Best Review Of My Blog.........Ever!

There's nothing that makes you feel more like a celebrity than hatemail. Whoever made the comment below clearly knows me better than my own mother. 'Nuff Said. On with the show. (Dear anonymous commenter, I hope you don't mind that I've corrected your grammar and spelling and made some comments of my own in brackets. Even though I'm a pathetic excuse for a human being, I still have standards. High ones. Which I make lists about in all the free time I have). So here it is. Not THE funniest thing I've ever heard about me but somewhere in the top seven.



Loving_Hamza said...

Absolutely pathetic. This guy makes Britney Spears' Oops I Did it Again sound like a Shakesperean (ShakespEARAn. Petty aren't I?) masterpiece. That's right, he's done it... again. (Oops!)

It would help if Hamza had better things to do in life than watch every single show on telly like some pimply teenage girl (*Chuckles*. I love sexist humor. Too bad there are no jokes about retards here. sigh!). I can see this chap going really "far" in life (I'm sorry I don't get this insult. Too cryptic for me. Anyone else?). In fact, he has so much useless junk in his head after watching tv all day that he feels the need to come and rant about it on his blog (So true).

What would he do without the Hollywood celebrities and the mediocre American shows? (Answer: Find a cure for AIDS) He religiously reads every gossip about Hollywood stars like all bored housewives do (And yet, I still don't have a husband. Oh woe is me).

To justify all his lame behaviour actions (Unnecessary redundant repetition on a loop) he calls himself gay and uncool... he even admits to NOT having a life (but I AM gay. Everybody says so. Why won't you believe me? Is it my undeniable manliness? Maybe if I suck your cock for you huh?). This he does in order to make himself feel good because if somebody else says it to him first that would hurt his ego and make him look like a total dork. Insecure li'l baby (Don't go calling me baby yet. The Pussycat Dolls have taught me not to put out so easy).

He is (was, sugar, WAS!) very insecure about his weight as well, which is why he tries (used to try and succeeded I might add) to laugh it off and make jokes about it.

His favourite website is thesuperficial.com... people who visit such sites are either girls with too much time on their hands or virgin little perverts who can only dream of "those good things" (again with the quotes. This kind of highbrow jabbing escapes me. Sure, if you take your glove off and slap me on the face with it, I'll know that means it's on but that's only 'cos I've seen it on TV) that they can't have. If the guy got pussy (I do. I do. I have the Syphilis to prove it) he wouldn't be snooping around these sites everyday jacking off to cellulite on celluloid (nothing compares to a good self-administered handjob. I guess you're not a man or else you'd understand. Right fellas? Woop Woop).



That was all folks. I wanna print this, frame it and put it on my wall. And of course jack off to it like a pimply teenage Britney Spears. Whoever wrote this. I wanna shake your hand (so that you'll contract my Syphilis!!!!)

**Update: Well whaddaya know? It IS "Shakespearean". That must mean...could it be?...Yes! I'm not god after all!!! *gasps*. I guess I should cancel my plans to jump off the peak of Mt. Everest into that strategically placed tank of piranhas. What will I do this weekend then? *Looks hopefully through TV guide*

Big Boy Blues

Life is like an onion. Layers and layers of tear-induce-y goodness. Still better than a peach I say. Yeah it's all juicy scrumptiousness when you start nibbling at it but once that's all bitten away you're left with a poisonous pit. Wait, maybe life's more peachy after all. Ah hell! I guess I could even make puppies and chocolate seem gloomy in my present state. Have a listen to Billie Holiday singing Blue Moon as only a bitter and broken crackwhore who died without ever finding love could, while I go find some bleach, a razor and a roof-ledge for....uh..a project.

For Male' - I Love This City

There's no other place with quite so many losers.
We're all really Muslims but most of us boozers,
Too.
"Slavery's not dead", said the Bangaalhee.
Rhyming is hard with a word like Bangaalhee,
Oh pooh!

We can hate it or love it,
But can't rise above it,
Like the rest of the world can do.

'cos Male's the place where i was born.
It's not just a coop that this pigeon has flown.
It sometimes gets boring but my heart is torn.
I can't really leave it, I'd rather just moan.
Ooh!

Posing's perfected like an artform in Male'.
Borrowed concepts and words form most of our parlay,
Don't they?
Masood and Khalil and Heena Waleed,
Seezan or Niuma or Ablo Hameed,
Euppey!

You can hate it or love it,
But you've gotta admit it.
This place is so happy and gay.

'cos Male's the place where i wanna be.
It's more than just palm trees, the sun and the sea.
London, New York and KL's not for me.
I don't wanna leave it so please let me be.
Hooray!

This One Goes Out...

*Update:- By the by, I think I forgot to mention that the song down yonder is by a comedienne and not my usual wannabe-artsy-fartsy fare. This is seriously the funniest thing I've ever heard in a long time. Watch it please, if just to prove me wrong when it doesn't make you laugh.

Heartfelt thanks are in order to iwatchstuff.com for pointing me in the general direction of this clip (see y'all, ripping off someone else's ideas can be done with class too). Anyway, there's nothing I could say that would trump this video (except for [bleep] [bleep] you [bleepin'] [bleeps]) so I'll let Sarah Silverman do her thing. I dedicate this to anyone who's ever been unlucky enough to make my acquaintance. Enjoy the song you losers. I heart you.

Me, My Blog & I

Lately, I've been neglecting this poor thing so much. It's like this with every pet project of mine. I start out nurturing and obsessive about the poor thing's health to the point of being maternal (minus the breastfeeding - I've tried that when I was a 108 kg with my fire-point Persian. Contrary to schoolyard wisdom, man-boobs are still technically chests). But after a few weeks of TLC someone has to call in the RSPCA.

I guess I could pick from a whole list of possible excuses;

• I spent the whole of Easter break (spring break for you Americans - neo-colonialist bastards the lot of you! *shudders with rage*) doing absolutely nothing consequential (except for saving the world once or twice. It is rumored that if I don't jack off more than three times a day the apocalypse is bound to ensue. Butterflies' wings people, butterflies' wings) so I was left with two days to put together random bits of incoherent gobbledygook off the top of my head under an important sounding title (basically what George W. Bush's speech-writing staff do on a daily basis. Zzzzing!).
• My dad's not doing well (awwww).
• I found a goldmine of old Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes on www.projectw.org (there you are lads. Free publicity. Now let my girlfriend go! *violin music*) which I still enjoy although I am aware that teenagers and twenty-somethings don't really spout that kind of pop-culture commentary.

OR I could just tell you the truth. Which is kinda sorta in the general area of the last excuse, which I thought deserved a position on my list of justifications right after the possibly fatal illness of my father (ah go figure). In all honesty, I've just been lazy and careless.

*Looks intense* Me and you, we've been through so much, blog. It's sad but I guess the honeymoon phase is over. I still love you and I'm prepared for a commitment but....that spark. It's missing. All we've got left is a warm, cozy little fire which I'm hoping is enough to sustain us in our golden years.

So to give you a sample of my newfound interests. Here are a few tracks produced by Mark Ronson, who I believe may be the second coming!! Hallelujah!!!!!

The first one is a cover of the Kaiser Chiefs' Oh My God. Which was literally my first response to this addictive club refunkification of the original track (which - to the horror of most purists - I liked but stopped liking before it got to the love phase). What's even better than the jazzalicious horns and dance-ey vibe are the vocals by Lily Allen. Love that girl. No one can out-ironically-sing her.



This next track, another cover, namely, of The Smiths' Stop Me If You Think That You've Heard This One Before, has vocals by Daniel Merriweather (he of the unfortunately ponce-like surname). It takes some getting used to - an acquired taste as far as I'm concerned anyway. But even for those who hate the first listen, the last part where Daniel launches into a soulful rendition of The Supremes' You Keep Me Hangin' On is guaranteed to titillate.



Ah! This reminds me of my short stint as a dj at VOM last summer. Hope to be back there in June boo (yeah you pesticles). So people, remember my name, I'm gonna live forever.......

Attention Adults!

Today is the start of a new year for me because I just turned twenty-two yesterday. Don't get me wrong - I got loads of love for the first of January but the tenth of April was when I came into this world and being the self-centred narcissist I am, that's when a year really ends as far as I'm concerned.

A lot of us semi-educated, so-called liberatis (I could write lyrics for Alanis Morissette) reflect on our personal growth and our achievements after the candles are blown out and hangovers are cured but barring the continued extension of certain generous endowments, I know I've barely changed. As a close friend reminded me, I'm still the "kiddy kid" (still a fan of redundancy too) I was two years ago and I have no delusions about my place in this world which will go on sucking donkey dong way after I'm covered in six feet of dirt. So I dedicate Pizzicato Five's Baby Love Child, below, which I earnestly believe was written for me, BY ME (Oh look! I'm still deluded too. Yay!)

When Taught By The Best

Broad beginning statement to sweep it all up : There isn't that much honesty in being funny.

So I refuse to be in this post. I feel like a little corazon-a-corazon with anyone who reads my blog on the subject of friendship. Mainly regarding its expiry date. Some friendships are like a carton of milk. It eventually gets old and sour, and you feel absolutely nothing or next to nil when you throw it away. You might not ever drink milk again or you might go for flavored. Hell you might go out and buy yourself the exact same brand and volume (never let it be said that Hamza Latheef cannot stretch a metaphor to the point of annoyance). But the point is that it never really mattered that much in the first place.

But then there are people close to you that you tend to think of like an expensive video game console (whether it's a PS3, Nintendo Wii or Sega Saturn is totally a matter of taste). It get's broken and you fix it over and over like a maniac. You ignore the fact that it really doesn't work as well as it did at the start or that there are some games that you just can't play anymore no matter how hard you try. Then it get's to the point that it won't even respond anymore and you sit there staring at something you loved so much lying completely still. No way to resuscitate it any longer. Well that's when you feel real loss.

Sometimes it's your fault. You were careless with it. Sometimes it was flawed to begin with. Most times you can't explain why it had to end. That's the hardest thing for me. Some sodas just lose their pop and you can be like me and go on drinking it regardless until there's nothing left (if at a loss for analogies, look inside your refrigerator). However, once it's gone and there's no way to get it back, it's just, well, for lack of a better word, sad!

Not as sad as when Randy Jackson (God will he never stop talking about that show, right? That's right I won't!!! Not until the season finale at least) proved to the world, just what an out-of-the-loop dinosaur he is in terms of being a producer. He praised that despicable Chris Richardson for squeezing out all the emotion from a song that I (and most other sane people) absolutely adore. I didn't even think it was possible to sing Don't Speak with that much anti-passion (why bother looking for antonyms when you can do this people?). I'd like to apologize to Gwen Stefani as a fan of No Doubt for that horrendous display which I hope she was too busy to have the misfortune of watching. Also, if you're supposedly a big man in the music industry (pun intended regardless of the conditionality) aren't you supposed to know when a song's been covered by an artist from a different genre (and masterfully I might add)? Putting an RnB (by the way nasal over-singing isn't RnB 'dawg'!) spin on the song was fresh? Then what's this doing on YouTube?

Idolwild

Now there's no doubt in anyone's mind that American Idol gave new meaning to the phrase "socially acceptable cruelty". Why do we feel little or no guilt in watching people embarrass themselves and get laughed at and/or ridiculed for it on AI? It's really no mystery. Simon Cowell is just the living embodiment of every snarky thought we've ever had about anyone else (never mind whether we have the cajones to utter them out loud or not). Why even Mother Theresa in her moments of weakness must have felt a giggle come on when some bow-legged, malnourished kid with a bulging belly (Oh the irony that is protein deficiency) streaked nude across the entrance of her tent/shack/wherever-the-fuck-she-lived. (On a side note: the only reason why I ever watched Haarudhan, or as it was called in its previous incarnation, Haarusoanaa, was for the sight of old or retarded or ugly people prancing about on live TV doing things which they obviously never had the talent to do to begin with.)

I for one feel no shame in saying exactly what I think. There's a childlike honesty to bluntness that I, and the Simon Cowells of the world, feel carries more weight than Paula-esque roundaboutedness. But for some inexplicable reason (probably a loaded revolver pointed at Cowell's forehead by a TV exec from behind the camera) even [insert tired, over-used adjective synonymous with the word "mean"] Simon doesn't go far enough. Therefore I have taken it upon myself to go the distance and say what's on everyone's mind but left unspoken at primetime Tuesday and Wednesday nights on Fox (brought to you by Diet Coke and Ford...among others).

Gina Glockson: I'll say one thing for her. She's pale enough to pull off the whole Goth-Chick image that's been pushed on her by the judges but I swear one of her eyes are smaller than the other (or bigger for you half-full-glass kinda people) and she can't sing to save her life. Now there's an interesting concept for a TV show. Let Al Qaida kidnap her, put a black hood on her head, cut a hole for her mouth, let her sing and ask America to vote on whether she gets decapitated or not. Let's hope for her sake that she doesn't go into a rousing chorus of Hava Nagila.

Haley Scarnato: She reminds me of that Lahufa Faez chick from our own Maldivian Idol. Translation: she looks annoying, sounds like nails on a chalkboard and makes up for mediocrity with silly stage antics.

Blake Lewis: I have a feeling if I knew this beat-boxer personally I would actually like him but that's what the people who watch this show (mostly pre-teen girls, old women on life support and me) need to realize. We DON'T KNOW these people. Their stage personas shouldn't be taken at face value. The fact of the matter is that this dude is a unique choice for this show because of only two reasons. 1. He's slightly more urban than your Carrie Underwoods or Kellie Picklers, and 2. Technically speaking, he's a horrible singer.

Brandon Rogers: I actually recognized this guy way before the revelation that he was a backup singer for big stars. Why? Because I remembered him warbling in the background when Christina Aguilera performed Come On Over (All I Want Is You) on AOL Live. A reason I would have been too ashamed to admit before my sister (lovely girl that she is) made sure that everyone and their grandpa knew just how fey I can be sometimes. Most of the time. Ok! All of the time. Now why did I go off on a tangent about my borderline gayness instead of discussing the strengths or weaknesses of Brandon. Ah elementary my dear Watsons! Because that's what anyone would do when they see Bland-on Rogers perform. Think about their laundry. Or grocery lists. Or the condom wrapper they might have left lying around where their mom could see (Isn't it interesting how fear of condom wrappers being discovered by parents is universal across genders?).

Jordin Sparks: Can sing. Too bubbly. Better suited for a beauty pageant.

Lakisha Jones: Obligatory fat, black, belter (those of you who don't pay attention to punctuation marks, feel free to assume that Ms. Jones can take on Jackie Chan anytime, anyplace) who finds her way onto almost every season (anybody remember a certain someone called Jennifer Hudson?).

Chris Richardson: I would point out that he's a Justin Timberlake-wannabe but that's already so obvious and probably (ugh!) part of his appeal. However, aside from his many, MANY, flaws, Timberlake can actually sing. Through his mouth. Not his nose unlike Chris. Still, kudos to Chris for dedicating Jason Mraz's sublime Geek in the Pink (which he butchered) to his Grandmother (Those are sarcastic kudos by the way. Google the meaning of the song if you've actually read this and don't get what I mean).

Chris Sligh: Kinda sorta funny although I do admit anyone can see his jokes coming from a mile away. Self-deprecation is so blase' these days anyway. He does sound a lot like Elton John though. And if there's anyone who could win American Idol it would be the fairy Knight himself.

Stephanie Edwards: I think the people behind the show still can't get enough of Fantasia Barrino so they just incubated a clone which came out lighter-skinned with a weaker voice.

Phil Stacy: I have no interest in even discussing baldie with the scary smile. He's probably going to be the first to leave next week.

Sanjaya Malakar: I don't understand why Simon and co. just won't come out and say it. This guy is too gay. Even for the show which made a star out of Clay Aiken. He hula dances and being seventeen is no excuse for having a girl's voice either (yours truly could do Marvin Gaye on his fifteenth birthday). Don't get me wrong. I'm not a homophobe. But the key demographic to which AI caters to surely are. He really can't sing for sour apples too. I blame Janet Jackson for making impressionable young queers like Sanjaya think that whispering in a girly voice is singing.

Melinda Doolittle: Had to save the best for last. Melinda is by far the only real talent on the whole fucking show. If I had to criticize her (which, to be fair, I do), I would say she has absolutely no neck. None at all. But neither does Nelly and he seems to be doing pretty well. I also think her deer-in-the-headlights schtick is a well-executed ploy to win votes. But she doesn't really need to do that. She's got more talent in her half-an-inch of neck than all the other contestants combined. Whether she wins AI or not, one thing is for certain, she gets the you-tube embed award for this post. Congratulations Melinda. You might as well leave the show now completely satisfied.

Hell 'n Back Boi

I'm back my pretties and all the flying houses in Kansas can fall on me now for all I care. For those of you in high school, I've got a piece of advice. Learn to sing, breakdance or juggle eggs but avoid University at all costs. It's all a huge, obese sham (thought I'd try the thesaurus-guided writing style of the infamous Ogre Wahid for a sentence). They work you to death and for what? To come out at the other end sapped of all your individuality and thoroughly convinced that every independent thought you've ever had fits into some perverse historian's/philosopher's/scientist's world-view (this is in no way an attack on Mary-Jo's blog, which I adore, and shame on you for thinking it is now that I've suggested it).

Seriously though. Dr. Borg-Muscat if you ever read my blog, I love you but I don't respect you anymore. A veritable golden-hearted hooker, you are, you Julia Roberts of academia. You disappear for a whole semester, return from your holiday (probably in Mykonos) and give me 71% for an essay which I practically stole from all the secondary sources I referenced throughout. Moral of the story: Don't bother with all that critical engagement these hypocrites harp about. The occasional "the" and an "a" or two will suffice in between a billion quotes from a dozen other people you've never met and will never care about.

So much for college life. I'm back on track where I belong. Doing things which I hate less than being anally raped by a horse. And what could I possibly like more than that? Sing it for me Corinne my Nubian goddess.

Valentiniosity

That's my word for a person's attitude toward the 14th of February. There's your broken-hearted Romeo who feels that this day is another twisting of the knife stuck firmly in his perineum. The multi-cat-owning single-woman in her 30s which is a broad stereotype native to Western movies who guilt-trips her friends into taking her out with them and then subsequently spends the whole night thinking of ways to convince everyone else in love to clean the underside of a guillotine blade.

However if we venture outside the abstract, attitudes towards Valentine's day are so varied that there are almost no generalizations to be drawn from them. Except when it comes to women (you predictable creatures, said he in a paternalistic tone). Women, of every size, shape and color, love flowers (no need to deny it ladies) while every human being (get ready for an exclusionary condition to your humanity) loves chocolate. So the rest depends on how dumb anyone is to refuse two of these irresistable goodies just to make a point.

I on the other hand am not confused at all about a day which, in today's world, has nothing to do with Saints and religions. And all because I have been asked to be someone's Valentine and that someone is mine as well (take that all you suicidal loners. HAH!). If not, you might have found me lecturing anyone who would listen on the pointless evils of the least offensive four-letter word in English. But not this year. It's all pink clouds, rainbows and butterflies for me.

Alright I'm grossing myself out now so time to go to song before I induce a worldwide pukademic. I normally don't do this but I feel it's only fair to let the theme song for love's greatest holiday come from the culture where 99.9% of the music consists of love songs. Here's Tera Mera Pyaar Sanam sung by what looks like a prison dyke and some garden gnome at a piano. Hell, I can't do this on Valentine's day. Falguni Patak and Bombay Vikings, I love you too. Mwah. Let your love light shine through everybody!

...And All the Sinners Are Saints

As I'm in the process of writing my dissertation I can't seem to get out of thinking in academic-English-mode, so this post is going to reflect that in all its boring glory (still managed to squeeze in a little wordplay with the name of a flower though).

Let me begin in the proper formulaic manner from a personal premise. My father (who aren't in heaven) was once arrested and sentenced to banishment from the island of his birth for impersonating popular orator (sympathy for the devil being the theme) and shameless political opportunist (so much for that), Ibrahim Shihab on audiotape. Such an incident might be as commonplace as fashion-challenged men in effeminate plaid-patterned pajama-pants in the Maldives of today but in the days of yore it was definitely worth a "hoo" and a "ha". A simple question comes to mind which, I'm pretty sure, only warrants an answer any respectable somnambulist can give in a state of REM. But are conventional answers really satisfactory? Why the difference? Why do some crimes go through such a radical redefinition? Is this change ethical? Inevitable? Is it right? Should we give a flying fuck?

Take murder for instance. Once a simple crime punishable by geographically, culturally and religiously variable means of retribution. The picture at present is a lot more complicated in Westphalic law which is slowly taking over the world. There's manslaughter, plain old homicide, justifiable homicide in self-defense etcetera etcetera. Now I'm going to hit anyone who's reading this post with my not-quite controversial perspective on the whole shebang (which incidentally is my favorite quote by Emily Deschanel on the tv show Bones. Marry me Emily!). I don't put much stock in psychology (Nadha is SO gonna hate me). Especially when it comes to law courts when juries can be so easily manipulated with paid testimonies from "proffessionals" and "experts". So I'm asking the question. Can murder be justified? Certainly not every murder is equally reprehensible but (there's a but) does the motive justify the means and the end? The very difficulty of establishing motive makes the whole thing even fuzzier for me.

Up next, there's a perennial argument I have with my small group of mostly neo-con friends. Are drugs really so evil? Should they all fall under blanket bans? A very good friend of mine, who ironically despises marijuana, thinks it should be legalized everywhere from his particular economic worldview (Hashim you money-mad Adam Smith, you). His position being that if real honest-to-goodness shops sold good quality weed then there would be less crime associated with the sale and use of it. I certainly agree. If regular cigarettes were outlawed I would be the first person to kill, steal and suck cock in order to get my fix.

Now out of the courts and into the streets. What's the foremost concern which is a universal constant for all of us beyond the age of 10? (Ten being an arbitrary number based on when I first ejaculated. I define the very concept of tell-all, no?) Not hard to guess what the answer I was expecting for my own question was. Sex. And one of the biggest complaints and criticisms centering around people's sex lives have to do with sexual promiscuity.

But what really is promiscuity? The word has a tidy little definition but it's unsupported by surveys or statistics. So we're all free, as we please, to use it to derogate people who just simply have more sex than we do (whether out of jealousy, contempt or disgust doesn't really concern me). Why is extreme promiscuity either called a criminal tendency stemming from moral bankruptcy or a psychological defect? Are we really that much more free-thinking than we were, say, a century ago? I've certainly called a few people sluts and whores in my time (those of you who immediately assumed the people I'm referring to were women have only yourselves to blame for giving a gendered meaning to asexual words). But why do we do it? There certainly isn't one single reason but it's worth thinking about. So with an abrupt admonition to practice more introspection (as if any of us really needed a reminder to do that) I shall sign off. Au revoir mon amis.

Hamza Get Your Gun OR My Personal Musical

This post is going to piss the hell out of me later and blow my street-cred to Hades (if I had any to begin with). So (deep breath) here it goes.

That stupid little blind, naked kid shot me with one of his arrows and I'm afraid I've lost my edge. It's funny how the most vindictively vicious people (spelled H-A-M-Z-A) can turn into doe-eyed dumkopffs when this happens but, my friends, I've lost my edge ever since it did. I can't even make fun of ugly people anymore (woe is me). The worst thing is now I can understand those big overblown ballads all of a sudden and some of them even *choke* get me teary-eyed (Oh Al Green you poor misunderstood creature).

(Being the geek that I am) I naturally thought of how lucky telepaths (and god) are when it comes to love because they have the benefit of knowing if they're wasting their time or if their paramour actually feels the same. Still, there's nothing I (or in Say What You Want below, Texas) can do short of hiring a private investigator or buying a pair of binoculars and renting a room with a view of mon cheri's window.



I wish I could say love was all pure emotion and PG feelings but then I would be compromising my unflinching integrity (I can't have that now can I?). A lot of it, in my case, has to do with waking up in the morning with a boner (I don't know whether the timing or the physical reaction applies to women or other men for that matter) and a desperate need to reach the person my body then proceeds to cry out for (after certain dextrous ministrations). But instead of boring you with the fine details of how pathetic I've become, I'm going to embed a little song by Mousse T which I'm sure any warm-blooded sentient being can empathize with (I'm sorry frogs and snails. I know you contributed to my genetic make-up but you're exempt).



Never say it's impossible to end the most wishy-washy schlop on an upbeat note. Mousse T's Horny still rocks in 2007!

Fine Wines Aren't Always Aged

There are times in everyone's life when they've felt like what the song below is saying (unless they happen to be one of those annoying people who never do anything wrong. God I hate them!). I just wanted to share this amazing song in the desperate hope that the majority of the world's population is just as fucked up as I am. This was the story of my life last summer and who better to sing it than Amy Winehouse whose voice was probably preserved in a bunker from the 50s while the twin nuclear blasts of big money and over-production reduced most contemporary voices to synth-heavy cacophonies of unparalleled crapitude (if that's not a word, well, then, it should be! So there).

So, Mesdames et Messieurs, the incomparable Amy Winehouse with Rehab (wild applause).

Pleasurable Guilt

I've always prided myself on being musically pretentious but even the most cursory glance at my playlist would prove otherwise. I'm just a 90s boy and no matter how hard we try, we just can't resist the mainstream. Especially when the pop artist in question is Amerie. I've got a weakness for dark chocolate and Korean barbecue and these two delicacies came together and broke the mold when the powers that be came up with Amerie (read the end of that sentence just right and you'll be rewarded with a little jingle of my own creation). Some people might say it's the ultimate vanity to prize, over all others, the features that you possess yourself (yours truly just happens to be mocha-skinned and squinty-eyed) and those people are exactly right. I love myself. With all my heart (To the wunderkinds who thought that was a euphemism for excessive masturbation: I salute you. You are all national treasures. Now get back to working on that cure for cancer).

Take Control of the video below. (The song really launches after the annoying little intro. Don't let it discourage you. The sinfully addictive guitar riff after it is worth the wait)

If You Got A Fifty-Kilo Ass Put Your Hands Up

I may go on and on about stuff I like (and hate) but I felt my blog desperately needed something that really hits close to home. So I'm getting personal with a dedication to all my heavyset homies and monstrous mamis (you've got to have cried at the end of Shallow Hal to be a member. What? You thought we had to be inclusive just because we're fat? Think again). Mostly because I used to be an actual founder member of the tubby-club (Ladies, the operative word here is "used"). Although I might be more underwear model than Chris Farley now that doesn't mean I've forgotten my roots (my thick juicy tubers). To loosely quote one of the most asinine lyrics in the world "don't be fooled by the stones that I've lost, I'm still (I'm still) chubby from the block".

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about healthy lifestyles and all that new age crap but I have to remind all you lovely people that none of that gives anyone the right to hate. It would be too utopian to expect all the schoolyard taunts and behind-the-back sniggering to stop but at least Beautiful South know's what I'm talking about. Perfect 10, below, goes out to all my plus-size players. So, put down the extra-large bag of chips and give this one a listen.

Have Your Cake And Eat It Too

Posting about the American show Friends would be a mortal sin without mentioning Britain's brasher and more intellectual answer to it - Coupling (the circular logic that TV executives operate on forced them to make an American version of this too but trying to watch it is about as enjoyable as trying to tweeze out hairs from your big toe).

There are four main things which are likeable about BBC's Coupling and they are :-

1. Jeff,


2. The inventive dialogue about relationships and sex,


3. Jeff,


4. and the theme song Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

So there's a reason why I'm including Cake's tongue-in-cheek version of this timeless classic below (but no reason why I should be nominated for a Nobel Prize but that doesn't mean that's not going to happen either). Please press the pretty pink play button.

Hello Old Friend

I wanted to be the first to blog about Courteney Cox's new show, Dirt on FX. Matt LeBlanc had his chance with Joey but it turned out to be such a crapfest that the name Joey instantly became a synonym for anything bad and/or unwatchable (e.g:- The TV show Supernatural is SO joey. Or. Jay Leno, that joey bastard!). Matthew Perry went under the radar with Studio 60. I'm still waiting for it to turn into a real cult favorite before watching it (like Arrested Development) but I won't stop the clocks or let a cake rot in the background (never expected a Great Expectations reference didja? No matter how forced or unnecessary to the context). But good old Monica Geller just hit pay dirt (which will be my first and last wordplay with the title of this show).

She made the right decision not bringing in any baggage from Friends (we're still waiting for Jennifer Aniston to get out of character). This show isn't politically correct, it's not warm and fuzzy and it doesn't pretend that the United States of America consists of only good-looking, white heterosexuals who never have sex in front of a camera (and for those of you who are wondering, yes that is Spawn's cape Cox is wearing in the picture and no she isn't anemic, she's actually a vampire!)

So all you extremely unpathetic and sexually fulfilled people out there who are valiantly keeping the faith that six middle-aged men and women will once again sit down at Central Perk for a rousing chorus of Smelly Cat, I'd like to wish you a very happy upside-down-day. Throw a hat on me and call me mad already (I'm on fire with the lit-refs today).

**UPDATE** - Here's a little something for anyone even remotely interested in this show.

Dirt S01E01 - http://d01.megashares.com/?d01=c3d5eb9
Dirt S01E02 - http://d01.megashares.com/?d01=a16fe92

In the immortal words of Christina Aguilera - "Gonna get dirty..".

Vagina Envy

Confusingly provocative title - check (a possible interpretation of which might be that I am planning to be a transsexual. There I said it before anyone else could). However, that's a whole other story. I just wanted to follow up on a comment I made on Athena's blog (I hear she can induce erections in blind 90 year olds) about the bad rep that female artists get (female, not feminine. Prince, Little Richard, Boy George and David Bowie are respected enough). So here's a small list of some contemporary maestras that deserve more attention than they get.

Tori Amos

The grandmammy of them all. She personifies musical mastery. She also uses a L'Oreal exfoliant every morning for that fresh, clean look that teenage girls are supposed to have (enraged pimpley chicks, I feel your pain). A Tori-licious sample of her work below.



Fiona Apple

Beatles...who? That's what you'll think when you check out her cover of Across The Universe I've so generously provided. Fiona was named after her famous apple crumble which won her many national baking awards.



KT Tunstall

A veritable octopus of a musician. Don't understand? Video proof at your service, courtesy of Youtube in the form of a live performance of Black Horse and a Cherry Tree. Incidentally, KT says Victoria knows the Secret to a happy marriage (you know what she's talking about don't you girls?)



Worth a mention: Alanis Morissette, Tracy Bonham...Oh wait instead of me trying to impose my hegemonic will on others, could someone else come up with some more great female artists? (and no Ashlee Simpson and Avril Lavigne do NOT qualify)

In 24 Hours We'll Be Laying Flowers

Sunday, January 07, 2007 -

10:21 AM - 24 is back!! More Jack Bauer. More fast-paced neurotic suspense. Of course, season 6 will be better than all seasons before it and season 7 will trump season 6 and so on and so forth. Right now Jack and co. share the topspot of the pinnacle of my affections with Battlestar Galactica.

10:23 AM - I've got to find the right picture with all the counter-terrorist chutzpah.

11:02 AM - This real-time thing doesn't work as well in real life when you get interrupted in the middle of posting on your blog. I wonder what Jack Bauer does when he has to take a dump or someone messages him on MSN. Anyway watch 24 for the time of your life. Get it? Time? Comedy thy name is Hamzah.

Girls & Their Dreams

I watched Dreamgirls this week and damn me to hell but I liked it. I mean Chicago was annoying and managed to make Catherine Zeta Jones look like a man (they should show Martin Scorsese how to work that black magic on Leonardo Di Caprio) and Moulin Rouge was just plain scary at times (the thought of 40 year old whores being the norm in Paris was too much to bear. French pimps should have more rigorous hiring standards).

But try as I might I couldn't hate this musical. So there's no denying it. I must be gay (I apologize to all the families of women all around the world who slit their throats when they saw this). Still can't seem to think about buttfucking or getting poked by a dude without throwing up but that's the necessary next step. I'll have to find a way to get it done. Maybe pass out drunk on Santa Monica Blvd and wake up to find myself sodomized. That's relatively less nauseating. But wait Beyonce' was in it! Oh stop reaching Hamza you know you were actually in it for the scene where Eddie Murphy dropped his pants. Now you know the real reason why you watched Shrek three times.

Watch trailer below. Warning: Might cause irrepressible homosexuality.

Like They Did In Babylon

The first thing 2007 has given me is writer's block (bad year! Naughty, naughty!). The New Year's eve bash and the fact that I had my morning-after experience at 5 pm today might have something to do with it (although its just a theory). So I've been medicating myself with music such as Madeleine Peyroux's version of Leonard Cohen's Dance Me To the End of Love (listen to it below please, so you can all go ga-ga over how mature and sophisticated my musical taste is for my age).



Although I felt obliged to mention that prolific but gloomy Cohen wrote this beautiful piece of art he might as well just strike his name off the record and hand it to Peyroux. No offense to all you originalists but this is a woman who can sing in perfect French and, at the tender age of 32, sound like jazz greats such as Billie Holiday in their prime. This song is hers. Listen to Cohen's version and compare if you don't believe me.

Ah music. It's my crack. Some of you may laugh at this comparison but rock & roll, rap and even tame old Jazz have been outlawed in their time and consequently forced underground. So by relation drugs might not be all that bad (I can already see the invitations to speak at seminars pouring in). Maybe Amsterdam and Rastafarianism have got it right.

By Jove, eureka and gadzooks! I've just decided on New Year resolution number one - get dreadlocks and move to the Netherlands!