It all started with that seagull floating backwards. I had to sit down I was laughing so much, and I attracted many strange look that day beside the Lee, and worried glances were exchanged between Darren and Colin wondeing if I had finally lost it. Poor little seagull, giving it socks trying to swim against the current, but the only direction he was going was backwards. Following this incident, I discovered techno chicken. Oh yes.
Then there was the card in Urban Outfitters. A pigeon. On a skateboard. This would have been quite enough of a comic delight for me, but its captioned "Time to get your best moves on". And all I can picture is a pigeon bustin' moves with Tony Hawks, whilst wearing a helmet. Yes, I know, helmets aren't cool. But this is a renegade pidgeon. He defies all laws of convention, be they pigeon or skater.
And now, WKD, an unlikely contender, have brought me the most incredible christmas advertising campaign. Sod the Coke with the trucks. Pffft. What of the Budweiser horsies with snow on their backs? Pah. The whole campaign is only vaguely christmassy but virtue of the fact its anti-turkey and very much pro-chicken, and it helps by throwing in sparkly lights, tinsel and santa hats. Anything can be made christmassy doing that.
WKD have a point. Turkeys don't feed you when you get post club munchies. Anyone who has been to Hilbilly's and slurred "breashht inna bunnnnn, pleashe" knows exactly what I'm talikng about. Often I have proclaimed the wonder of chicken at 4am. And the good people at Hillbilly's, Cork's finest eatery.
The posters were more than enough to tickle my fancy. There is 2 on the way to work, and they do brighten up my day, walking to work at 6.30am, when the ground is iced over and its still dark, and you know you should be in bed still. Then, what could be the pinnacle of my bird-humour adventure.
WOW. Laugh? Did I what?! It gets off to an awful start, then KABOOM. Its craptacular. As in it shouldn't be funny. Its not big and its not clever, and for Pete's sake, its a fecking WKD advert. They are in leagues with Nuts magazine. But it is spectacular.
"Pull my winger!"
"Squawking in the aiiiiirrrrrrr!"
If you enjoyed that video as much as I did, watch this. Black Books is genius.
So WKD. Well done. Or well done on your choice of marketing team. All the one, really. Copious amounts of drinking that crazy coloured liquid got me through those early days of drinking as a young 'un, and set me on the path of losing all sense of embarassment and shame. You need that kind of thing if your a 16 year old neeky gerd. I distance myself from you these days. Essentially, you are flogging a kiddie's drink to menly men. Trying to anyway. I think its biggest market is still the tweenage 10-14 age bracket. But kudos. I may just drink one to celebrate these ads.
It'll be the red one. Christmassy.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Are you smarter than a ten year old?!
Was that ad created by a ten year old?
Noel Edmonds:"What is the type of writing used by ancient egyptians?"
Mother:"Is it hierarchy?"
How would someone that thick have gotten through the entire process of conception, pregnancy, and child rearing?
What hurts my head even more is that there really are people that thick. Walking around, like regular people.
Thought that doctorate in molecular physics would come in handy.
Noel Edmonds:"What is the type of writing used by ancient egyptians?"
Mother:"Is it hierarchy?"
How would someone that thick have gotten through the entire process of conception, pregnancy, and child rearing?
What hurts my head even more is that there really are people that thick. Walking around, like regular people.
Thought that doctorate in molecular physics would come in handy.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
An open leter....
Stalker boy is continuing to harass me. And its really, really getting on my tits. So, an open letter, addressed to stalker boy.
Dear ______,
When you feel the need to send me 15 texts the day after meeting, fine. Thats your perogative, and more importantly, your credit. However, if I fail to respond to any of these texts, surely this sows seeds of doubt in your mind that I'm not really that interested. Then again, it could be assumed I haven't got credit. Thats very possible actually, it is usually the case.
If I miss one phonecall, I understand you might try again later. Y'know, just in case I missed your very important call. If I don't answer the subsequent four phonecalls, I can assure you its not because I lost the use of my motory nervous system. Far more likely that I don't want to talk to you.
If I continue to ignore texts for the next 3 weeks, then you're clearly a bit f**king thick. Or far too persistent. Most people would have heard the hint loud and clear by now. Now, kindly piss off and stop wasting valuble space in my inbox.
And, if you ever contemplate using that trick of using a different number to text and call, DON'T. During the summer, I lost all my numbers, and between that and randomly meeting people on nights out, I get quite a few texts from unknown numbers. So I replied to this unknown number text this evening out of sheer curiousity. The reply? Well to paraphrase; "hello this is stalker boy, my my, aren't I smart?! Using a new number!". I ignored it, obviously, thinking that would well and truly be the end of it. But no. You call. Three times. Try it again, and I will pay someone to cut off your testicles with blunt shears. Because I certainly won't give you the satisfaction of a personal visit.
Sod off.
Teresa.
Ahhhh. Rant over. I'm not sure why, but it really pissed me off this evening and put me in a really foul mood. I know its only a small stupid thing, and maybe I'm just an emotionally-void cow. I do feel better though. All hail the Jon Richardson way of life.
Dear ______,
When you feel the need to send me 15 texts the day after meeting, fine. Thats your perogative, and more importantly, your credit. However, if I fail to respond to any of these texts, surely this sows seeds of doubt in your mind that I'm not really that interested. Then again, it could be assumed I haven't got credit. Thats very possible actually, it is usually the case.
If I miss one phonecall, I understand you might try again later. Y'know, just in case I missed your very important call. If I don't answer the subsequent four phonecalls, I can assure you its not because I lost the use of my motory nervous system. Far more likely that I don't want to talk to you.
If I continue to ignore texts for the next 3 weeks, then you're clearly a bit f**king thick. Or far too persistent. Most people would have heard the hint loud and clear by now. Now, kindly piss off and stop wasting valuble space in my inbox.
And, if you ever contemplate using that trick of using a different number to text and call, DON'T. During the summer, I lost all my numbers, and between that and randomly meeting people on nights out, I get quite a few texts from unknown numbers. So I replied to this unknown number text this evening out of sheer curiousity. The reply? Well to paraphrase; "hello this is stalker boy, my my, aren't I smart?! Using a new number!". I ignored it, obviously, thinking that would well and truly be the end of it. But no. You call. Three times. Try it again, and I will pay someone to cut off your testicles with blunt shears. Because I certainly won't give you the satisfaction of a personal visit.
Sod off.
Teresa.
Ahhhh. Rant over. I'm not sure why, but it really pissed me off this evening and put me in a really foul mood. I know its only a small stupid thing, and maybe I'm just an emotionally-void cow. I do feel better though. All hail the Jon Richardson way of life.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!
I love Jerry Springer. He's is whupping Maury's ass in Living TVs weekend showdowns. And he's is big on the trannies, much like myself. Although if you're looking for weaves, Ricki is yer woman. But I don't love the drama. I don't love joining in the heckling, and waggling my finger saying "oh no you didn'h!". I don't even love the lunging attacks between guests, and I most certainly don't love the 20 second long bleeps. I love the sheer tragedy of it all. Heartless, me? Yes. Entirely.
When I watch Jerry Springer, in particular the cheater specials (like today's episode) it totally justifies my reasoning for being very, very happily single. I know the fact they are guests on a chat show exhibits their lower-than-average intelligence, but some people are really bloody deluded. And I fear ever becoming one of those deluded desperados wearing rose-tinted gogs. Crazy cat lady is a far more alluring prospect.
But even I could not stand the screams and howls and sobs of realisation from women watching their twat-nugget partners cheating with some random on secret CCTV footage. I managed about 15 minutes, during which I was Facebooking, before switching over to Genie In The House (which, by the by, has really grown on me). I doubt I could manage more than 5 minutes if I were to give it my undivided attention.
Still, its a reassuring reminder that it's okay for me to be a somewhat social freak. Ahh.
Last night, I made the surprising mixture of vodka and apple juice. Something I don't recall trying before and as mixers go, apple juice isn't the the first thing that springs to mind. It happened out of me being a skinflint tightwad. And made me realise I need a new tipple. Answers on a postcard please.
I've taken to playing an awful lot of online Scrabble. But I lose horrendously everytime. If I can manage to get a 5 letter word, its a good game for me. So I get by on the list on two-letter words which are, in my opinion, made up for the most part, and pluralising the other player's oh-so-clever words. It makes me feel as inadequate as I do when I watch Countdown. And for some strange reason, everytime I think of Countdown, I picture Bill Bailey.... hmm.
When I watch Jerry Springer, in particular the cheater specials (like today's episode) it totally justifies my reasoning for being very, very happily single. I know the fact they are guests on a chat show exhibits their lower-than-average intelligence, but some people are really bloody deluded. And I fear ever becoming one of those deluded desperados wearing rose-tinted gogs. Crazy cat lady is a far more alluring prospect.
But even I could not stand the screams and howls and sobs of realisation from women watching their twat-nugget partners cheating with some random on secret CCTV footage. I managed about 15 minutes, during which I was Facebooking, before switching over to Genie In The House (which, by the by, has really grown on me). I doubt I could manage more than 5 minutes if I were to give it my undivided attention.
Still, its a reassuring reminder that it's okay for me to be a somewhat social freak. Ahh.
Last night, I made the surprising mixture of vodka and apple juice. Something I don't recall trying before and as mixers go, apple juice isn't the the first thing that springs to mind. It happened out of me being a skinflint tightwad. And made me realise I need a new tipple. Answers on a postcard please.
I've taken to playing an awful lot of online Scrabble. But I lose horrendously everytime. If I can manage to get a 5 letter word, its a good game for me. So I get by on the list on two-letter words which are, in my opinion, made up for the most part, and pluralising the other player's oh-so-clever words. It makes me feel as inadequate as I do when I watch Countdown. And for some strange reason, everytime I think of Countdown, I picture Bill Bailey.... hmm.
Joyce Country Ceilli Band - An essay.
Ah, that classic Saw Doctors tune. A song that I have banned myself from listening to in public places. For shame? No. I save that guilt for Blue: Greatest Hits, for fear that the funky beats of All Rise would be overheard on the Luas. I can't listen to this song in public on my own because it causes me to grin like an ADD-adled child in a Haribo factory. Its comedic gold, and unintentionally so. It pretty much encompasses many of the things I love about El Fracka, where I call home. You know you've had a good night out when they spin this one.
Saw Doctors rise above Poet Laureate standards in their use of alliteration of the letter 'h'. So much so, it even finds its merry, bogger way into every second word, regardless of whether or not it belongs. Also, coining a whole new phrase, which deserves the same recognition as supercallafragilisticexpealladocious. BOOM-SHAKA-LAKA. You can even get it as a ringtone, the very pinnacle of success.
"We do do's and functions/Weddings and wakes/Meats and salads/Buns and cakes" - if know of any other piece of work that rhymes wakes with cakes, please point me in the right direction. Same goes for anyone that can sing about a nice bit o' haaaam and a shimple aul bit o' shalad.
The breed of men to be found in The Renvyle Inn (from days gone by.... *sigh*) and Nimmo's (aka Club JC - Connemara's only nightclub is named after an old, fat, balding politician that owns every second business in the area. Its no Chinawhite.) is... how do I put this delicately? Um... awful. No offence, but I can't say I'm overly worried by causing it in this case. Yet somehow, this song makes the general bogger-man mating displays seem coy and endearing. Dare I say? Romantic, even:
"There’s a princess on the floor all night
She can fairly throw them shapes alright
Howya bridie are you on you own?
Howya fixed far a seat back home"
"Playing away and we're doing grand. If we're singing and song, won't you give us a hand?" Ahhra, kerishhhht. I will.
Saw Doctors... Thank you. Although I would also be quite grateful if you quit doing the Sugababes cover. It creeps me out a little, but I do hate myself for it.
Saw Doctors rise above Poet Laureate standards in their use of alliteration of the letter 'h'. So much so, it even finds its merry, bogger way into every second word, regardless of whether or not it belongs. Also, coining a whole new phrase, which deserves the same recognition as supercallafragilisticexpealladocious. BOOM-SHAKA-LAKA. You can even get it as a ringtone, the very pinnacle of success.
"We do do's and functions/Weddings and wakes/Meats and salads/Buns and cakes" - if know of any other piece of work that rhymes wakes with cakes, please point me in the right direction. Same goes for anyone that can sing about a nice bit o' haaaam and a shimple aul bit o' shalad.
The breed of men to be found in The Renvyle Inn (from days gone by.... *sigh*) and Nimmo's (aka Club JC - Connemara's only nightclub is named after an old, fat, balding politician that owns every second business in the area. Its no Chinawhite.) is... how do I put this delicately? Um... awful. No offence, but I can't say I'm overly worried by causing it in this case. Yet somehow, this song makes the general bogger-man mating displays seem coy and endearing. Dare I say? Romantic, even:
"There’s a princess on the floor all night
She can fairly throw them shapes alright
Howya bridie are you on you own?
Howya fixed far a seat back home"
"Playing away and we're doing grand. If we're singing and song, won't you give us a hand?" Ahhra, kerishhhht. I will.
Saw Doctors... Thank you. Although I would also be quite grateful if you quit doing the Sugababes cover. It creeps me out a little, but I do hate myself for it.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Bugs.
I had completely forgotten I had even started this. I must have been drugged out of my head. How eerie I stumble upon it a year later. It was news to me that I was already the proud holder of a Google account.
My mp3 player is infested with bugs. Not the virtual kind. Actual bugs. Either that, or gravity-defying dust. I don't think either is normal. How did they get there? How are they surviving? Are bugs having sex in my mp3 player?! Aside from that, its broken. I am tune-less. Saved only by lastfm. Though, to be fair, I have fewer disagreements with lastfm.com than my mp3 player. It plays stuff I want to hear, when I want to hear it. My mp3 player has mood swings - usually opposite to my own. Like playing Radiohead when I want to hear Los Campesinos (the happiest band in the world, methinks), and my shameful pop loves when I want to have a moment of emo-niess. Or an "emoment", I suppose. And lastfm let me ban Razorlight, so I feel like a deity in my own lastfm world.
My trip to Sligo is a stark reminder of how much I miss the sea. I miss seeing the sea. And I forget... trip to Sligo has also taught me I can't work my new camera properly, and auto mode is just no fun. Which is a shame, because I had my first experience of Strawheads.....
No, they're not the latest CBBC LSD-trip inspired show. Apparently, its a an old tradition at Mayo weddings. They do a bit of a dance... get other people to act they are Riverdance backing dancers. And brilliant. You crazy, crazy Mayo peoples.
I need somebody to decide what I should do tomorrow. The zoo is an alluring option, but going by myself won't be as fun. Hmm. Maybe somewhere I can figure out how to work my camera.
A company that share its name with the stable form of oxygen are getting on my tits again. My incey-web connection can be a bit crappy still, yet I'm expected to pay €30 a month for it. But as long as I can keep watching Dr Who, I'll get by. Is it possible to OD on that sort of thing? I've become very aware of men in red converse and mannequins of late. And wondering where to go in the Tardis. However, being barely able to work a Fiesta, I don't think it would be safe for me to toy with the fabric of time and space itself. I've wreaked quite enough destruction on dumptrucks and trailers full of sheep.
My mp3 player is infested with bugs. Not the virtual kind. Actual bugs. Either that, or gravity-defying dust. I don't think either is normal. How did they get there? How are they surviving? Are bugs having sex in my mp3 player?! Aside from that, its broken. I am tune-less. Saved only by lastfm. Though, to be fair, I have fewer disagreements with lastfm.com than my mp3 player. It plays stuff I want to hear, when I want to hear it. My mp3 player has mood swings - usually opposite to my own. Like playing Radiohead when I want to hear Los Campesinos (the happiest band in the world, methinks), and my shameful pop loves when I want to have a moment of emo-niess. Or an "emoment", I suppose. And lastfm let me ban Razorlight, so I feel like a deity in my own lastfm world.
My trip to Sligo is a stark reminder of how much I miss the sea. I miss seeing the sea. And I forget... trip to Sligo has also taught me I can't work my new camera properly, and auto mode is just no fun. Which is a shame, because I had my first experience of Strawheads.....
No, they're not the latest CBBC LSD-trip inspired show. Apparently, its a an old tradition at Mayo weddings. They do a bit of a dance... get other people to act they are Riverdance backing dancers. And brilliant. You crazy, crazy Mayo peoples.
I need somebody to decide what I should do tomorrow. The zoo is an alluring option, but going by myself won't be as fun. Hmm. Maybe somewhere I can figure out how to work my camera.
A company that share its name with the stable form of oxygen are getting on my tits again. My incey-web connection can be a bit crappy still, yet I'm expected to pay €30 a month for it. But as long as I can keep watching Dr Who, I'll get by. Is it possible to OD on that sort of thing? I've become very aware of men in red converse and mannequins of late. And wondering where to go in the Tardis. However, being barely able to work a Fiesta, I don't think it would be safe for me to toy with the fabric of time and space itself. I've wreaked quite enough destruction on dumptrucks and trailers full of sheep.
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