “Whisper whisper whisper whisper! Whisper!”

What’s he saying? Fucked if I know. He’s whispering and there’s wind blowing across the microphone. But I’m pretty sure his intention is to try to sneak up on his prey, line up a shot, and then blow some innocent animal into its afterlife.

The funniest one was at the weekend. I have no idea what show it was, but there was this guy in full army camouflage gear – including camouflage hat and green plastic-looking combat boots.

I mean, this guy was seriously looking the part. He was an M-16 and a grenade away from invading Iran single-handed.

And he was out hunting with his mother. She was about 80 and grey-haired and also wearing full army camouflage with hat and boots to match.

They were – and I’m glad I’m typing this because I cannot say it without falling down laughing – they were out hunting wild piggies with a crossbow. It’s true!

Anyway, I watched with morbid fascination as son set-up the crossbow and aimed at the little piggies; then Mom stepped up and took the shot. Now the crossbow bolt went whizzing across the field and implanted itself right through the gut of Mr Piggy.

Mr Piggy was surprised. He thought: “Hmmm… I best get the fuck out of here!” and started trotting off as fast as his little trotters would carry him.

But it was too late, because he already had a mortal wound. Now the crossbow bolt, incredibly, at the hilt, lit up in a fluorescent red; so what I saw was a little black pig-shape and a red fluorescent blur racing across the screen.

Now Mom (who would be Mum in New Zealand, but it was an American show), turns and smiles to the camera. And son steps up and says something like: “Now, I know there’s some people out there that don’t agree with this. But I cannot think of a better mother-son activity than hunting pigs with a crossbow. I love you, Mom.”

Then they set off after the disappearing red fluorescent blur, and take Mom’s picture with the now dead Mr Piggy. I’m sure in their very non-dysfunctional way they would have cut off the leg and belly roasts and headed on home.

Then there would have been the command: “Here it is, now cook it up, bitch.”

And the response: “Yes, Mom.”

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Throwing shit on TV is not OK

Finally, New Zealand television has crossed the line.

Now we Kiwis are a fairly liberal bunch – we have a general principle of “if nobody gets hurt, there’s no problem”, which actually extends to “if somebody gets hurt, but you’re drunk, then that’s OK too”.

My favourite radio station, The Edge, doesn’t loop, so there’s often an inadvertent “fuck” on the air. On TV there’s a “watershed” of 8.30pm, by which time any kid under 16 has technically gone to bed.

That’s when local productions unleash the hounds. Sex, drugs, violence and swearing everywhere. Hell, that’s just the newsreaders. In fact, about 15 years ago there was an infamous case of a TV news show reporting on an old guy becoming a dad, and accompanied the story with an explicit porn clip of an old guy boinking a hot girl.

I recall (but am unable to provide details) that the New Zealand Broadcasting Standards Authority (BSA) ruled that particular act a breach of its codes of broadcasting standards.

Now the BSA gets a few complaints thrown their way, mostly by the last vestiges of the Victorian morals crusaders who loudly proclaim they represent the “moral majority” when in fact they only really represent “the easily swayed weak-minded bastards who can’t be bothered arguing with a pig-headed idiot like you”.

But the BSA considers things like whether the TV station was aware of the offensive content, who the target audience was, what time it was broadcast etc.

It’s ruled on things like whether a news clip of suicide bombing was too violent for kids (it wasn’t); whether an interview with a guy who essentially thinks people should be locked up for life for littering was balanced (it wasn’t); whether showing topless women on motorcycles as news was indecent (it wasn’t).

Basically, the BSA is fairly liberal and open-minded. Three cheers.

But one of my favourite programmes has been ruled to have crossed the line. The show is called Back of the Y. It’s made on a shoe-string budget and features a couple of Kiwi blokes just being yobs. There’s various skits mixed in, such as Bottlestore Galactica and the inept stuntman Randy Cambell.

So what does it take to go “too far” on New Zealand TV? Pooman and Wees throwing shit around, and a woman eating the shit suggestively.

The complaint – made by a guy who has obviously never seen the first South Park short – included the claim that a scene depicting Jesus being beaten up by Santa Claus was a “hate crime”.

The complaint was upheld.

Now, I’m thinking that if that show was broadcast in America there’s a good chance it would bring an entire network to its knees. The phones would overload with complaints. The FCC would be throwing fines in all directions.

But it happened in New Zealand. And what was the BSA’s ruling? Well, first they noted the offending episode was a repeat screening which had attracted no complaints the first time it was shown.

Then they said they hoped the offending broadcaster would take their findings on board for next time.