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Cabaret Hoover I've got zero interest in dance as an art form. I've got even less interest in those awful talent-search shows. My lady, who agrees with me for the most part, is nonetheless hooked on the American dance/talent-search show So You Think You Can Dance. It seems a lot classier than the creepy Idol-type shows, as the judges seem genuinely interest in finding talent, as opposed to being smarmy, self-absorbed judgmental twats. This is the primary reason I don't throw large objects at the TV while my other half watches it. It's a good thing too, because once, I got to see this. How utterly bizarre, funny, demented and wonderful. Well done dancey-people. Bonus trivia: SYTYCD (and Idol) creator Nigel Lythgoe used to be a choreographer for The Muppet Show. That's what you call an impressive resume. (Although it begs the question: how does one choreograph for puppets with no legs?)
In the manner of all nanny-state creeps, Gino Vumbaca asks...
Maybe because they're offering a product I can choose not to buy. You know, a consensual exchange between parties and all that. Who invited this imbecile to stick his fucking idiot nose into my life? Is there anyone in the entire public health industry who isn't a raging totalitarian control-freak?
Australia's most useless bureaucrat - the "Petrol Price Commissioner" Pat Walker - has quit after just four months on the job. Gee, and he was doing such a good job at lowering prices too. Chief ACCC retard Graeme Samuel comments:
Quite right too. A person who has achieved absolutely nothing during his time as commissioner is probably the most valuable person the public has ever had "serve" them in that wretched, parasitic watchdog. Now the ACCC can go back to doing really important things, like going after people for selling their own property. Bloodsucking filth.
A while back I mentioned I was looking forward to reading this:
If you're interested in reading it, don't bother. It turned out to be a serious disappointment. The bulk of the novel is a prosaic diary of the variety we-got-attacked-by-someone... then-we-got-bogged.... then-we-got lost... then I got sick.... I wrote to my wife.... then we got lost.... then we got attacked... then we got bogged again... oh the truck is broken...hey there's a german plane!....hey we're bogged again.... etc. etc. There's little sense of tension in the background story of the war in Africa, something I was sure Pressfield would be good at. And he is... for a while. In the first few chapters, there's an excellent outline of just what the British army was up against in that campaign. The stage is set for a great story. Yet the instant the narrator joins the special forces Long Range Desert Group, the entire momentum of the story flatlines. I was turning each page hoping he'd just bloody get on with it and start telling an interesting story. It doesn't happen. Gates of Fire this aint.
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