A great gig this Sunday at The Pah homestead in Hillsborough. A totally beautiful house with great artworks. You should go and see them.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
All Blacks campaign: no sex for fans - Rugby World Cup - NZ Herald News
All Blacks campaign: no sex for fans - Rugby World Cup - NZ Herald News
OK so as someone who lives within walking distance of Eden Park I am already annoyed with the street parking situation so there's no way I am going to let Telecom ahem ... screw with my sheet parking situation too. I say the slogan should not be "Abstain for the Game" but rather "Fuck for the Cup" or perhaps more luridly "Stain for the Game". It may be ahem.. tongue in cheek but I will use my tongue for pashing rather than poking out my skin. I mean FFS I actually have a boyfriend, which was a rarity for sometime as previous posts will show, so rather than use him simply to build fires and compliment my cooking, every now and then, maybe once a week or so if we're energetic, I may well use him for sex too. When I say use, I won't emotionally stamp on him and kick him out afters, he pays half the rent, I will instead make some nice shepherd's pie, open a bottle of red and pash by the fire.
SO I have a shiny new computer and downloaded a shiny new add on for sharing on Blogger. So I may well post more than once a menstrual cycle from now on. Who am I kidding, it's been more like once in a gestational cycle, but I shall attempt to spit out blogs more often than a Mormon wife with no contraception squirts out kids.
Maybe one soon on how goddam maternal I am.
OK so as someone who lives within walking distance of Eden Park I am already annoyed with the street parking situation so there's no way I am going to let Telecom ahem ... screw with my sheet parking situation too. I say the slogan should not be "Abstain for the Game" but rather "Fuck for the Cup" or perhaps more luridly "Stain for the Game". It may be ahem.. tongue in cheek but I will use my tongue for pashing rather than poking out my skin. I mean FFS I actually have a boyfriend, which was a rarity for sometime as previous posts will show, so rather than use him simply to build fires and compliment my cooking, every now and then, maybe once a week or so if we're energetic, I may well use him for sex too. When I say use, I won't emotionally stamp on him and kick him out afters, he pays half the rent, I will instead make some nice shepherd's pie, open a bottle of red and pash by the fire.
SO I have a shiny new computer and downloaded a shiny new add on for sharing on Blogger. So I may well post more than once a menstrual cycle from now on. Who am I kidding, it's been more like once in a gestational cycle, but I shall attempt to spit out blogs more often than a Mormon wife with no contraception squirts out kids.
Maybe one soon on how goddam maternal I am.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
As shaving cream pies are being tossed into Gollum's face whilst he is being defended by Lucy Liu (thanks Twitter) I am contemplating my own battles ahead.
Mine are a lot more savoury than various newspaper hacks hacking into dead girl's answerphones however and guaranteed to generate many more belly laughs. (Though to be fair that shaving cram pie had me laughing quite substantially, all that was missing was Mr Humphries squealing "You're not free" to Rebekah Brooks.)
But I digress.
My upcoming battle is with that age old performer's anxiety of, "Jesus I hope some people come to my shows!" You see I am about to embark on yet another tour of New Zealand with two separate shows Hot Pink Bits, and Hot Pink Teeth 'n' Tits and the nervous anticipation of whether or not anyone will turn up is consuming my mind like Oprah on fried biscuits.
Comediennes are some of the most insecure people you will ever meet. We derive our sense of self-worth by people laughing at us. Most people would take that as an insult and hit the Kronic, but for us it is our highest aspiration in life.
It is therefore nerve-wracking everytime we put ourselves out there hoping to not be rejected. And of course the ultimate rejection is when no one comes. I could call it character building, if I was David Cameron's spin doctor, but it's something I can do without.
There's nothing like flyering the streets of Edinburgh for 4 hours to have absolutely no one turn up to your final 11pm show in a Portaloo. As far as character building goes that makes my character the size of that tall weird building in Malaysia, but it's something I've hopefully moved past.
BUT sadly not the anxiety. For all my shows coming up I already have more booked than none, so that's a start. BUT that age old question of "Will I go to jail from debt" is never far from your mind. I love performing, not being a P freak's bitch, so fingers, toes and labias crossed.
My partner, of the previous windy pops post, can be quite bewildered by it all. He probably often muses to himself that I am mental with therapy needs, and he may well be correct. But when it comes down to it I'd rather be a mental optimist than a sane person doing something I hate.
So if you're in Blenheim, Kaikoura, Waimate or Christchurch please do come along and watch my insecurities die like Navy Seals watched Bin Laden.... but with less guns, novelty beards and shouting "Allah Akbah!" if you don't mind.
Mine are a lot more savoury than various newspaper hacks hacking into dead girl's answerphones however and guaranteed to generate many more belly laughs. (Though to be fair that shaving cram pie had me laughing quite substantially, all that was missing was Mr Humphries squealing "You're not free" to Rebekah Brooks.)
But I digress.
My upcoming battle is with that age old performer's anxiety of, "Jesus I hope some people come to my shows!" You see I am about to embark on yet another tour of New Zealand with two separate shows Hot Pink Bits, and Hot Pink Teeth 'n' Tits and the nervous anticipation of whether or not anyone will turn up is consuming my mind like Oprah on fried biscuits.
Comediennes are some of the most insecure people you will ever meet. We derive our sense of self-worth by people laughing at us. Most people would take that as an insult and hit the Kronic, but for us it is our highest aspiration in life.
It is therefore nerve-wracking everytime we put ourselves out there hoping to not be rejected. And of course the ultimate rejection is when no one comes. I could call it character building, if I was David Cameron's spin doctor, but it's something I can do without.
There's nothing like flyering the streets of Edinburgh for 4 hours to have absolutely no one turn up to your final 11pm show in a Portaloo. As far as character building goes that makes my character the size of that tall weird building in Malaysia, but it's something I've hopefully moved past.
BUT sadly not the anxiety. For all my shows coming up I already have more booked than none, so that's a start. BUT that age old question of "Will I go to jail from debt" is never far from your mind. I love performing, not being a P freak's bitch, so fingers, toes and labias crossed.
My partner, of the previous windy pops post, can be quite bewildered by it all. He probably often muses to himself that I am mental with therapy needs, and he may well be correct. But when it comes down to it I'd rather be a mental optimist than a sane person doing something I hate.
So if you're in Blenheim, Kaikoura, Waimate or Christchurch please do come along and watch my insecurities die like Navy Seals watched Bin Laden.... but with less guns, novelty beards and shouting "Allah Akbah!" if you don't mind.
Hot Pink Bits
Blenheim Civic Theatre, July 22nd, 7.30pm
Bookings: www.ticketdirect.co.nz, 03 520 8560
Kaikoura, Memorial Hall, July 23rd, 8pm
Bookings: www.eventfinder.co.nz or in person at Paper Plus, 41 West End.
Waimate Regent Theatre, Shearman Street, 27th July, 7.30 pm Bookings: Parkers, Queen Street, Waimate, ph 03 689 8772
Hot Pink Teeth 'n' Tits
CHRISTCHURCH
Paparoa School Hall, 8pm, July 29 - 30 and August 5 - 6, Paparoa School Hall, Bookings: www.eventfinder.co.nz, for more ticketing information email: pennyhotpink@gmail.com
Friday, July 15, 2011
Us Catching a gentle breeze .....
Man oh Man have I been one slack bloggy tart. I can't believe it's been two years practically since I pressed tips to keyboard to spew out some rambling dissertation on not much.
Well never fear my imaginary reader, I am back! For how long who bloody knows BUT whilst I can still remember my password I should probably say something.
SO I have decided for my resurrection that I'll defibrillate this blog with some good old fashioned bodily functions.
"Ewww" you say, "must you?", well I'm afraid so.
You see I used to be totally uptight and prudey about emissions and evacuations and all manner of leakages, but then something happened to change all that. I found true love.
Possibly not what you were expecting. It certainly isn't what I was expecting.
I used to deny point blank that any foul odour wafting in my general airspace had anything to do with the lasagna I had just eaten. The phrase "pull my finger" was one I held in high disdain and should any, ahem, pressing function be required, I would always deoderise the room in question with "Pacific Ocean Breeze" to the point of asphyxiation.
I would always maintain that I was a bizarre human anomaly who simply didn't do "that". The fact that if this were the case I would be writhing in agony in hospital was beside the point. Nice girls simply don't ....
It is somewhat odd then that I was perfectly happy to get onstage and discuss all manner of sexual probings, amputee fetishes and dwarf porn. To me fistings, rubberised catheters and vomit sex were all perfectly acceptable dinner table conversation, but poos and wees were most definitely not.
Now why have I started thinking about this I am sure you are wondering. Well today I attended two Film Festivals Films. One was at the Civic, a place that roughly 4 years ago was a scene of great mortification. You see I was using a disabled toilet when a man wrenched open the not quite locked door whilst I was in the midst of the delicate operation known as ... um ...wiping. (Ugh I even hate the word wiping.) Maybe it serves me right for wanting a bit more space in my cubicle and going disabled when I am clearly not, but suffice to say I learnt my lesson, now I always double check the locks.
But anyway that got me to thinking about my boyfriend.
I know, SO romantic.
You see when we first met it was all sunshine and roses, laughter and champagne, sweet nothings and.... holding in the wind. It's amazing what control certain muscles can have when everlasting happiness is at stake. I was also thrilled the bathroom in my then flat was at the other end of the house, two hours of holding back Mother Nature's non-stop life locomotive can result in quite the release I am sure you'll appreciate.
And he was just the same. We were both medicial miracles. For one whole year you could drink the air around us and Disney characters flew about our heads in a fragrant dance.
Or something.
Then it happened, true relaxing marvellous love reigned supreme and it wasn't just our souls that relaxed around each other. Our sphincters did too.
And funnily enough the world did not open up and drag me into its sulfurous depths of hell, I didn't die of a heart attack (though he nearly did) and no small children went blind. What happened instead was pure unadulterated joyous hilarity.
I had no idea how much comedy potential I was denying myself of up until now. The sheer joy of expelling what he calls "Trumps"(Yorkshire weirdness) when he least expects it, especially when I'm sitting on him, has me near pissing myself as well.
This is probably nothing new to long term relationship types out there, but to a girl who was a single prudey pants for most of her adult life, a little regression into the alimentary canal is a marvellous thing. I'm being liberated goddammit.
So I say go forth and eat cabbage people, cram in the Cannellini beans and polish off the prunes. Let the sweet smell of relationship success waft supreme and always hold the covers over their head as long as possible.
For my next post I shall be discussing the merits of a Capital gains Tax as it pertains to various share portfolios with a growth quotient of 20% or greater. Or more on farting... we will see.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Thursday, March 18, 2010
NEW COLUMN ON SKYTV.CO.NZ/PENNYONDEMAND
Uncle Oscar
9 March 2010
In the 1930’s when Margaret Herrick commented that a certain gold statuette looked like her uncle Oscar, she probably didn’t anticipate that 80 years later frock designers, coke dealers and limo companies would deliriously anticipate the night her uncle gets fingered by Hollywood’s elite.
But so it goes.
The 82nd Academy Awards have just finished and I thought it was choice. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were hilarious hosts and there was enough glitz, drama and trainwreckage to amuse me soundly.
Last year the Oscars were toned back in deference to the Credit Crunch. An Australian hosted for god’s sake. The kicks were lower, the jokes fewer and I think I saw the set on eBay.
But this year, like the CEO of your average merchant bank, they thought screw them all and went all out. There were feathers, a myriad of revolving sets and interpretative crumping in cardigans…..seriously.
Worst performance goes to the loud mouthed beatch who interrupted her co-collaborator for best documentary short and shrilled; “isn’t that just like a man to not let the woman speak….” Basically she Kanye’d his ass and was a dick.
Best speech to Sandra Bullock, she was moving, funny and mentioned tonguing Meryl Streep. I did feel I needed some insulin after seeing The Blind Side as it was so saccharine but she rocked, shiny dress and all. Jeff Bridges was a close second, I cried. But I’m a pussy.
And then the sisterhood triumphed with The Hurt Locker. People have been making a lot about Katherine Bigelow and James Cameron being pitted against each other but who cares that they were married for 3 years. She gives good film, I mean she directed Point Break. Yes a woman won for the first time but let’s focus on her arts, not her arse.
Now for her next film she’s cast Kate Winslet as an ugly autistic Vietnam vet with a sick dog. I reckon it’s a shoe in.
Uncle Oscar
9 March 2010
In the 1930’s when Margaret Herrick commented that a certain gold statuette looked like her uncle Oscar, she probably didn’t anticipate that 80 years later frock designers, coke dealers and limo companies would deliriously anticipate the night her uncle gets fingered by Hollywood’s elite.
But so it goes.
The 82nd Academy Awards have just finished and I thought it was choice. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were hilarious hosts and there was enough glitz, drama and trainwreckage to amuse me soundly.
Last year the Oscars were toned back in deference to the Credit Crunch. An Australian hosted for god’s sake. The kicks were lower, the jokes fewer and I think I saw the set on eBay.
But this year, like the CEO of your average merchant bank, they thought screw them all and went all out. There were feathers, a myriad of revolving sets and interpretative crumping in cardigans…..seriously.
Worst performance goes to the loud mouthed beatch who interrupted her co-collaborator for best documentary short and shrilled; “isn’t that just like a man to not let the woman speak….” Basically she Kanye’d his ass and was a dick.
Best speech to Sandra Bullock, she was moving, funny and mentioned tonguing Meryl Streep. I did feel I needed some insulin after seeing The Blind Side as it was so saccharine but she rocked, shiny dress and all. Jeff Bridges was a close second, I cried. But I’m a pussy.
And then the sisterhood triumphed with The Hurt Locker. People have been making a lot about Katherine Bigelow and James Cameron being pitted against each other but who cares that they were married for 3 years. She gives good film, I mean she directed Point Break. Yes a woman won for the first time but let’s focus on her arts, not her arse.
Now for her next film she’s cast Kate Winslet as an ugly autistic Vietnam vet with a sick dog. I reckon it’s a shoe in.
NEW COLUMN ON SKYTV.CO.NZPENNYONDEMAND
The Bear Necessitites
2 March 2010
I hate camping. If god had meant us to camp he would have given us detachable colostomy bags. Pooing out of doors is nothing I have ever done, and proudly so.
Sure if I had one of those palace tents with verandas, porticos and a room for my shoes then I’d gladly raise my three fingered Girl Guide salute, but I’ve only ever had pup tents and it has always always rained.
The worst time being a music festival in Scotland when it not only rained, it pelted down like a Scotsman urinating after a stag do in Glasgow.
The field turned into a mud bath and I was forced to wear rubbish bags on my shoes but they were still ruined. Worse still they were Jimmy Choos.
OK, so maybe they weren’t, but that’s not the point.
Which is why I would rather watch Man vs Wild than participate. For a start my name is "Penny" and that will never do. "Bear" is the star of that show, so I would need to change mine to "Panther", "Gazelle" or "Three Toed Sloth".
Also, we may have been born in the same year but Bear was a special agent with British Forces and I wasn’t even Tawny Owl in the Brownies. If someone yells at me to "drop and give me twenty" I yell at them to "f" off. Discipline is required in battling nature’s elements, and the only thing I’m a disciple to is ensuring my nail polish matches my earrings.
I wouldn’t mind being dropped on a desert island, mind you. Just as long as a toilet, a cabana boy named Julio and an endless supply of pina coladas was dropped too. If they can organise a sound guy and a cameraman for Bear surely they could do a latino lover and some Bacardi for me?
I’ll send them an email and see.
Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls premieres Wednesdays beginning March 3 at 8.30pm on Discovery Channel.
The Bear Necessitites
2 March 2010
I hate camping. If god had meant us to camp he would have given us detachable colostomy bags. Pooing out of doors is nothing I have ever done, and proudly so.
Sure if I had one of those palace tents with verandas, porticos and a room for my shoes then I’d gladly raise my three fingered Girl Guide salute, but I’ve only ever had pup tents and it has always always rained.
The worst time being a music festival in Scotland when it not only rained, it pelted down like a Scotsman urinating after a stag do in Glasgow.
The field turned into a mud bath and I was forced to wear rubbish bags on my shoes but they were still ruined. Worse still they were Jimmy Choos.
OK, so maybe they weren’t, but that’s not the point.
Which is why I would rather watch Man vs Wild than participate. For a start my name is "Penny" and that will never do. "Bear" is the star of that show, so I would need to change mine to "Panther", "Gazelle" or "Three Toed Sloth".
Also, we may have been born in the same year but Bear was a special agent with British Forces and I wasn’t even Tawny Owl in the Brownies. If someone yells at me to "drop and give me twenty" I yell at them to "f" off. Discipline is required in battling nature’s elements, and the only thing I’m a disciple to is ensuring my nail polish matches my earrings.
I wouldn’t mind being dropped on a desert island, mind you. Just as long as a toilet, a cabana boy named Julio and an endless supply of pina coladas was dropped too. If they can organise a sound guy and a cameraman for Bear surely they could do a latino lover and some Bacardi for me?
I’ll send them an email and see.
Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls premieres Wednesdays beginning March 3 at 8.30pm on Discovery Channel.
NEW COLUMN ON SKYTV.CO.NZ/PENNYONDEMAND
The Best Things in Life are Free
Fact File
New Series
S - Sexual content may offend
Comedy
C - Content may offend
24 February 2010
As an actor, I have an agent. Actually I have four. One for voice work, one for TV, one for corporate work and the webmaster at nzdating.co.nz.*
ANYWAY, I like to imagine my agents as constantly concocting ways to propel me towards the superstardom for which I know I’m destined. I am sure my picture is in their wallet, I am the wallpaper on their shiny Mac’s and their cellphone ringtones are undoubtedly my voice singing “FAME! I’m gonna live …” and so forth.
What I don’t imagine them doing is recounting for their boss’ pleasure what sexual endeavours their weekend entailed and whether or not they managed to score some “no-strings nobbing”.
But my agents don’t work for CMA in London as seen in UKTV’s latest comedy Free Agents. The boss, aka Anthony Head, has a mouth that makes Gordon Ramsay look like Brooke Fraser. He licks glass office walls, pelvic-thrusts the air and goads his staff into confessing “I’m as sexually sophisticated as a 15-year-old born-again Christian.” This is a slight departure from Head’s role as Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, though there are quite a few mentions of wood … just no stakes.
I’d like to quote more dialogue here, but if I did “Outraged of Huntly” would have me shut down faster than you can say “That’s a moustache on a lady”. Suffice to say the opening episode has 3 “c” words and 55 “f” words. Choice.
And if anyone can answer the question posed; “What do women want if they don’t want anal?” feel free to email the BBC.
*Only kidding about that last one. I have Internet-dated, but I didn’t like the experience. Sure you might get a pash and some free drinks, but I was never sure if I fancied the guy or if he was just the least retarded person** that emailed me.
** Apologies to anyone offended by the use of the word “person”.
Free Agents screens Friday 9.00pm on UKTV.
The Best Things in Life are Free
Fact File
New Series
S - Sexual content may offend
Comedy
C - Content may offend
24 February 2010
As an actor, I have an agent. Actually I have four. One for voice work, one for TV, one for corporate work and the webmaster at nzdating.co.nz.*
ANYWAY, I like to imagine my agents as constantly concocting ways to propel me towards the superstardom for which I know I’m destined. I am sure my picture is in their wallet, I am the wallpaper on their shiny Mac’s and their cellphone ringtones are undoubtedly my voice singing “FAME! I’m gonna live …” and so forth.
What I don’t imagine them doing is recounting for their boss’ pleasure what sexual endeavours their weekend entailed and whether or not they managed to score some “no-strings nobbing”.
But my agents don’t work for CMA in London as seen in UKTV’s latest comedy Free Agents. The boss, aka Anthony Head, has a mouth that makes Gordon Ramsay look like Brooke Fraser. He licks glass office walls, pelvic-thrusts the air and goads his staff into confessing “I’m as sexually sophisticated as a 15-year-old born-again Christian.” This is a slight departure from Head’s role as Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, though there are quite a few mentions of wood … just no stakes.
I’d like to quote more dialogue here, but if I did “Outraged of Huntly” would have me shut down faster than you can say “That’s a moustache on a lady”. Suffice to say the opening episode has 3 “c” words and 55 “f” words. Choice.
And if anyone can answer the question posed; “What do women want if they don’t want anal?” feel free to email the BBC.
*Only kidding about that last one. I have Internet-dated, but I didn’t like the experience. Sure you might get a pash and some free drinks, but I was never sure if I fancied the guy or if he was just the least retarded person** that emailed me.
** Apologies to anyone offended by the use of the word “person”.
Free Agents screens Friday 9.00pm on UKTV.
NEW COLUMN ON SKYTV.CO.NZ/PENNYONDEMAND
Our Precious
17 February 2010
I’ll bet there are a few people in NZ currently who wished they had a feisty lady detective on their case.
Alison Mau could set Precious Ramotswe of The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency on Woman’s Day. The editor will be returning from her Zumba class clutching three lattes and out will jump Precious, snapping pics and asking if those lattes are for an illicit lady friend of undetermined sexuality.
Paul Holmes wouldn’t need an electronic bracelet for Millie. Precious could just follow her in her old battered van, confiscating coldrex and delivering rousing speeches on feminine strength.
Phill Goff could hire her to find out where all the labour party approval points have disappeared to and I will hire her to find out what people voted John Key as NZ’s sexiest politician. I wish to buy them glasses as a gesture of good will.
I’d also like to hire her to find all the judges of Miss Waikuku Beach 1984, my non-inclusion into the semi-finals is a grievous ancient wrong which demands to be righted.
Still I think we would all have a job prising Precious away from her beloved Botswana. Just like Alexander McCall Smith, the originator of the incredibly successful series of novels that this new Vibe series is based on, Ms Ramotswe loves her country far too much to leave it for trivial NZ problems.
And hooray for that because the colourful escapades of Precious’ (Hip-Hop Diva Jill Scott’s) sleuthing is an absolute delight to watch compared with another Colmar Brunton Opinion Poll on which MP has the best butt.
The pilot, featured tonight, was directed and co-written by the late Anthony Minghella (The English Patient), co-written by Richard Curtis (Love Actually, Blackadder) and produced by the Weinsteins. There’s more pedigree in that line-up than in Prince William’s bald patch so I suggest you tune in to see Botswana and NZ’s newest Precious. That Ring one is soooooo 2003.
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency screens Tuesday 9.30pm on Vibe.
Our Precious
17 February 2010
I’ll bet there are a few people in NZ currently who wished they had a feisty lady detective on their case.
Alison Mau could set Precious Ramotswe of The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency on Woman’s Day. The editor will be returning from her Zumba class clutching three lattes and out will jump Precious, snapping pics and asking if those lattes are for an illicit lady friend of undetermined sexuality.
Paul Holmes wouldn’t need an electronic bracelet for Millie. Precious could just follow her in her old battered van, confiscating coldrex and delivering rousing speeches on feminine strength.
Phill Goff could hire her to find out where all the labour party approval points have disappeared to and I will hire her to find out what people voted John Key as NZ’s sexiest politician. I wish to buy them glasses as a gesture of good will.
I’d also like to hire her to find all the judges of Miss Waikuku Beach 1984, my non-inclusion into the semi-finals is a grievous ancient wrong which demands to be righted.
Still I think we would all have a job prising Precious away from her beloved Botswana. Just like Alexander McCall Smith, the originator of the incredibly successful series of novels that this new Vibe series is based on, Ms Ramotswe loves her country far too much to leave it for trivial NZ problems.
And hooray for that because the colourful escapades of Precious’ (Hip-Hop Diva Jill Scott’s) sleuthing is an absolute delight to watch compared with another Colmar Brunton Opinion Poll on which MP has the best butt.
The pilot, featured tonight, was directed and co-written by the late Anthony Minghella (The English Patient), co-written by Richard Curtis (Love Actually, Blackadder) and produced by the Weinsteins. There’s more pedigree in that line-up than in Prince William’s bald patch so I suggest you tune in to see Botswana and NZ’s newest Precious. That Ring one is soooooo 2003.
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency screens Tuesday 9.30pm on Vibe.
NEW SKY COLUMN TO BE FOUND AT SKYTV.CO.NZ/PENNYONDEMAND
16 March 2010
Imagine….it’s late at night. You flop on the couch after a few bevvies. You hit play on the recorded episode of Grey’s Anatomy to see if Meredith might break up with Derek perhaps and then possibly, I don’t know, whine about it. Instead up comes an insemination special on Country Calendar.
AARGGHH your family member fecked it up AGAIN and you’re tempted to insert the remote with an elbow length rubber glove.
Which is why I found the addition of MY SKY to my life wondrous.
The lads in my flat were the instigators. Apparently there are some sports channels or something. They watch this thing called Football and apparently it’s quite big worldwide. I’m not convinced, but they enjoy watching people born everywhere but England fall over and pretend to cry.
I watch other delights. I’m not ashamed to say that my first series link (“…what just one button records the WHOLE series!”) was The Antiques Roadshow Highlights show. Britons saying things like “Oh goodness gracious how nice” when told their dog bowl is worth ten thousand pounds. Awesome.
I have also discovered the Nazi Channel…oh sorry The History Channel. I find myself scrolling through the Guide thinking "Hitler’s Dyslexic Dog" that sounds fascinating, I have to watch that. Not to mention "25 Most Sexiest Celebrity Dogs" on E! TV.
I have also banked loads of movies and I love the Classic Channels for their eclecticism. I’ll see your Godfather and raise you a Pretty in Pink. I just watched ET for the first time in 30 years and ok, you can practically see the wires on the flying bikes BUT I still cried, and Drew Barrymore on the cusp of her drug addiction steals the show.
So if you haven’t got MY SKY yet your life has no meaning. You too could sit for hours ignoring all of your responsibilities and enthralled to see if the Myth that watching too much TV kills you, is busted. Go on, you know you want it. Suggestions for the R button are The Hangover, QI with Stephen Fry AND Antiques Roadshow…always.
16 March 2010
Imagine….it’s late at night. You flop on the couch after a few bevvies. You hit play on the recorded episode of Grey’s Anatomy to see if Meredith might break up with Derek perhaps and then possibly, I don’t know, whine about it. Instead up comes an insemination special on Country Calendar.
AARGGHH your family member fecked it up AGAIN and you’re tempted to insert the remote with an elbow length rubber glove.
Which is why I found the addition of MY SKY to my life wondrous.
The lads in my flat were the instigators. Apparently there are some sports channels or something. They watch this thing called Football and apparently it’s quite big worldwide. I’m not convinced, but they enjoy watching people born everywhere but England fall over and pretend to cry.
I watch other delights. I’m not ashamed to say that my first series link (“…what just one button records the WHOLE series!”) was The Antiques Roadshow Highlights show. Britons saying things like “Oh goodness gracious how nice” when told their dog bowl is worth ten thousand pounds. Awesome.
I have also discovered the Nazi Channel…oh sorry The History Channel. I find myself scrolling through the Guide thinking "Hitler’s Dyslexic Dog" that sounds fascinating, I have to watch that. Not to mention "25 Most Sexiest Celebrity Dogs" on E! TV.
I have also banked loads of movies and I love the Classic Channels for their eclecticism. I’ll see your Godfather and raise you a Pretty in Pink. I just watched ET for the first time in 30 years and ok, you can practically see the wires on the flying bikes BUT I still cried, and Drew Barrymore on the cusp of her drug addiction steals the show.
So if you haven’t got MY SKY yet your life has no meaning. You too could sit for hours ignoring all of your responsibilities and enthralled to see if the Myth that watching too much TV kills you, is busted. Go on, you know you want it. Suggestions for the R button are The Hangover, QI with Stephen Fry AND Antiques Roadshow…always.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
SO I am sitting in yet another bach for hire. This time in Himatangi Beach in the Manawatu district between a semi-successful Whanganui season and a no doubt blindingly successful Palmerston North one. 20/20 foresight perhaps.
Though to be fair in Whanganui I sold enough tickets to sell out one show, it was just a shame I was doing two.
I was also warned by a friend that the people of Whanganui were weirdos. I cannot vouch for all Wanganui-ans, but I met the usual mix of weird, no so weird and of course the homosexual, who always makes me laugh and supplies the wine. Some of the elderly audience members did seem to baulk slightly at the thought of Long Jean Silver 70’s porn star “Stumping” people in their rectums with her withered deformed leg…..but that doesn’t necessarily make them weird.
I didn’t see Michael Silly Laws on my journeys BUT I did manage to get a photo of the patch I had made specially for Whanganui into the paper. I also called my show Ot Pink Bits as I figured they had enough h’s for now.
Despite my friend’s warning the town actually had a special place in my heart after a fun performance there 5 years ago. The mayor of the time, Chas Poynter, came running up to me after my show, ginger toupee flapping like a native tussock, and declared me an honorary citizen of the town. This apparently entitled me to free mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the streets of Whananui and he only hoped that he could he my salivating saviour if required.
Thankfully neither my heart nor lungs gave out at the thought and I survived unmolested.
Chas was a sweetheart however, compared to the Paso Doble-ing twat munch that is Laws, it’s just a shame he’s the one that’s dead.
Anyways I was about to set off for Himatangi on Sunday when I got my first ever flat tyre. I had to remove all my bloody props etc.. from the boot to discover if I had the spare I suspected I did. I found it, and a few dead insects to boot in a pool of water. (Oh did I mention it was pissing it down like an old man was building a really big boat.) Thankfully my AA membership is up to date and I didn’t break a nail swapping them over.
I was however therefore forced to drive only at 80km all the way to the beach, which was an exercise in excessive tail-gating. Look, fuckers, I know I’m going slowly but I do have a reason and a mac truck bearing down within an inch of my behind is enough to provoke me to stab him in the throat with a banjo. It would be a much more valid excuse than “Oh he put a hand on my thigh” anyways. SO FUCK OFF.
OK better now.
So I got to Himatangi via the friendly 4 Square, thankful I wasn’t going north coz that road was closed due to snow. I then unscrewed a cheeky Pinot from Otago, cooked up some tuna pasta followed by a spongy pud and settled into 7 episodes of Mad Men by a roaring fire.
Which was awesome.
I am relatively new to this watching an entire TV series at once concept. I realise it isn’t a new one but as a late convert can I say it’s rather choice. Though I did have some weird dreams about pitching campaigns and imagining I was the incredibly saucy Joan. Well I do have the hair and breasts and ass for it after all.
Though the following line made me realise I may be a bit late: “It’s like once they hit 30 a light goes out in them.”
So on that note, I went to bed.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A few comments recently, however nicely intended, have pissed me right off....
The Arrogant Poem
You tell me I look good….
For 35
And I tell you to go fuck yourself
I mean of course it’s nice to be told that I look good
But you say 35 like it’s amazing that I’m Alive
That any minute now a blood vessel in my brain will burst
Rigor mortis posing me in my hearse in my last act of knitting booties
Beloved lawn bowls timetable clutched to my chest
Which now rests at my knees
Sent there with the velocity
Of age
A tattoo of my favourite zimmer frame adorning my skin which resembles a leather suitcase from 1927
Oestrogen levels at minimum
Osteoporosis, necrosis, Alzhemiers, Parkinson’s closing in
Metabolism plumbing the depths and plumbing well let’s just say… inept
A road map of varicose veins solidifying in my remains
At 35
And we wonder why women disappear from our TV screens once they’ve been smacked about by 4 decades of misogyny
Alpha Male can bang on til he’s blue in the face and little blue pills are mandatory for banging the intern for his trophy case.
Bruce Forsythe is 81 and hosting BBC TV, born in 1928, when JFK was elected he was 23, When Charles and Di got married he was 53 and when his co-star was born, he was 43
People say Mick Jagger is still sexy and Keith Richards looks like an SUV did burnouts on his face
But it still graces the cover of rolling stone, no photoshopping required just an a glowing tribute to a man who has inspired a thousand riffs
And I’m not taking away from this
I just wonder where Wendy Petrie will be when she’s 80
Why Judy Bailey was removed at 53 despite massive popularity
Why there are not really any female presenters on C4 currently
Why radio shows never boast 2 females and one male generally
And why Jason Gunn is the host of every fucking thing
I saw a 94 year old woman in a documentary recently
That means she is 59 years older than me
And I’m looking good despite my age?
Newsflash …..women do not disappear at age 50
I’ve got a hell of a lot of living left in me
So thank you for saying I look nice, but ditch the coda
Lose the addendum, the footnote and start over
You may think you’re complimenting me but you’re not
Because I know I look good….but I look good fullstop.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Well, Well, Well.
Some dozy little Cantabrian bastard tried to steal my feckin bike today.
Well I suppose they do say that Christchurch is the most English of New Zealand cities, and the English did filth off with vast swathes of land, commonly known as countries, despite the former owners being somewhat inconvenienced. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised.
However I was.
BUT you can all relax in case you think I am now riding Shanks' Pony. (In fact I haven't ridden a thing in a very loooooooong time, there may even be cobwebs.) The thief was unsuccessful in nicking the bike, though he did manage to slice my first lock in two.
PS In case you were pondering the origin of the term Shanks' Pony, as I was just this second then click HERE!
BUT in a bid to outsmart the dimwit I had also attached a canny decoy lock to the bike, which obviously foiled him. However if he (again it had to be a he) had applied some pressure to it, it would have given way to his advances like a rufied girl on Prom Night. Either that or some artist type, as it was at the ARTS CENTRE for fuck's sake, scurried by with an easel and beret and put him off his game, causing him to scarper off like a rufie dealer in police lights.
SO luckily I was able to cycle home and regale my father with my tales of clever thwarting of brigands and fuckfaces and I live to cycle again. So much for the spirit of goodwill to all men.
BUT I shall not be jaded by these events. I still love Xmas and all those whose fairy lights shine upon us. I will instead amend that section of the Xmas Constitution and declare goodwill to all men and women, except thieving bicycle cockknobs.
Ho Ho Ho.
PS The Bicycle Thief sounds like a good name for a movie I reckon.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
SOOOOOO THE time is fast approaching. That's right people you better batten down the hatches because tis the season for the Annual-ish Ashton residence Karaoke Karnage!!! (tm)
Yep it's the season (I just created a facebook event, which makes if official) for THE Karaoke Party of the century at my parent's house this Xmas.
I fly down to Christchurch next week, so what else to do but trash my olds' house for the festive season.
But wait, you ask, a Karaoke Party at your parents house.... how, you ponder.
Well my Dad isn't any ordinary Dad. Oh no, not only was he Super Condom Vending Machine Man until he retired, but he's also Super Owns His Own Karaoke Machine Man!
Watch him slaughter Amore in a single bound, see how he rends I Got You Babe limb from limb, listen as he assaults Blue Suede Shoes with a deadly weapon.
Actually he's not bad at all, it's just funnier if he is. He's really quite good and I know harbours a deep down belief that he is Dean Martin.
He has squillions of songs programmed into his TWO different units. He has a glossy folder with them all listed and has even highlighted the good ones. Well, what he thinks are good ones anyways.
I beg to differ.
According to Old Dad Eyes highlights include Danny Boy, Irish Rover, Jailhouse Rock and the grand-daddy of them all, New York New York. He's even been known to highkick, when his gout allows.
When the younguns come home however we seek out such gems as Smells Like Teen Spirit, Sweet Child O Mine, Killing in the Name Of, and other songs with fuck in them. There is much marauding all over the living room and pogo-ing of the likes you just can't do to Mull of Kintyre. In short, it's choice.
Though Dad and I have been known to bust out the odd duet as well, usually Cabaret or Tonight I Celebrate My Love For You. And yes, that last one is a bit weird but don't call CYFS just yet as we look away on the line "And I make love to you....tonight" which makes it totally legit. Well that's what we tell ourselves anyways.
So if you're going to be in ChCh for Xmas get in touch and get ready to Jingle Your Balls at Chez Nous.
It'll be wucked.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Well I am outraged, appalled, aghast and generally quite jolly pissed off with humanity.
Today an injustice was perpetrated against my law-abiding self (OK except for the time I nicked the postcards from the Vatican bookshop, but hell God has enough cash.) and I am totally slutted off.
The day began very pleasantly.
I had a costume fitting for our upcoming Wellington show; "Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen" where I wrangled the G-Cups into an empire line dress, and was pleasantly surprised to not look as pregnant as you would imagine.
I then hit Les Mills for a Body Attack. Now in case this alarms you, relax. That wasn't the injustice in the form of a random Lesbian relation of Heather Mills laying into me with a meat cleaver, but rather me going hard out at my local gym.
Then I got home and indulged in a new porridge creation whilst reading the paper. I have splashed out on some mixed spice, some cinnamon and some caramel essence and can very much recommend the results.
Martha Stewart eat your heart out. (Or maybe your cellmate anyway as a forced exchange for super tampons.)
Then Esta arrived to watch me assemble a salad to take with us to the Grey Lynn Festival. We then dawdled down to Grey Lynn Park via a mate's place AND more importantly the bottle store for some well deserved bruskis. (I am always an advocate for exercising to create space for more calories of the non-nutritional liquid variety.)
Once a spot was selected amidst the THOUSANDS of very funkily dressed, expertly coiffed, organically fed masses of Grey Lynn, my blanky was unleashed.
SIDEBAR: My blanky has been with me since before the dawn of time. To the ignorant the dawn of time is 1974 because as I am the centre of my universe obviously nothing existed before me. It is decorated with lions and elephants and bears, oh my, and is a fetching shade of orange, black and brown.
Once ensconced on the Blanky there was much merriment in drinking, eating salad and generally talking shit about some of the drunken bimbos around us. We waited in vain for the bands and became disappointed to realise there was actually going to be no real entertainment of any nature. Apparently this was to deter drinking, but if the volume of the bimbos was anything to go by they could have put Kevin Costner onstage explaining Waterworld and the girls would have still been doing tequila slammers everytime he said "post-apocalyptic".
To escape the tittering tits I decided it was time to go for a wander about the craft and food stalls and see if I could find some stereo saturated fats to clog up my arteries. I got up and went to put on my trusty Havaianas. Havaianas that took me months to find in the right colour and size. Havaianas that I spent a stupid amount of money buying for a pair of bloody jandals. Havaianas that have travelled the world with me. Havaianas that I love.
And they were fucking gone.
Some butt munch had stolen my bloody JANDALS!!! From underneath my nose. Some twat burger of indeterminate parentage put their festering pustulous dickwad feet into my jandals and waddled off to no doubt soil themselves in a corner crying softly and rocking backwards and forwards like the socio-psychopathic jandal fetishist fuckface they no doubt are.
Angry, me, no, where do you get that idea?
Is funny actually I am REALLY angry about it, which on dissection is a little weird. I mean it's not like I was forced into a group orgy with Brad Shipton, my 2 million barrels of oil weren't hijacked and I didn't just land the cleaning contract at Guantanamo Bay. I just had some shoes nicked.
I haven't felt that attached to some rubber since, well, um, never mind.
I have decided the reason for my misplaced mountains of vitriol is that as a Kiwi my jandals are sacrosanct. To steal them is to turn your back on the All Blacks as they Haka, it is to tell Kate Sheppard to "Shut up and cook me some eggs bitch", it is to punch a Hobbit in the face and it is to draw the Goodnight Kiwi and that cat doing it with a Kangaroo.
In short it is wrong.
So shame on you Jandal Thief of Grey Lynn. Shame on you. I just hope that walking in my shoes will change you. As you follow my footsteps so too will you follow my path. The fact that this path leads to excessive consumption of Sauvignon Blanc and inappropriate face-raping of dodgy boys shall be your punishment.
So there.
(Oh and if you're wondering how I got my delicate tootsies home I just nicked a pair of jandals I saw lying about.)
PS Tune into Dirty Girl with Penny Ashton Spoken word radio extravaganza on December 9th on Fleet FM as I stand in for Dirty Wordz with Shane Hollands! My very own radio show for the very first time! Very excited.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Austen Found
I am bored bored bored with politics, (though the Maori Party's alliance with National is somewhat flabbergasting) and so hereby announce this post a politics free zone.
So what shall we speak of instead....
I have it!
Jane Austen.
Why of course you cry, that makes perfect sense you murmur, wtf is she on about, you twitter.
You see 2 weeks hence from this point is the New Zealand Improv Festival at Bats Theatre in Wellington, and I have gathered about me a most handsome group of performers to mince the boards.
We are bringing Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen to the Wellington massive and a jolly good show it should be too.
In our rehearsals it has become very evident that for a girl who hasn't read any Austen since 1987, I am very versant with her works due to my enduring love of bodice rippers and chick flicks involving teacups. I have seen nearly all cinematic adaptations of her novels and the movie Becoming Jane, and I have read a book called Mr Darcy's Daughters which poses as a sequel to Pride and Prejudice. (I have avoided the 1940's adaptation of the movie as their costumes are so not period its positively menopausal.)
Therefore I seem particularly able to mainline Elizabeth Bennett and indeed the Facebook Application "Which Jane Austen Heroine are You?" proclaimed me thus.
Now if there are even any men left reading this posting let me assure you, you will like it too. We merrily, rip the piss of bodice rippers so you will have something to laugh about, and of course 6 breasts to oggle at too. The Regency Period was decidedly more racy than the following Victorian Period, though any beach sex a la Dubai is highly unlikely.
Here's a poem I wrote a number of years ago which serves as inspiration...
Durex and Durability
With much ruminating
On the possibility of a suitable mating
I have decided to abandon all internet dating
And all maternal advice
Instead leaving the remainder of my life
To be written by Jane Austen
Then I can abandon all thoughts of what’s in
Store for my nuptial match
And place all faith in the fact that
Although I’m penniless with a meddlesome mother
And all the family fortunes have gone to my half-brother
I’m charming and actually quite bright for a girl,
Skin radiant like a lustrous pearl
Though compared to my sister I’m somewhat plain
I can discuss Ovid, Shakespeare, Madame Bovary
I can cross-stitch and play the pianoforte
And I’ll be one and twenty years again
I’ll not hold a man’s hand unless we are engaged
Je parle un petit peu de Francais
I’ll speak my mind and wear an Empire Line dress
Which will look fine as I’ll have much smaller breasts
And then I’ll spy you at a Regiment Dance
All strapping and breeches, an aspiring Lance
Corporal, who at first sight I am certain is AWFUL,
Stuffy and rigid with a sword in your sphincter
I’d die rather than rely on you to end my spinster-hood
So to clear my head I take a brisk walk in the woods
Where in a manner entirely feminine
I fall and twist my ankle much to my chagrin
Which is a word I’ll use quite often
And just when the F word comes to my lips
Which as we all know is fiddledee fiddlesticks
You’ll swoop me up onto your trusty steed named Triton
On which I’ll perch side-saddle so as not to rupture my hymen
And I’ll suddenly realise you are the one
And that you’re a distant cousin of Richard Branson
With a staggering two squillion a year trust fund
And a gorgeous brother for my sister, two for the price of one
SO we’ll have a combined wedding garlanded in flowers
Dance Cotillions, Reels and the Macarena for hours
And then start on our new no doubt blissful life
You as my husband and me as your wife
A beautiful English Country Scene
But with one marked difference…..
Better oral hygiene
AND here are the details for the show:
Auckland based Improv troupe ConArtists are delighted to announce the world premiere of Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen for the New Zealand International Improv Festival. They are equally delighted to be invited to this inaugural festival at Bats Theatre and thinks it’s a simply super idea.
Come November 28 the cream of Auckland’s Improv talent will be swooning, romping, weeping and cross-stitching their way through Regency Shenanigans in an entirely unscripted and never before seen, or again seen, hour of Austen excitement. Suitors, meddlesome mothers, breeches, lower classes and surprisingly well educated girls will all paint a vivid picture in song, accompanied of course by the charming pianoforte.
Daintily treading the Bats boards will be veteran performer Lori Dungey, one of the founding players of Theatresports in New Zealand. Lori has performed all over the World and has represented both New Zealand and Canada in international tournaments including the World Cup of Theatresports in Germany in 2006 and was victorious in the Improvaganza Masters of the Universe Tournament in Edmonton in 2003. She has also just returned from yet another stint at OneRing.Net in Germany where she represents for the Hobbits.
Greg Cooper has been improvising from the tender age of 13 and was a member of the Court Jesters in Christchurch before moving to Auckland and Conartists. He is a veteran of hundreds of improv and dramatic performances and has also represented New Zealand overseas most memorably as a member of the World Cup winning team in Los Angeles in 1994. He can also be seen in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe representing for the Fauns.
Penny Ashton also began improvising at 13 when Greg’s team regularly beat hers. She is a comedienne and actor and has performed both Improv and her solo comedy shows in Australia, the UK, USA, Canada, Singapore and Germany. She too represented NZ at the World Cup in 2006 and at the Improvaganza in 2003. She can also be seen in three Shortland St episodes in 2000 representing for the Gynaecologists.
Stayci Taylor is a graduate of the John Bolton Theatre School in Melbourne and has trained with Phillipe Gaulier in London and Paris. She has travelled extensively throughout NZ and the world with improv and also with her comedy troupe The Rhonda Movement. She was a founding member of an all female group in Vancouver called Those Chicks Who Do Improv and is a senior writer for Maori Programming in NZ, recently receiving a complaint that her writing is too saucy, of which she is proud. She represents for the Lesbian Marathoners.
Bats Theatre, November 28th, 7pm
Bookings: book@bats.co.nz
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Short Sighted Change
Hurrruummmph.
Hurrummpph harruummpph harruummpphh
Poos and wees.
Hurumph.
I have a bone to pick with Mr Barack Obama. With his banging on and on about change some people in NZ took it all a little seriously and "changed" our government too. As my friend said on her status update "Change is the new "c" word".
I can understand wanting change when your president is a war mongering liar who reads children's books upside down and says things like: ""Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we". BUT when your leader is a top chick who just happens to have a deep voice and bad teeth everyone wants to "Kill that bitch."
I simply do not understand the level of hatred hurled in Helen Clark's direction. You would think she was going around the country digging up people's grannies and defiling them with crucifixes the way some people bang on about her. She was always lovely kind and sweet, oh OK so maybe not BUT whenever she wasn't I'm sure it was just coz of her period. Yes well.
BUT whatever the reason for the vitriol we are stuck with National again, along with their mincing chihuahua, the paso doble patrician, Rodney Hide, and their unfeasibly quiffed Jesus Fish Flip-Flop Artist, Peter Dunne. AARRRGGGHHH. Pack of twits the lot of them.
I think I might move to Ohio, now that's a place known for its progressive leftist governance.
Nah I'll stay in Auckland Central, a national electorate for the FIRST TIME EVER (thanks Electorate Vote Green) and be a horn in their side.
I even got a little teary when Helen Clark resigned! OK who am I kidding I out and out cried. Man I even surprised myself with that one, maybe she is a lesbian after-all and I fancy her. EEEwwwwwwww OK OK, now even as much as I love Helen Clark that's a mental image I'm grappling with. Let's just say I think she did a top job. I bet her hubby is rapt. He can get on with his clandestine homo escapades unencumbered and will never have to answer the question; "Do you like sex" from the Right Wing News Elite, oh sorry I meant The NZ Herald.
In fact I reckon there were a few sighs of relief. Judith Tizard mentioned her garden needed doing, Derek Fox has a Maori Media empire to rule over and Winston Peters needs to fuck off and die.
Sorry...did I write that out loud. Ooops.
Still his somewhat drunken speech mentioning the wonders of "democwashy" was priceless and when he pretended to forget Simon Bridges' name there was much hilarity at my Potluck Dinner. The new National MP for Tauranga is only 31, he was still pooing his pants and growing teeth when Winston fought his way into parliament in 1978, and he STILL trounced Winnie by 10 000 votes. Oh he knew his name alright.
ANYWAYS the die has been cast, the people have spoken and unfortunately lots of them were dickheads. BUT people often are. Some of you reading might even think I am a dickhead, but then you're a dickhead so who cares.
I look forward to this brave new wonderful world of fulfilled promises, higher wages, increased literacy, less crime and more Tangos. Hey maybe Rodney can be the Foreign Minister and solve peace in Israel....
Dancing with the Hezbollah's.
We will see.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Proposition Hate
Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, fuck.
I am starting to think I need to stop reading the news of the world online as it's getting my intestines in a twist. Just when we think we can rejoice in hope and optimism with Obama's inspirational win in the USA, along comes the passing of Proposition 8 to fuck me right off again.
So yet again gay marriage in California is banned, by a slim majority of 52% to 48%. The total cost of campaigning is now estimated at something like $70 Million US and it won't stop there. Opponents of the Proposition have immediately filed a law suit to contest this hollow victory so the financial hemorrhaging will continue to gush like Oprah Winfrey interviewing Tom Cruise. The wording of Prop 8 specifically stated that if passed it would "remove the rights" of gays to marry, and as it is anti-constitutional to deny American citizens rights, this is grounds for a law suit.
And in fact I don't doubt that if denied the pro-8's would have probably filed suit too, and so the only people to win in this contest currently are likely to be lawyers, printers, T-Shirt makers and button pressers.
And so hooray, America's goats can rest easy and the term marriage remains defined as man and woman because as we all know the foundation of the family is rooted in one man and one woman bringing up their own kids.
What total poppycock.
Anyone clinging to the nuclear family as the status quo in the western world are as deluded as Sarah Palin expecting love in a condom factory.
Babies come from all over the bloody place, even delivered on your doorstep in Austria. Marriage means diddlysquat to many in the world when it comes to procreation so stop clinging to semantics.
Also the meanings of words change. Gay no longer means happy, a faggot is no longer a group of sticks and that word that rhymes with wigger now means friend or brother to those who can use it. Semantics evolves, get over it.
OK I'm even bored with it all now.
The end.
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