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Thursday, September 13, 2007

burlesque is shit
Hi I found this on the blog of some stranger's myspace
page and it saved me the trouble of writing this piece myself.
from http://www.myspace.com/_mattcooley_
here is the entertaining and harshly truthful blog entry

"Burlesque is shit"

I wish to rant for a moment if I may... The thing that has rubbed my dick up the wrong way recently is the ancient art of "burlesque".

Now, there was a time when burlesque wasn't quite so offensive to me as it has now become; it was essentially a victorian forgotten cabaret type affair which ulitmately involved some good old fashionned prostitution. However, of late, there seems to be a trend towards any girl who has a tattoo or a piercing donning a corset and parading round on stage in their underwear with no real grasp of what a total tit they are making of themselves... And it needs to ucking stop!

Just like the endless stream of girls who readily got their chuffs out on Suicide Girls (or inferior versions if they were REALLY minging), the justification is that they are somehow "empowering" themselves... They are not. They are just getting their tits out! Now, don't get me wrong, I really couldn't give a shit about the plight of women's equality or whether or not some girl wasnts to show off her baps in public. In fact, I quite encourage it. But don't fucking pass it off as some kind of "power struggle" for feminism.

See, the problem is not so much burlesque itself; more so volume of it currently. And the solution is simple: Quality contol... Let's face it, there are some fucking minging birds doing this, with all the grace of a mahogany cabinet and the looks of a donkey's arse. Recently, my band played in Leeds and there was some kind of burlesque "troup" (yes, that's what they call themselves!) and the standard of the girls taking part was literally abismal. Not only this, but the minutes dragged on like hours as one after one they paraded around in ridiculous costumes whist showcasing obvious and unoriginal routines, all with a Christmas theme. Oh, the genius! People were slitting their wrists, drinking themselves into a coma to escape from this godawful spectacle.

And they all have ridiculous names: Miss Pitty Patty Twatty; Miss Kitty Von Anus; Miss Lee Dong Gook, Dabo, Kezman... Why? I realise I am probably in the minority of people who dislike this whole affair, but think about it: Currently every single girl in Liverpool is a burlesque dancer; if this trend continues, we won't be able to move for them. The projected figures for the next 12 months estimate that there could be anything up to 3billion burlesque dancers in the UK. We can't let this happen - What will become of the other "saucy" arts, such as "normal" pornography, prostitution, bukake drives? We must not let these arts die out.

I like strippers. I like strip clubs. There is a dark, hollow seediness to the whole ritual of going to a strip club while a girl who is completely devoid of emotion rubs her minge on your lap, while your mates cajole you like rabid monkeys. But stripping knows its place... It doesn't try to pass itself off as "art", yet burlesque and posing naked on the internet are no different from stripping, making porn films, prostitution... In fact, they are worse because they don't even show you their baps - Although judging by the (lack of) standard of the majority of girls who take part in this passtime, you'd probably have nightmares!

And so concludes my rant about burlesque. I realise its just a phase and the majority of these girls will look back when they grow up with some embarrassment at this period of their youth. Either way, i'll be avoiding such events as best I can in the future. Give me some filthy porn featuring girls who are dead inside any day of the week! Hurrah!

sketched by dweller at 12:31 am
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Sunday, September 09, 2007

The Loving Insights of a Real Headcase
Have you heard about Jimmy?

Jimmy kneaded his palm with the pine bed nob.
He was remembering times as a youngster.
The panic of breathlessness you got after springing
for too long on a bouncy castle. The anxiety would ease
slightly when you rested in a groove catching some air. Warm red
plastic sticking against your cheek. Then another kids feet would
slam down next to your face and you had to move or risk danger.

Jimmy was getting thrills from the sensitive nerves in his palms
combined with memories of the heroic/erotic. A flash of guilt,
selfconciousness and Jimmy remembers that he is living. And when
living you do things, constructive things that involve other
people not just yourself. So Jimmy slips on his green day glo
satin trousers. Adds a plate of tartan weetabix to his bearded
razor floss and he's ready to hit town.
Jimmy always looks at everyone he passes
right in their eyes. And he
smiles too. Unless he forgets. He knew that one day some mean
moody bastard would punch his lights out for staring and grinning
in their direction. That was why it never happened.

I'm gonna ring her bell and smash lemon over her honey spoon.
Jimmy thought this when he smiled and stared at good loooking
women. He knew that one day some gorgeous girl would smile and
they would end up naked together. That was why it never happened.

Smile and the world smiles with you. He knew other magic tricks
aswell. He was Mr Sheen.

Tricks of the wind my friend.
He was a natural old Jimmy was.
Never threw a bad dime.
But when he shone you could look right thru him and he could walk
through you. He was of the air. As if he didnt exist at all.
Part of you knew what he represented but you didn't believe that
you could be a part of it too.
At those times his wholeness was being glimpsed thru part of your
fractured being.
A tantalizing flash of impossible magic.

So Jimmy went on his way with a dancing stride. Feeling leaves
and talking to cats. Seeing litter and architecture as a past
moulding man.
No chaos of choice when he needed food. Jimmy on the ball heads
to the fruit stall.
A bargain of vitality all health freaks should learn,
dont feed the pill fire when there's money to burn.
After snacking Jimmy takes a breather
on a bench and speaks to an old Gent.
"Tell me old timer. What matters prey heavy on your mind
when your life is nearly spent?"
"Life like money should be spent well. When its not about
winning you can score own goals. To tell the truth son, no
matters prey heavy on my mind now that I'm no longer blind."

A wink and a gleam and Jimmy sets off. Over tarmac and stone the
wanderer must roam.

Taken from the old website
"The Loving Insights of a Real Headcase" by me.
This was the sister site to Matt Kings Unbelievable Hype which
you can find here.

sketched by dweller at 11:59 pm
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