How to Help Animals from Victoria's Bushfires

10.2.09


Every donation, large and small, brings some comfort and hope. You can help animals affected by Victoria's bushfires through RSPCA Victoria and Wildlife Victoria .

You can help two-legged ones through the Red Cross and Salvation Army.

These sites are being hit with heavy traffic, so please be patient and persist. International donations can be made on all sites. {Salvation Army provides a link to follow for international donations.}

Must keep our chins up and find something to smile about. Half-witty posts to resume shortly.
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How to Help Animals from Victoria's Bushfires

9.2.09



Every donation, large and small, brings some comfort and hope. You can help animals affected by Victoria's bushfires through RSPCA Victoria and Wildlife Victoria .
You can help two-legged ones through the Red Cross and Salvation Army.
These sites are being hit with heavy traffic, so please be patient and persist. International donations can be made on all sites. {Salvation Army provides a link to follow for international donations.}
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Please Help Me, Miss Mild Manners, Writes Mr C Bale of Hollywood

7.2.09


Dear Miss Mild Manners

Ok, I give up. I wave the effing white flag. I thought I was improving my vocabulary by studying Gordon Ramsay's TV shows. I don't understand what happened. After all, he's a cool, popular guy and English. Like that Queen broad.

How was I to know the eff word wasn't a noun, verb, adjective, adverb and pronoun? Not that I understand all those things, I just remember hearing about them in grade school.

In my busy life, being the effing talented actor that I am, it seemed the ideal multifunctional word to save me time. When I wanted to give some friendly feedback to some misguided moron on set, I thought my effing eloquence would impress my fans and fellow lesbians alike.

Please help me. When the eff I can use the eff word without ending up being laughed at all over the internet and how come Gordon effing Ramsay doesn't get everything he says turned into weirdo effing YouTube remixes that make him look like some psycho fruitcake.

Effing yours {is that OK?}

MR C BALE



Dear Mr Bale

I believe the word you seek in your penultimate paragraph is 'thespians'. {I recommend a reputable dictionary and thesaurus as a starting point for the expansion of your vocabulary.}

No, it is not appropriate to sign off correspondence using the F word. A simple 'Yours sincerely' is always polite and warm.

Miss Mild Manners is not a personal fan of Mr Ramsay's colourful language but please bear in mind he is Scottish, not English as you conject, therefore one has to consider the use of the F word within the context of the language of the Scots. Since there is much speculation as to the origins of Scots and variants of the dialect, including germanic influences, there is a certain leniency that can be lent to use of the F word by those of Scottish heritage.

In short: he can do it and you can't.

Quite simply, Miss Mild Manners suggests there is only one occasion whereupon it might be acceptable and forgiveable for you to use the F word. If you ever accidentally chop off your own hand, go right ahead. If you chop off someone else's, do not under any circumstances offend them further by using the F word. Apologise immediately and dial 911 for them, since they are now incapable of doing it themselves. {A fruit basket and a typed note would also be a thoughtful touch. This is one of those rare occasions on which a handwritten note would be most insensitive.}

The English language is resplendent with inoffensive alternatives for the F word. For instance, Miss Mild Manners suggests substituting a gentle 'fluff' or 'fluffy' should the need arise again. For example, notice how comparatively inoffensive the beginning of your monologue sounds thus:

"I want you off the fluffy set, you fluff. No don’t just be sorry. Think for one fluffy second. What the fluff are you doing? Are you professional or not? ["Yes, um, I am..."] Do I fluffy walk around and rip down – No, shut the fluff up, Bruce – do I walk – No! No! Don’t shut me up. Am I going to walk around & rip your fluffy lights down in the middle of a scene? Then why the fluff are you walkin’ right through, "Oh da da, da da" like this in the background? What the fluff is it with you? What don’t you fluffy understand? You got any fluffy idea about Hey it’s fluffy distracting, having someone walking up behind Bryce in the middle of the fluffy scene? Give me a fluffy answer. What don’t you get about it?..."

I wish you the very best of British {not Scots} for your endeavours to safely expand your vocabulary in the future, Mr C Bale.

Yours sincerely

MISS MILD MANNERS

Note: Of course, this is all highly fictitious and bears no relationship whatsoever to any real person or persons, living or pretending to do so, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental. Did I disclaim that enough? Seriously ...

4 comments

Balloons over Paris

2.2.09



Give me a bottle of Dior and a balloon flight over Paris and I'd be an even happier little lady! My illustration is based on the print ad for Miss Dior Chérie. For another mood-lifter and Paris-teaser, check out Sofia Coppola's delightful commercial, to the inspired accompaniment of Brigitte Bardot's 'Moi Je Joue'.
{And the fragrance? A blend of sophistication, impish femininity and innocence, evoked by green tangerine, wild strawberries, violet, popcorn - again with the food!}

6 comments

No Sweat on Groundhog Day

by SHELL SHERREE

February 2nd is Groundhog Day in the USA. Spare a thought for Punxsutawney Phil. The entire schedule of winter coat sales rests heavily on his little furry shoulders and those of his brotherhood.

He usually lives quietly with his dear wife Phyllis in the library {that's right, the library} of his namesake town in Pennsylvania, waited on by carers known as the Inner Circle, easily distinguished by their top hats, tuxedos and unnatural fascination with mounds of earth.

But once a year with monotonous regularity, he is uprooted from his comfortable urban home and forced to live in temporary digs at Gobbler's Knob, a bucolic spot a few kilometres out of town. This enables him to go through the public charade of retreating back into his hole if he sees his shadow {thereby indicating six more weeks of winter weather} or sitting on his haunches to point and laugh at the dudes in formal dress {thereby indicating an early spring and a damn fine sense of humour}.

What people neglect to consider is that when Punxsutawney Phil emerges from his hole, still sleepy and bleary-eyed, his first thought is wondering where his wife got to. Whether he bolts back into his hole or not could be governed by how quickly he wakes up and realises that Phyllis is safely tucked in bed at the library, and not making Marmots with Octararo Orphie. {Octararo usually lives just up the road in Quarryville and it's heavily rumoured in the woodchuck community that he did a runner to escape the pressure of another year's seasonal expectations. He was last seen scampering into the woods after demonstrating that it is physically possible to flip the bird without having opposable thumbs.}

According to the Groundhog Club, whatever Punxsutawney Phil predicts, he will speak to the Club President in "Groundhogese", intelligible only to the Inner Circle; this prediction is then translated for the entire world.

{This can be logically explained. Each summer, Phil is fed a mysterious elixir of immortality called Groundhog Punch. He is presently 122 years of age and going strong. When Groundhog Punch is imbibed by humans, however, it has an hallucinigenic effect that lasts for at least 12 months. As only the Club members and Phil speak Groundhogese, no-one has been able to explain this to them in a language they can understand. This phenomenon could also explain the top hats and tuxes.}

Alongside the speculation about Octararo Orphie, there are whispers in woodchuck circles that Punxsutawney Phil is kept in the local library for his own protection. After all, last year he predicted six more weeks of winter in direct opposition to Jimmy the Groundhog, Dunkirk Dave and General Beauregarde Lee. Lucky he has Groundhog Punch and dapper bodyguards in his corner.

Sweet dreams, little Phil. Bloomingdales is counting on you.
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Heightened Blood Pressure of the Happiest Kind

1.2.09

by SHELL SHERREE

Sad but true, long running TV show ER will soon turn off its heart monitor and shuffle slowly towards the light of TV Heaven.

Now in its 15th year, ER is currently rating higher than that award-showered poser 30 Rock. In spite of this, the cubicle curtains are being discreetly drawn. {I've only just got the hang of ignoring the distractions of arterial bleeds so I can keep up with the warp speed barking of medical terms. And I'm only two seasons away from my honorary doctorate, damn it. I'll never get to finish it by watching Grey's Anatomy.}

NBC seems to be embracing the 'quit while you're ahead' and 'leave them wanting more' philosophy. {And yet they foisted a whole season of Lipstick Jungle on us. Go figure.}

In keeping with the 'leave them wanting more' angle, it is strongly rumoured that George Clooney has been brought back for one last turn as Dr Doug Ross to ensure the final season goes off with a blood-pressure spiking bang, not a whimper. It isn't out of the realms of possibility. After all, his megastardom hasn't stopped him turning his debonair charm towards ads for those odd coffee pod machines. {I now have two and I still can't figure out what to do with them.}

Mind you, the unconfirmed rumours seem as nebulous as those surrounding his love life. Uncited sources are running amok in Starbucks and rooftop carparks all over Hollywood. Some go so far as to say his scenes have already been filmed under the helpful cover of Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. Or Susan Sarandon's cleavage.

Unless Deep Throat comes forward to confirm it, though, I'll take it all with a grain of salt and possible hypertension. Hypotension? {Thanks for nothing, NBC!}
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