SMELLY TONGUES

Beyond the soft palate

Tag: twitter

MENTAL MAGIC

Feeling anxious?

Depressed?

Are you mental, mad, is there a screw loose on your cupboard door, a plank missing from your deck, a wheel off your trolley?

Are you overly fond of cats, and do you carry big wads of crumpled newspapers around with you in plastic bags?

Throw away those pills! Cancel that therapy!

Our Federal Social Services Minister has found the simple solution to your sorrows…

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MAGIC!

Now, if that doesn’t work, sure as shit nothing will, so you may as well face up to it and hang yourself from the living room light fitting, you fucking loser.

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THIS IS NOT A TWEET FROM MARK TEXTOR

WHY CAN’T THESE FUCKIN’ FOREIGNERS DO WHAT THEY’RE FUCKIN’ TOLD AND FUCKIN’ BEHAVE??! FUCKIN’ MONKEY-FACED, DOG-EATING MIDGET COONS!

I don’t know where that came from or who or what it’s referring to, but if “manners are the clearest window into the character of people”, the person who sent it is probably a bit of a cunt.

SPANKING THE MONKEYS

In this ever changing world in which we live in, it is indeed a secure and comforting sign that ours are surely blessed lives of sweet constancy when we are so regularly presented with the opportunity to read the same article about the same thing in twelve different places about thirty times a year …

To wit: 

“Whither the future of media and journalism in this brave and confusing new world of rapid technological change and innovation?”

… It’s like visiting a zoo and watching a monkey m*sturbate. At first, you wonder what it’s doing and pay it some curious attention, then you giggle and point, and then it gets a little awkward so you move on, maybe you get a pie from the diner, certainly not a hot dog, not after seeing that, but it’s not something you’d want to make a habit of watching on a regular basis.

People would think you were strange.

But not watching doesn’t stop the monkeys from m*sturbating, and m*sturbate they do, with alarming frequency, all over our blogs and our news and our Twitters and our Facebooks and our televisions and our radios, they m*sturbate each other, they m*sturbate themselves, they watch the other monkeys m*sturbate each other and themselves, then they go and write about all that they’ve seen and all that they’ve heard, and we wind up with this

“Social media is revolutionising traditional media’s forms and practices: Twitter allows users to curate their own news streams; Facebook “likes” drive a growing proportion of online traffic; commentary on blogs, usually written for free, is regularly at least as expert if not more than what appears in newspapers.”

Please stop telling us what we do not need be told in order to know it, he asks, oh so plaintively and with a hint of the street-begging match-seller in his modest request. Stop spanking the monkey. He’s sore and would like to be left alone.

We see much the same as this on programmes like “Insiders” and “Q&A” and “Meet The Press” and in columns by people who have “opinions” on things and find themselves paid to tell us what their opinions on these things are, a mystifying conundrum  the logic of which often eludes me considering some of the people whose opinions are sought, thereby proving itself a true conundrum indeed.

Typically, these televisual or columnly acts of journalistic and op-ed frottage will find the likes of Andrew “Whistler’s Motherfucker” Bolt cooing over Tim “I’m Very Sorry, I’ve Never Read Any Of Your Work” Blair cooing over Piers “You’ve Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me” Akerman cooing at Gerard Henderson in his white bowling socks and beige y-fronts as he wanders from out the backyard dunny carrying a glass jar full of scrunched up tissues in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

I am, however, by now quite inured to this repetitive spectacle of the nodding dogs of journamalism willingly proffering their paragraphs and darker passages for a public proctological from their comrades-in-ideology, playing as it often does like an over-extended take on The Aristocrats but with a cast of hundreds and a much damper underfelt underfoot. (Hell is not “other people”, it’s being the only outsider at The Walkleys).

Yet the “whither the future of media and journalism” question, no matter how many thousands of words have and can and are being thrown at it, always arrives at the exact same brief and brutal conclusion, which, to my mind, rather negates the reason for the thousands of words being thrown at the question in the first place, which is, as William Goldman so accurately said of the movie business, “No one knows anything.”

“In the meantime, [Wendy] Harmer agrees, there is only one certainty — that “no one knows what the f-ck is going on”. Which is kind of stimulating: “Eventually something will crawl out of the primordial soup, grow legs and walk on land. We don’t know what it is. But isn’t it fantastic to be in this soup?””

News as crouton. Or parmesan rind.

We do not know what the future of the music industry is, we can but hope there is music in it, and by which platform this music reaches my ear is of no consequence to me whatsoever. Similarly, what “form” journalism, reporting and feature writing may take in the future should concern only those wonks looking for a new way to shill whatever shiny box of shit it is they’ve been asked to flog to the rest of us via whatever slim or puffy organ best serves that function.

We can but hope there are words in such stories from the future as well, words written by people who know how to use them and use them wisely.

For that is what I read. Words, not “mediums”. I don’t have a pointy hat and a glass ball, for one. Put enough words next to each other, and do it well enough, you have the art of communication, of information and entertainment, no matter what the platform. Put enough “mediums” next to each other, you get a Psychics & Supernatural Expo at Darling Harbour.

[Enough of that, please, Mr. Sharp.

Makes you give in and cry.]

I bet nobody will notice what I just did there.

GET YOUR TWITS OFF

I am not on Twitter, as I’ve never felt it would have, or would add, much relevance to my life.

I feel no need to “update” that status anytime soon

What I have trouble understanding is why so many people are so willing and eager to open their lives on so many levels to so many other people they don’t know and know nothing about, and then act surprised when one of them takes a dump on the rug.

Why not go up the local locksmith and have a thousand copies of your front door key made and leave them lying around at railway stations and bus stops with your address on them and see if you get burgled.

“Hi there. You don’t know me from a bar of soap and I don’t know you, but you’re a slightly famous person and I’d like to be your friend and follow you around, aren’t you lucky? I’ll pop over Saturday morning and you can make me a coffee and feed me a Danish, maybe later we’ll catch a movie, and I’ll take your kids to the park and show them tricks with my penis.”

It’s the internet.

It’s full of crazy people.

You’re reading a blog called “Smelly Tongues” , what’s halitosis got to do with it?

That’s not the name of a song, but it should be.

See?

Crazy people on the internet.

You can’t expect to go about rabidly hoovering up anonymous “followers” on your Twitter account and tweeting at them all ten times a day about everything you’re doing, and then turnaround and start shouting at them to leave you alone when they give you the willies.

You should’ve just left them to sit in the corner undisturbed in the first place, where they could make strange bird noises and quietly fiddle with themselves and fashion snowmen from their stools and eat a bug or some dirt occasionally. Back in their natural habitat, so to speak.

They’ve all got stains on their pants anyway, and they wear polyester shirts and they don’t brush their teeth, they double dip, and they never bring any fucking beer to the party, so why anyone in their right mind would want to be friends with fuckers like these for any reason at all in any forum is a complete mystery to me.

NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!

No.

I will not.

TO TWEET, PUT YOUR LIPS TOGETHER AND BLOW

Lauren Bacall twitters

It’s almost enough to make a man consider joini …

[SLAPS FACE HARD]

Almost.

Let us consider the following statement …

Megan Fox has a face like a dressed artichoke compared to Lauren Bacall …

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Statement is true.