Jock's Jocks

Marketers, advertisers and salespeople are really clever; their job is to get us to buy stuff that we usually don’t need or want but eventually end up with anyway. Just the other day I was walking down the street thinking about how bad the weather was and before I knew it I was walking home with a pink two-piece bathing suit; except it wasn’t called hot pink, but rather Surfari Pink. See, just change the name of something and all of a sudden everyone wants to own it; heck I’ve ditched speedos for bikinis. And what kid wants to drink a bottle of plain boring old cola? It undoubtedly appeals to a small demographic, but add a touch of marketing by changing the name to Krazy Kola, or Radical Fun Cola and kids will be selling their parents to get it.

Some salespeople have been rumoured to be able to sell ice to Eskimos, but I think that’s a big fat myth and I’d probably tell that rumour-spreader that pigs might fly. However if a salesperson were rumoured to sell not plain ice to Eskimos, but rather Super Crazy Frozen Water, I’d be inclined to believe them and would even try to saddle up a pig and find the nearest runway so I can get that porky thing up in the air.

A bar of soap is almost as common as dirt; however ditch that bland name, call it a Beauty Bar and it’s something so radically different, it could actually change one’s life. Imagine it, beauty in the convenience of something that looks like a bar of soap, but instead of rubbing it in your armpits, you rub it on your face and become gorgeous. I’ve ordered a box and as a reward I get a free exfoliating glove thing to rub myself with.

A new contender for the “best thing since sliced bread” saying has arrived and in my opinion has actually eclipsed the bread in terms of greatness. Soap on a rope has saved us banging our heads into shower screens so many times as we pick that slippery beauty bar off the ground it’s just magic. A piece of rope attached to your wrist makes a lot of sense really, as do hats with mini fans attached to them. There’s also something a bit kinky about soap on a rope, however I can’t really work out why. I thought picking up rope-less soap was supposed to be kinky, however bending over is avoided if the soap is attached to your wrist so go figure.
In fact would people stop at soap on a rope? I always seem to be dropping stuff, and not just soap, so why not even attach knives and forks to a bit of rope or even a can of beer? Post-party clean ups would be a thing of the past, as all drinks would stay firmly attached to one’s hand and it would save the carpet getting intoxicated and trying their luck with the couch or even the coffee table. Big Brother Furniture Edition? I could spend some quality time on the Tropical Fun grey coloured couch for that one.

Picture: http://www.huckster.com/images/ice-bags1.jpg

At one point last summer I had a labouring job building some steps on a farm, and over the course of a few sun-soaked days we’d been listening to the cricket on the radio. However all good things must come to an end and alas the final ball was bowled and the match was over. All was not lost though, as another sport was flooding the AM frequency, not tonsil hockey but tennis. I must admit I laughed when I first heard the description of two sweaty guys hitting a ball at each other.

“Federer hits a forehand to the left-back of Hewitt’s side; Hewitt hits a strong forehand, forcing Federer to stretch, oh Federer’s return has gone into the net.” (This commentary was poorly reproduced courtesy of an AM radio channel that I don’t remember, you know, just to cover any copyright issues)

However before I knew it I was enthralled, and felt my whole body moving like a tennis player, so after a few seconds I was a bit sore.

“Hewitt to serve. He tosses the ball and hits a fault. The ball boy (or girl) runs out and grabs the ball, resuming their position on that little black mat next to the net, undoubtedly scared shitless of a green thing being slammed past her (or his) head at 200 kilometres per hour. Anyway back to whatever Hewitt was doing.”

Ok so that didn’t quite happen but it was great to listen to, and it almost felt like I was getting burnt whilst stuffing my face with overpriced, gourmet hot-dogs at Rod Laver arena.

Is there other radio sports commentary that I’m missing out on? I hope not, although I suspect that a few sports may have made the successful conversion to voice description as well. Maybe one of these is the game of darts.

“Barry’s eyeing of the dart board. He’s got other things on his mind though, and he reaches down and grabs his pint, taking the head off it and a bit more. He looks back up at the board, and throws his dart. He goes through this procedure two more times. His nemesis, Big Slim Jim goes through the same process three times, and they alternate for half an hour unless one of them needs to go the toilet. They do this until someone wins, or passes out; gee it’s tense in here.”

Maybe darts doesn’t sound that fun, but what about cheese rolling?

“Helga stands on top of the hill, nervously shifting her giant wheel of cheese between each hand. She looks sneeringly over at the other cheese rollers, but then turns her focus back to her wheel of cheese. She rolls it back and forth, tensing and sweating which is a little gross to look at. The cow bell is rung and before she knows it, she’s tumbling down a hill after a giant wheel of Brie.”

Only a few sports really succeed on the radio, and although some may have tried to make the grade, just didn’t sound all that interesting, alas I don’t really listen to the radio so I don’t care.
By the way on Friday, John Landy had a bit of lunch with the Opposition leader Robert Doyle at John’s place. The next day John went to the Melbourne Show to no doubt grab a couple of show bags and some fairy floss, and then jumped on a plane to the United Arab Emirates. This was apparently for an official visit although I’m not too sure whether they’d know who he is. While he’s there he might even grab a few litres of discount oil for himself in duty-free, as I’m sure before it gets to our pumps are few little extras have been built into the price. I don’t know what sort of car he drives, but I suspect he has a driver so he’d be able to give him a souvenir of black gold. Before you know it, it’ll be cheaper to run my car on gold nuggets, so I’ll be panning for my petrol at Sovereign Hill in the lovely and cold Ballarat.

Some people would rather fill their stomach than fill their mind. Some people can only afford to choose the first. I wish everyone could afford or choose both, and not be ignorant to their world.

That quote was from some young and idealistic bloke who remain anon(Jock)ymous.

On a lighter note, the sun is out. Plus if one note was made from concrete and the other from polystyrene, there would be a lighter note in their somewhere too. Groan.

I love fashion. It is one of those things that I’ve found so hard to get right. Fashion trends move so quickly that for me, happy pants were uncool as soon as I pulled on my first pair, and people’s hypercolour t-shirts were old and fading by the time I was making the first hand print in mine. I could never get it right, and admittedly, I was still wearing tracksuit pants in late high school. I didn’t realise, but back then I was an uncool cat.
Yes, trends have come and gone, falling by the wayside as new and exciting trends pick up their discarded guns and fight on in the murky fashion trenches. Tight black rock pants dodge fire from ugg-boots and trucker hats. Pink polo tops try to deflect blows from 80’s Iron Maiden t-shirts. Yep, that’s how it works; competition is fierce and it’s a denim eats polyester world out there, meaning us fashion luddites have to avoid the pain of a potentially embarrassing outfit and resign ourselves to the safety of jeans and a t-shirt.
I don’t have any really strong opinions on most fashion; I think if something looks good then wear it - however, there is one fashion item that makes me feel nauseous, an item that makes me break out in a cold sweat every time I see it, making me reach for a bottle of Mylanta and drinking every single disgusting drop.
It’s Small Dogs in Handbags. I can’t think of anything more annoying and gross as a dog in someone’s handbag. I thought I’d seen it all, until one fateful turn of a Cosmo page proved that I was wrong, causing my innocent world to come crashing down. In this new, terrible world when it rains, it doesn’t rain cats and dogs anymore, it rains handbags and dogs. I can’t stand small dogs and I’m not a big fan of handbags either, so combining the two is like kryptonite to Superman.
"Excuse me ma’am, I think your cell phone might be ringing in your handbag," a helpful passer-by suggests.
"Oh no daaaahling, that’s just my dog barking," replies a lady that’s seen more surgeons knives than a surgeon themself has.

Paris Hilton, and some other people I can’t think of, parade around with their chihuahua wedged in their handbag, rubbing it’s bum on her purse and lipstick and whatever else she’s got in there. If I was begging for money and saw a rich lady (or man) walking down the street I’d hope that they could spare a few quid. However if I was begging and saw someone with a dog in a handbag, I definitely would not want money that’s touched a dog’s behind, unless it was maybe ten bucks or something.

We’ve all heard about these inhumane, thoughtless people who keep their dogs locked up in cars on steaming on hot days, with the inevitable happening. Well dog and handbag people should be careful when theyleaves their handbag parked somewhere in the sun, because DOGS DIE IN HOT HANDBAGS. They need to make sure that they leave the zip undone a bit, or could even have a dog-operated window installed in the handbag, so little Poo-Poo or whatever it’s called can enjoy a comfortable coolness. I hope I don’t turn on the news tonight and see a handbag related dog death, but if I do, just remember I told you so.
I don’t think this phenomenon is going to stop with dogs in handbags, I think next we might see environmentally friendly people taking little Schnuff-Schnuffs or whatever their dog might be called in their recyclable green canvas bags, while it rubs it’s bum on the milk and bread.

My stomach churns so I must click on 'publish post' and have a lie down.

I'm going to be a bit busy over the next couple of days, with assignments and a bunch of other stuff, so I thought I'd do something quickly before my next pair of underpants.

Apparently a butcher wanted to kick-start his social life, looking for a potential mate who would also shared his love of butcher-related stuff. So he decided to do something about it and 'meat' someone.

There you go, that will possibly make you groan - but it's a reaction, and that's what I do. Come on, we all make 'mi-steaks' occasionally. Ho Ho.