“Scud’s love game partner” screams the headline from the Sydney Morning Herald. “This 18-year-old from Miami, Florida, has stolen the heart of Mark Philippousis - and accepted his proposal of marriage. But who is she, exactly?”
The article then proceeds to lash us with 10 bits of vitally trivial information on the Scud’s new tasty bit of crumpet, most of which seemed to be intrepidly sourced from a Google search. The best (for want of a better word) bit is when the article’s author Amalie Finlayson gleefully helps herself to a quote from the most evergreen and trashy lower-middleclass bitch-rag Woman’s Day: “While strolling down Melbourne’s Chapel Street, Mark Philippoussis and girlfriend Alexis Barbara deliberately avoided Delta Goodrem’s favourite ice-cream shop …” POOR DELTA! Earlier, the author notes down how Alexis “appears also to be a budding journalist,” then goes on to quote from a high-school journal that the Scud’s new girlfriend once wrote for. Seriously amazing shit, especially for the SMH. Personally, I think you’re just sour Amalie. Maybe you once hit our Scud, and you got pooped on.
You know, I used to be a budding journalist too. For about 9 months I wrote a lunix column for a newbie computer mag called PC-Active, published by the same company that puts out PC Powerplay. It went tits-up, presumably due to one too many nerdy easter eggs I managed to sneak past the editor. References to Star Wars will never hold water, and comparing some shitty ./configure; make; make install app to Mon Mothma and the Lunix Rebellion would sink the career of any budding tech-journo, if not the entire publication. It’s a good thing Next had it’s floaties on.
For the record, I couldn’t care less about the Scud, or what’s her face, or Our Poor Delta, or even Paris. I think Paris is an ugly fucking whore but that’s about as far as my opinion carries me on the matter of the Hilton sluts. I just wanted to write about something.
The alternative subject was the haircut of some Macdownaldtown-guy who got off the train today; a weekend mo-hawk that had been blended into a bald spot. I’m reasonably sure that when this cat’s hairdresser was giving him his Beckham that they failed in their Care of Duty to inform this poor bastard of his failing follicles, subsequently rendering him and his stupid haircut as a minor laughing stock of the inner west. Someone should take this guy on a date to a hall of mirrors for a joke.
I’m declaring the weekend mohawk is officially dead. If only I could do the same with the fucking Hiltons.