Just 20 minutes a day...
It had been a particularly boozy night out, and my main dilemma wasn’t the onslaught of beer, so much that it was the series of shots at the finish. Red Bull and Jagermesiter had been our poison of choice, and I’d taken enough to power a model rocket ship to the moon and back. It was fun in the pub, not so much now that I was at home and trying to get some slumber.
I was exhausted, yet sleep was completely beyond me. I lay on my bed vibrating like a dieing blow fly, and came to the conclusion that early morning television would prove more entertaining than my bedroom ceiling.
I lay on the couch like a raped Dolphin, and idly flicked through the channels with middling interest. I felt like Goldilocks as I surfed the 4am schedule looking for the perfect show. Film 4’s German movie was too baffling. The music channel’s R n B show was too annoying. But for some strange reason, the infomercial channel was just right.
The item on Sale was an “Exciting New Revolution in Home Exercise”. Some bizarre post apocalyptic looking device which consisted of the usual springs, straps and seat arrangements – perfect for sculpting one’s abs in the comfort of their own living room. “Everything that came before this was crap, this is the real thing” the commercial boldly declared to it’s audience, which I’m guessing consisted of me, a handful of off duty Cab drivers and the odd serial killer or two.
Only 20 minutes a day was all this device took to leave you with a chiselled body to rival the God’s themselves, and after your work out you can simply fold up the bastard and slip it underneath your bed (Provided, of course, that your bed was at least five foot off the ground).
These infomercials have been molesting our air-waves for years, yet this one kind of stood out because of their choice of presenters. There was the obligatory Gym expert explaining how the god-awful piece of shit works, but he was flanked by two "compulsory celebs" – Elle MacPherson and Patrick Duffy. It just struck me as a completely random pairing of people. Why not Heidi Klum and Burt Reynolds? Or Naomi Campbell and Jimmy Smits?
No it, it was the MacPherson and Duffy show. What made the combination even more surreal was the different way the two had aged over the years. Patrick Duffy had a headful of grey hair and soulless, vacant eyes. He looked like somebody’s Grandpa who’d wandered in off the street with his nuts hanging out of his shorts.
But Elle MacPherson looked fantastic.
By all means she shouldn’t look this good. She’s 44 years old, had about a dozen kids, and has spent 23 hours of every day baking in the sun. She should look like a Cane Toad’s vagina. But she doesn’t. She looks like a Goddess.
And it’s not the piece of shit “Ab-omatic” or whatever the fuck she’s selling to thank for her looks. It’s the Australian blood.
Take me for instance, I’m 30 now, yet I look fresh faced and sexy as fuck.
The other night I was trying out some new dance moves at this night club, and the DJ spotted me. She was so excited by my raw sexiness that she leapt onto the dance floor and bit me on the arse.
It’s not easy being me.
I was exhausted, yet sleep was completely beyond me. I lay on my bed vibrating like a dieing blow fly, and came to the conclusion that early morning television would prove more entertaining than my bedroom ceiling.
I lay on the couch like a raped Dolphin, and idly flicked through the channels with middling interest. I felt like Goldilocks as I surfed the 4am schedule looking for the perfect show. Film 4’s German movie was too baffling. The music channel’s R n B show was too annoying. But for some strange reason, the infomercial channel was just right.
The item on Sale was an “Exciting New Revolution in Home Exercise”. Some bizarre post apocalyptic looking device which consisted of the usual springs, straps and seat arrangements – perfect for sculpting one’s abs in the comfort of their own living room. “Everything that came before this was crap, this is the real thing” the commercial boldly declared to it’s audience, which I’m guessing consisted of me, a handful of off duty Cab drivers and the odd serial killer or two.
Only 20 minutes a day was all this device took to leave you with a chiselled body to rival the God’s themselves, and after your work out you can simply fold up the bastard and slip it underneath your bed (Provided, of course, that your bed was at least five foot off the ground).
These infomercials have been molesting our air-waves for years, yet this one kind of stood out because of their choice of presenters. There was the obligatory Gym expert explaining how the god-awful piece of shit works, but he was flanked by two "compulsory celebs" – Elle MacPherson and Patrick Duffy. It just struck me as a completely random pairing of people. Why not Heidi Klum and Burt Reynolds? Or Naomi Campbell and Jimmy Smits?
No it, it was the MacPherson and Duffy show. What made the combination even more surreal was the different way the two had aged over the years. Patrick Duffy had a headful of grey hair and soulless, vacant eyes. He looked like somebody’s Grandpa who’d wandered in off the street with his nuts hanging out of his shorts.
But Elle MacPherson looked fantastic.
By all means she shouldn’t look this good. She’s 44 years old, had about a dozen kids, and has spent 23 hours of every day baking in the sun. She should look like a Cane Toad’s vagina. But she doesn’t. She looks like a Goddess.
And it’s not the piece of shit “Ab-omatic” or whatever the fuck she’s selling to thank for her looks. It’s the Australian blood.
Take me for instance, I’m 30 now, yet I look fresh faced and sexy as fuck.
The other night I was trying out some new dance moves at this night club, and the DJ spotted me. She was so excited by my raw sexiness that she leapt onto the dance floor and bit me on the arse.
It’s not easy being me.
posted by Beef at Tuesday, January 15, 2008
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