A new burrow.

Hi,

If you're here looking for Funny Bunny, I'll have you know that the damned piece of shit has found a new burrow. Never mind that I have served him well enough for the past few months, all he cares about is the flashy and colourful layout at Tumblr.

Oh, and that slut, he's now posting smut on the internet too. Something along the lines of this:

So go away. Head over to his new fancy spots, Funny Bunny Diary and Esquisse Moi. I don't care. Good riddance.

Fuck off,
Blogspot.

X-static!

THIS is the face one makes when told by their boyfriend that they've won premium tickets to see Pink perform in her penultimate concert in Sydney.







And THIS is what the brain looks like on the inside.







Some pretty trippy shit, I know. Free stuff. They do that to you.

The Secret Garden

Once upon an indeterminate time, there grew a secret garden. This was one of those forgotten corners that one only chances upon unwittingly, the sort that thrive unencumbered by the meddling presence of man.

And what a glorious garden it was today. After a long bout of agonising winter, spring had finally sprung! Every flower, every leaf, bumblebee - each threatening to burst into a song of bountiful joy. All but for a lonely dandelion.

Thinking itself unsightly, the dandelion was not really so. Far from it, it had a sprightly viridian stalk, the end of which grew a fuzzy ball of snowy white bristles.

But that was of no comfort to the poor flower. It had not, the radiant disposition of a sunflower, or the tinkering charm of bluebells. Most of all, it was not a rose. Oh what it would give to be a rose! Peel after peel of pillowy, plump petals, exploding into a shade of deep scarlet. Oh, to be the king of the garden, and not a mere thistle!

"Why would anybody want to blow on me now?"

And thus the dandelion stirred from its wandering imagination. He never felt uglier or more undesirable.

Madam Babushka

On this cold winter's morning, the street stirs with the zooming of cars, the pitter-patter of dogs and the treading of their masters' feet. The whizzing of the java machine coming from the coffee shop proves too irresistible, and lures the sleepyheads from their beds. Shop-owners sluggishly open their roller shutters as the whole town awakes. Amid the noise and hullabaloo, Madam Babushka cuts a lonesome, quiet figure.

A faded printed scarf is wrapped around her head, covering most of her hair although what little can be seen of it, is a wizened salt and pepper colour. A lumpy and heavily-pilled sweater seems to be the only thing protecting her hunched little body from the chilling winds. Beside her, a sort of collapsible contraption with wheels. This helps with walking, one would presume that she probably has wobbly knees. She is seated on a little raised edge, huddled. She watches.

Just as a couple of young men seem to be passing her by, Madam Babushka reaches out a hand and gently motions them to her. Stopped at their tracks, the men proceed towards the gray lady as she begins to plead.

"Bus ticket" she goes. "Bus ticket" she goes again, in an Eastern European accent. The men pay full attention to her as she speaks, trying to make sense of what little English she can muster. "No money go home" the woman implores finally when fat little tears start streaming down her deeply etched face.

Having understood her predicament now, one of the men reaches into his pocket to pull out his money-clip. Alas, it is empty, he would not be of much use to this poor soul. But all is not lost! He sees his metro card, with a couple more rides remaining on it. This ought to help, he thinks to himself as he hands it over. A good deed done, the duo walks away.

The men now a good distance away and with their backs towards her, Madam Babushka takes a gander at the card that she had just been so benevolently offered. Her face, helpless and pathetic mere moments ago, now scrunches to one of annoyance as she swiftly lifts herself up from her perch.

"Fuckwits," she thinks to herself, as she flicks the metro pass away. Now she'll have to look for victims elsewhere.

Michael Bay, DADAist hero.

I went to see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen last Friday. This is what I remember of it:

Scene. EXPLOSIONS. Oh my goddess, this IMAX screen is huge. Military. EXPLOSIONS. Plot contrivance. Whizzing camera angles. EXPLOSIONS. Pot jokes. Motion blur. Plot contrivance. EXPLOSIONS. Racist minstrelsy. Robot scrotum. Plot contrivance. EXPLOSIONS. Fin.

The film made very little sense, but then again it didn't need to. See here.

Warrior Princess Mikaela

Angelina Jolie is one intriguing figure. Batshit-crazy turned mother of six (and more to come, no doubt), and goodwill ambassadress for the UNHCR, she is also a deservedly celebrated thespian.

Sure, there's that "bad-ass vixen" role that she takes out from the closet to wear over and over and over again (Tomb Raider, Mr & Mrs Smith, Wanted etc) which I presume she goes to when in need for some coin.

And yes, every foreign accent that she attempts inevitable ends up sounding like she's a Transylvanian vampire (Alexander, Beowulf). And she over-acts sometimes (Changeling - "He's not my son!").

But I have to honestly say, there isn't one film that she's been in where I feel like she's half-assing it or merely going through the motions. Every role she's taken, she's done convincingly enough for me to suspend my disbelieve for as long as the director needs to tell their story. Props where props are due, she did win an Oscar for Girl, Interrupted and people say A Mighty Heart was a gem.

And I did cry when watching her Christine Collins character in Changeling. I mean, can you imagine being that gorgeous, perfect and fabulous-looking, and still be able to get the world to feel sorry for you? To be this believable despite her physical beauty, and in an overlong, overwrought film to boot, takes serious acting chops.

That being said, Megan Fox is no Angelina Jolie.

Muchas Gracias

Dear Momofuku Ando,

Thank you so much for inventing the modern instant ramen.

Your contribution to society is immeasurable. Had you not been born, how bleak living life would be. Meals would not be cooked in under two minutes. For under a dollar. Imagine that!

I mean, seriously, how would assignments get done? The collective sigh heard from the cataclysmic event of architecture students failing everywhere would be painfully palpable. Just like the time when Darth Vader threatens Princess Leia to give up the location of the Rebel Alliance, and she gives in, but he uses the tractor beam to blow Alderaan into smithereens anyway, and Obi-wan Kenobi feels a disturbance in the Force? Yeah, like that.

So here is my paean to you, Mr. Ando. My gratitude is boundless. Sure, I might go bald from all the MSG, but who cares? I love you.

Sincerely yours,
Funny Bunny.