Well cripes and begorrah, friends, hasn’t it been an interesting few days? I’d say it has, and frankly I’ve got a lot to nail down here, so bear with me. Of all the months for which I’ve done an “oddly enough” post this month has to take the proverbial cake. Got some doozies for you courtesy of the Strangest June in History.
Miley Cyrus is Disgusting
Okay, maybe this doesn’t come as a shock to all you savvy social media types out there, but given my extreme distaste for everything Perez Hilton does and stands for, I was late to the party on this one. Everybody’s favourite gossip bitch posted a photo from this weekend’s Much Music Video Awards (I was unaware that channel even showed music videos anymore) that apparently had to be seen to be believed, at least according to my buddy Van Der Sweet from Turning Down the Suck. He thought it would be cute to send it to me because he remembered my shame at discovering the “hot girl” in the 2009 United States of Pop video was none other than Hanna Montana herself, and he gets a bent kick out of winding me up, so he sent along the link. I begrudgingly clicked it, mostly out of the kind of morbid curiosity that keeps me living up to my duties as Prince of the Internet, but the nefarious photo was nowhere to be found. In fact, the entire entry on Perez’s hateful little blog was gone (and yes, the irony of Alex James calling someone else’s blog “hateful” is not lost on me), so I promptly forgot about it, though not before hoping against hope that somebody would charge him with distribution of child porn or something – anything – to get the obnoxious twat banned from every conceivable form of media until the end of time.
An aside – I hear the legions of Hilton’s followers screaming – or at least BBMing – for my blood as we speak, so I’ll deal with this real quick. Yes, I have an active and very healthy dislike for this clown. I don’t dislike Mario (and his name is Mario) for being gay, even though I think he’s an absolutely god-awful ambassador for the gay community. I don’t dislike him for being a more popular blogger than me, because at the end of the day he’s not a blogger – he runs a celebrity gossip aggregate site and puts stupid captions on existing photographs in lieu of his own content. (Irony alert #2) And I don’t dislike him because his focus is celebrities: the most insipid aspects of an already banal excuse for a culture. I dislike him for the same reason I dislike a lot of people: because he’s an asshole. Any questions?
So days go by, and I find myself suffering one of my regular bouts of insomnia, so I spend some time fiddling around with my Twitter feed that hangs like a whale-sized albatross around my neck ever since I married myself to the stupid thing a few months ago. Honest to god I have no idea how some of you Twitter people find that much vapid shit to talk about all day long, but since you sometimes throw me a bone in the form of an interesting link I’ll let it go. It so happens the link I discovered last night was the infamous Miley Cyrus upskirt photo old Mario had deleted from his offensive little corner of the internet. I am not turning my beloved State of Affairs into a smut site (even though Rule 34 dictates somebody, somewhere is jerking it to my articles, and I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified by that realization) so I am not posting the photo here, but if you have the same morbid curiosity I had or you just plain hate yourself, you can go look at it here. I’ll wait.
You clicked it, didn’t you, you warped individual. You couldn’t resist seeing what Hanna Montana had ‘neath her sultry little skirt, could you? Bet you’re kicking yourself now, aren’t you? Yeah, serves you right.
Much as I’d love to hear the simultaneous sound of my considerable readership retching into their screens, I’m not going to creep you out with too much detail, but suffice to say I’m reasonably certain of two things. One: seventeen year-olds should not be on the receiving end of a Brazilian wax, barring some kind of bizarre medical condition that requires your special no-no place be Brillo-free. (No, I do not know if such a condition exists, nor do I wish to, so keep it to yourselves ladies.) Further to point one, who the hell did she go to for the job? If I were a professional…waxer or whatever, I wouldn’t go near anybody under the age of majority without express parental consent – no, scratch that; not even then.
Which leads me neatly to point two: Billy Ray Cyrus is a fucking terrible father. Oh, you can go on all you like about her “rights” to do what she likes at the ripe old age of seventeen – lord knows enough other parents hide behind that Juvenile Crime hokum – but isn’t this the same guy who was keeping a tight leash on his squeaky-clean progeny just a couple years back when Hanna figured having her own show should equate to having her own digs at age fifteen? I remember applauding Billy Ray and his wife (who I’m too lazy to look up, so I shall call her Candi) for their heavy-handed parenting approach at the time.
What happened in the last two years, Billy? How did Miley go from all-American teeny bopper to Lindsay Lohan’s Padawan on your watch? First the stripper pole thing, and now this atrocity? I was going to make a pithy joke about your parenting skills, but at this point I think it would be more apropos to congratulate you for raising an Achy Breaky Tart, you redneck tosspot.
And Miley: on the off chance you’re reading this – it’s not too late. You need to take a long hard look at your life, missy, and decide if this is really where you want to end up:
because with an attitude like the one you’ve got you might as well be on the same wrecked train that started in Disneyland and ends in a trailer park in Louisiana. You’ve got a lot to learn about the world, my dear, and it’s high time you start learning it before this industry chews you up and spits you out on your admittedly aesthetic but undeniably underage ass. Now I shall go scrub my brain with Drano and try to forget I ever saw this. Thanks a lot Van Der Sweet, you Dutch bastard.
German People Are Insane
The Germans are a funny race. Being descended from a proud German lineage on my father’s side gives me something of a unique perspective on the land of beer and sausage. One thing on which I think we can all agree is that the popular conception of Germans is overwhelmingly (though undeservedly) linked to a certain onetime fascist dictator with a mono-testicle and a severe distaste for latkes. Like I said it’s really not fair to paint everybody in Germany with the same big white paintbrush, especially sixty years after the fact, and considering 99% of the Germans I know are awesome people. But, if we learned anything from Hitler (or Stalin or Bush or any other war criminal – ooh, edgy!) it’s that one fabulously bad apple can go a long way towards spoiling an otherwise perfectly serviceable barrel, and just because the majority of people are cool doesn’t mean there isn’t room for the whole spectrum of The Crazy to exist and thrive in the cracks between the palatable public facade.
I happened on a story that illustrates my point beautifully. Here’s the article if you didn’t already see it (since it went viral pretty much as soon as it hit Twitter) but for those of you too lazy to click the links I so generously hunt down and provide, you useless leeches, here’s the headline:
“German student “mooned” group of Hell’s Angels and hurled puppy at them before escaping on stolen bulldozer”
Now there’s a perfectly ordinary English sentence. Let’s break it down, shall we?
When I was a bit younger I took it upon myself to learn something about the Hell’s Angels. I’d just watched a documentary about the Rolling Stones’ disastrous Altamont show in which the Angels were inexplicably hired to run security and wound up murdering a fan, and it piqued my interest about the gang: arguably the most romanticized non-Italian organized crime syndicate in history. While I learned the Angels have active chapters in a laundry list of countries, I didn’t realize one of those chapters was located in Deutschland. For some reason I had a hard time marrying the image of a grizzled, balls-to-the-wall biker gang with the much more fashionable, disaffected German persona that lives in my brain. Doubtless the Germans can be scary people when they want to be, but my image of “scary German” falls somewhere in between Gestapo and schisse videos, with little room left over for motorcycle riding hooligans. But regardless of what I think, the Engel von der Hölle do exist, and they look pretty much like what you’d expect them to.
Here’s a picture. You be the judge.
Tell me the guy on the right doesn’t look like an accountant. Go ahead.
While you might not find the German Angels particularly frightening, I’m willing to bet you wouldn’t think antagonizing them would be a good idea – neither would I. Apparently this logical course of thought – or any logical course of thought, in fact – didn’t occur to the unnamed German student in the article. Just like the title says, he ran up to an Angels clubhouse outside Munich and whipped his pants down around his ankles before catapulting a yapping puppy at the assembled bikers and then hightailing it out of there. If, of course, you can equate “hightailing” with “leaping on a cumbersome piece of construction equipment and trundling laboriously down a motorway, causing a five kilometer traffic jam behind you”. I don’t know about you, but if I was endeavouring to escape from a load of pissed-off Germans on Harleys, I would probably choose “running my ass off” over “bulldozer”. Hell, I’d have a better chance on a unicycle.
And the best part? Police arrested him at home later on, after he abandoned the bulldozer in favour of hitchhiking (!) and determined he had gone off his depression medication. Having taken medication for depression in the past I can sympathize that coming off Paxil or whatever can seriously damage your perception of reality, but never did it occur to me during those tumultuous times to throw household pets at angry bikers or to steal construction equipment. Maybe it’s a German thing.
But of course the lunacy on the other side of the ocean pales in comparison to the logistician’s nightmare that has descended upon my fair city this last week. You knew we were going to talk about it sooner or later, dear readers…
International Carnival Comes To Toronto; Ruins Everything
If you’re reading this right now and you’re the kind of person who likes to pull apart every little thing I say and unravel each of my points until my entire argument resembles the morning ablutions of a violently ill Rottweiler (and if that’s so, hello Dad) you’re already priming your rhetorical arsenal to dispute every overreaching statement I’m about to make about the G20 conference, so let’s poke some holes in your air balloon first.
I am well aware what most Toronto residents consider extremely drastic security considerations are par for the course for G8 and G20 style conferences the world over. When you put most of the world’s influential leaders in one place you might as well be painting a great big target on your ass and dispensing free lubrication for every warped extremist passing by that fancies a bit of international political bum-rape, so clearly (if you want to torture this analogy further) steps need to be taken to ensure our collective Canadian orifice remains virginal. As everybody the world over is painfully aware, because no Toronto resident will shut up about it, the costs for such security are a little bit on the far side of astronomical. But guess what – you pay your money and take your chances; in this situation, quite literally. Don’t want to spend a billion dollars on security? I don’t blame you. I don’t like most of the politicians coming to visit our fair city and I would probably find it sociologically interesting if they all got blown to smithereens. But you know what I don’t want? A big fuckoff crater where my city used to be. There’s no point in complaining about the rain if you didn’t want to spring for an umbrella, so I say go buy the best umbrella you can and make sure this whole thing stays relatively dry.
My point? I’m not complaining about the cost of the conference, because I know the cost is necessary, so don’t start.
I fail to understand why it’s being held here. Yes, as an elitist Torontonian I like to go on about how this is one of the greatest cities in the world and frankly I’m right, but it’s also the most densely populated city in Canada and one of very few with a transit system. Now, these might look like selling points to Stephen Harper, who I assume wants to show off the city to visiting delegates, but somehow I feel like we are trying way too hard to impress everybody. I mean, some of this stuff is downright embarrassing – the fake lake in Muskoka being the most egregious example of pandering I may have ever seen (because, you know, the Chancellor of Germany doesn’t know what a fucking lake looks like), but I’m talking about Toronto here. Yes, we’re a great city. Yes, people should definitely visit – contrary to popular belief we actually like tourists (or at least their money), but I genuinely don’t understand the train of thought that led the folks in charge to decide it would be a good idea to host the G20 summit here, and more specifically, now.
Leaving aside the logistical difficulties inherent in locking down a huge city like Toronto (as opposed to, say, Ottawa, where it’s less congested and it’s also the nation’s capital), let’s look at the social schedule in this city in the week leading up to the summit and the weekend itself:
Much Music Video Awards. North by Northeast Music Festival. The G8 conference in Muskoka. The World Cup (not specifically held in Toronto, but still). Oh, and the fucking Gay Pride Parade.
Doesn’t this sound like a great idea? Let’s take a bunch of high-profile politicians and stick them in a city full of stoned concert-goers, psychotic Justin Bieber fans, smelly and potentially violent protestors (to be fair, they’d be there wherever they went), smelly and potentially violent footie fans, and just for fun, we’ll throw in a literal parade of half-naked homosexuals celebrating their community.
WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
Look. The logistical difficulties of hosting a huge conference like this are unavoidable any time of the year. But did nobody look at a calendar before greenlighting this? We even went so far as to send our baseball team (arguably the only Toronto sports team that doesn’t currently suck) to Philadelphia for the weekend because there was just too damn much going on for them to play at home. And what is to be gained from all of this, exactly?
Correspondent Vee Bloom mentioned she was reading an article about the last G20 conference, which was held in Pittsburgh, and she sent me this quote:
“[O]ur favorite thing about this year’s G20… seeing the date location stamp on anything written about it as Toronto, Canada.”
Maybe this is our comeuppance as Torontonians for being so lofty and snooty about how great we are; I’ll just bet the rest of Canada is breathing a sigh of relief the conference isn’t in their city, and I’ll bet they’re sharing a collective chuckle at our expense. I guess we deserve it?
Oh, and this just came across my desk: to all you folks complaining about the “broad, sweeping powers” given to police during the conference: lighten up, you bunch of babies. So they can arrest you if you’re hanging around outside the fence with no ID – what are you, functionally retarded? Why would you do that, unless you have some deep-set issues that equate getting arrested and probably beaten up with the kind of positive attention your dad never gave you? If the cops keep the “broad, sweeping powers” after the conference, I’ll be the first guy on the protest line, but I somehow doubt that’s going to happen. This city is hemorrhaging money keeping that many cops on the streets as it is – we won’t be able to afford to keep running a police state once everybody packs up and goes home, so give it a fucking rest, will you?
My advice to Toronto residents? Stay home, pour a drink and wait for this shit to blow over.
What Did We Learn?
To be honest friends, I don’t have a lot more to say about these three totally unconnected points of interest. I’m currently sitting at the Compound waiting for this day to run out so I can get out of the downtown core and hibernate in my apartment for the rest of this silly, silly weekend. So in short: Miley Cyrus needs to put clothes on, German students have too much time on their hands, and the G20 can suck a whole mess o’ dick for all it matters to me. Have a good weekend.