Last night, during a television showing of No Good Boyo's favourite roll of celluloid, a "quite bright, at least on paper" friend texted him with the cinematic aperçu "Alien vs. Predator - what more could a man want from a film?"
No Good Boyo thought for a while during the ingestion of several glasses of Batko Voskoboynykov's choicest monkey juice, then texted back "more topless".
I blandly inquired whether this improvement ought to be essayed by a character in the film or a pliant female/ladyboy companion in a domestic/multiplex setting.
He considered this a little longer over continued refreshments, and concluded "during the adverts".
Irony and science fiction do not mix, and there is no need to attend a Star Trek convention to prove it.
13 comments:
Ach, there was me thinking that the Boyo household was like a French Art Film when really it's an episode of Men Behaving Badly! :-)
Maybe it's my loss, but I've never understood the widespread interest in science fiction, Mrs. B. And any women appearing in it merely demonstrate that very questionable male fantasy that frosty-looking women are untapped reservoirs of passion, cf. Catherine Deneuve, Kristin Scott Thomas, Swedes.
Quite. Science Fiction is the preserve of the unmarriageable. Still, XXL t-shirt manufacturers, air-brush erotic artists and a Ms Debbie Mazar would go out of business without them.
The House of Boyo most closely resembles The Flintstones - an American Stone Age docu-drama - with overtones of Poe.
I agree, Mme de B. - as a Klingon might say, with typical self-deprecation, jIyajbe'
That's Debi Mazar.
If everyone spoke Klingon the Universe would be a gruffer, more clubbable place.
Literally clubbable in some cases.
Haha! Well done, Mr Boyo! I like a man who can dish out pithy witticisms to his wife. As for the Klingons, did you ever wonder why the foul-smelling Klingon babes seemed to fancy Picard?
I've only the vaguest of idea about whom the Klingons are and whence they come, but it’s a beautiful-sounding language. I’m now expecting a knock on the door, and my treachery to be punished by an undetermined spell at a re-education centre in Redditch where I’ll be rightly subjected to verses read from Asimov’s I, Robot and the Doctor Who theme tune played at full volume.
My ideal film, which I rather imagine I share with other 30- and 40-something males, has yet to be made, but would be entitled "Topless Kung-Fu Beer Delivery Girls". Boyo - damn him - then effortlessly improved it into "Topless Tai-bo Kegger Grlz". We are still seeking funding from an enlightened studio...
Reminds me of a topical joke:
Q: How many Australians does it take to open a bottle of beer?
A: None, it should be aupen by the toime she brungs it.
It was predictable that laddishness would infect my blog once science fiction was mentioned. Ah well:
Mr Bananas - the only thing that No Good Boyo dishes out around here is Arianrhod's evening platter of grilled meats and pickles.
Byard - I'm surprised No Good Boyo didn't add "on ice" to your joint dream film title. He thinks it is droll to do so.
Mr Dilo - Klingon is clearly a dialect of Welsh, and is likewise best appreciated from some distance away in both time and space.
Mr Ward - isn't that a New Zealand accent?
I think you'll find it's a bit of a mish mash of Western Tasmanian with the Brisbane suburbs.
New Zealanders can be identified by their tendency to slap their forearms and thighs, poke their tongues out and try to look primitively intimidating, all while grunting.
These Zealanders, New and Old, sound like my Uncle Griff at stool. Best avoided, all three of them.
I see you're starting to take this seriously, Mrs B. ;-) Though personally I wouldn't even give us the time of day if I was in your shoes....
I have achieved all that I need to in life. Like Baudelaire's sailors, I now amuse myself with you albatrosses.
Post a Comment