The perfect storm

AKA Amelia

Yes, Amelia. The movie.

It's like The Universe decided to get together with some movie folks to come up with the least appealing movie ever. EVER.

That movie, as mentioned above, is Amelia.

For anyone who knows me, even a little bit, you'll understand why. But for those who don't, a little background.

It's simple folks. Richard Gere. Hilary Swank. Least favourite actors. In the history of acting. They offend my eyes, nay, the core of my being. Even more than the Aniston. And yes, even more than Dane Cook, though calling either of the latter "actors" is a bit of a stretch. Rounding out the top three would be Billy Bob Thornton, but I shall perhaps just leave that for another day.

Where does this distaste come from? No idea. The only explanation I can come up with is that at some point throughout the history of mank and ind, the forerunners of RichWank killed my people. The innocent Petty's of yore. Slaughtered to a man, woman and child by the fore bearers of the two above mentioned actors. Obviously one of us got away or I clearly wouldn't be here to tell the tale. That would have been Great Grandpa Ebineezer McPetty. And a near miss too, especially given that BBT had spies everywhere.

Sufficed to say I'll be skipping Amelia. Which is too bad. Ewan McGregor is a sexy bitch. Be careful Ewan. Filming may be over and done with, but RichWank is lurking just beyond the next red carpet.


A lazy Sunday

I'm not sure why I find it so hard to find things to write about now that I've left the serial dating scene behind me. It's frightening to think that it seemed to have defined me for so long. As in it was what I was all about. And without it I'm pathetically boring. Poo.

I think I need a Slap Chop. According to Vince it's the key to not having a boring life. Or, I could subscribe to his chosen path in life and beat up a hooker or two. That would definitely be exciting.

I'll keep you posted.


I've been a naughty girl


I didn't even check to see the last time I had written anything for fear that I would die of shame. But I shall endeavour to do better in the future, if only to keep writing.

At this very moment I am sitting in a somewhat ghetto pub called the Rose and Crown (shhh... don't tell Scallywags I'm cheating on it today) being totally ignored by the waitress. By now, I should have already finished the breakfast I've been ready to order for the last half hour, and possibly halfway through a pint of beer. But instead I have an empty glass of water in front of me, with no sign if that being remedied anytime soon. I could say something of course, but then I'd have nothing to moan about and then what would be the point?

To make matters worse, New Zealand is losing to South Africa. And if the commentator doesn't stop nattering on about how brilliant the Spring Boks are playing (he's right of course. The All Blacks are playing like sh*t),I'm going to throw my empty glass at the projector.

This would effectively accomplish a few things. The first being that I there would no longer be a game showing, and therefore no commentary. And secondly, and perhaps more important, the waitress might notice I exist. Yes, I'd be thrown out and probably held liable for damages, but the possibility of food might just make it all worth it in the end.