Happy Fucking Christmas

In the spirit of Christmas, this post will be quick, to the point and full of tinsel.

'Tis the time to be festive and 'tis the time where repelling is at its highest.  In fact Minga got stood up the other day...by a girl...at the carpark of a dodgy backpackers, alone with her thoughts, in the rain, attempting to light up with some godforesaken matches that did not embrace the windy and horrid weather that came about.

So let it be that this festive season, we at Sandwich would like to do a Kanye West.  We would like to blame everyone else in the Universe for being fucking cruel, for being fucking muppets and for not embracing our magnificence as they should.  It's your fault Universe.  Fuck you. 

Merry Christmas to all you other fuckers who have too been fucked mercilessly by the big, bad, world.

Haiku for The Social Network

Haiku for The Social Network

Film is all about

Hot geeks and Jew fros making rich

And grand repelling

Sandwich

Pubs de pédé

One of the things that would strike many a foreigner about France is how homo advertising is here. So much of it would NEVER work in any English-speaking country that I know of (outside a gay ghetto). By the way, nothing in this post applies to you, Minga.

For example, I don't think that a red-blooded English speaker (male or female) would ever be driven into a consumerist frenzy by...

... this ad, one of many for the (admittedly awesome) Autumn 2010 collection of French clothing brand, A.P.C.:

... or by this ad for Galéries Lafayette, a French department store, featuring Frédéric Beigbeder (who, for all intents and purposes, actually is heterosexual):

... or by this ad for football betting:

Apparently, the Bloodhound Gang got it right:

We Love You Peter Jackson - Now Hire Us

After working in the film industry, both Minga and Ginga know what its like to be the lowest of the low, to be tramped on, to be unpaid, to be punched in the face and laughed and pointed at whilst the 1st camera assistant bitches about his cold Burger King.  It's not exactly a humane industry. 

So what's the beef with some wannabe-union (I stress 'wannabe') trying to take on 'The Hobbit'?  Nothing is fair in film but when there is the chance of actual work, with aforementioned hero, Jackson, we got excited.  We've worked with less impressive people for free and lost all our dignity, so let us at least work for crap pay for a man we actually like.  Stop the madness. 

Whatever your take, you must agree on the fabulously awesome brown cardie ensemble that PJ wore during this interview:

   video here

Like I said.  Hero.

If you liked that, check out Dangerous Gladys' new costume blog:  It's all about tweeds, three piece suits and beautiful men dressed beautifully talking about how beautiful they are:  www.costumesdontsleep.com

Repel of the Week: Short 'n Sweet

Ext. University Grounds, Auckland - Day

GIRL nervously waits for the one lone BOY in her 'Existentialism: Why Bother?' class to come out.  His blond curls sparkle lovingly as the harsh Antarctic wind tussle it in delight.  She sighs.

GIRL: What are you up to now?  I was gonna go get a coffee if you wanna come?

BOY: Fuck off.*

Fin.

* Technically what came out was "No thanks, I'm going to go meet my girlfriend" which is the universal code for "No I do not want you, be gone you hideous beast and stop soiling my soul with your wretchedness."

Supreme Sandwich Winner

We had another fabulous list to woo you all with today but alas Minga was forced to do actual work and subsequently lost her faith in anything and is on the verge of projectile vomiting if she has to stare at a computer screen for much longer.

Hence we'll keep it short.  After a whooping 11 votes (wooooo!) we have our Supreme Winner of the Annual Sandwich Choice Awards 2010.

We wrote to his Supreme Sandwichness R-Patz to congratulate him and give him his award - a homemade promise ring with the initials SSS (Sandwich Sex Slave) and a voucher to Minga's favourite lasor hair removal place (with Sally, she's legendary).  Alas we only got a hold of his UK manager who in true Brit fashion told us: "That's not my job" and continued to instead babble on about the weather whilst queuing for a sandwich and beer at the local. 

The Legendary Brigitte Fontaine

Yesterday was a special day. Some would consider it to have been the first day of my old age.

What better way to usher in my twilight decades than to pay tribute to Brigitte Fontaine. She is virtually unknown in the English-speaking world, and not even particularly well known in the French-speaking world. This is a great tragedy. She's a true artist. Minga would love and want to be her.

I want to share a little Brigitte with you: 'Prohibition', a song written by her hubby, Areski, and that you'll find the clip for here.

The lyrics are basically impossible to translate, but here's my attempt:

The card that proved my many years

Reduced the bastards all to tears

Each one of them of a haughty sod

Regaling at my kick-ass bod

[CHORUS:]

This old girl says suck her cock

So little time left on her clock

So cute with her dragonfly

She'll be forgot and then she'll die

Just move along, you creepy twat

The buffet-wagon's where it's at

I'll go and smoke a fag or two

All nice and quiet in the loo

There's prohibition everywhere

There's trash and fags and pockets bare

They're boozing up now on TV

And ageing there for all to see

There's prohibition everywhere

You wonder why they even care

Though they talk, write and fornicate

No jizz for you, you're sixty, mate

[CHORUS]

If you're infirmed, you gotta go

Unless of course you've got the dough

You'll just be tossed into a ditch

Compassion's only for the rich

Guess what they've got in stall for me

A home in perpetuity

Never to see the light of day

If ever I should lose my way

Let me tell you what I've planned

How I will find my promised land

It's sex and drugs and rock and roll

There's nothing better for the soul

This old girl says suck her cock

No law, no faith, no fluffy flock

Her dragonfly awaits a kiss

Her cause of death will be her bliss.

Je suis vieille, et je vous... embrasse...

Como tú sabes amar…

Here at Sandwich, we like to think of ourselves as citizens of the world. Quite frankly, I like to think of myself as the most diverse of all of us, as a cousin to all the world’s homos, Czechs, French, Polynesians and Spanish.

Recently, I’ve been enjoying connecting to my Spanish (or rather Hispanic) heritage. In particular, I must thank a dear friend from Ecuador who introduced me to the wonder that is Sharon la Hechicera, or Sharon the Enchantress. For your information, no, she is my cousin because she is Hispanic, not because she is a mujer con sorpresa. Sharon, I'm a better maricón for knowing you.

"Don't [Let Me Repel You]"

It's been some time since I contributed to this blog, which I was blackmailed into contributing to. Time to end my participation paucity for a more positive reason.

I doubt that it will come as any surprise to you that I LOVE the Pointer Sisters. I remember when they released the single 'Don't Walk Away'. It wasn't having the runaway chart success that some DJ felt they richly deserved, and he made this known.

Reflecting not so long ago (and for God knows what reason) on that particular moment in the early 1990s, I made a promise to myself: upon learning that Sandwich had received more hits than the (non-live version of the) 'Don't Walk Away' video on-line, I would commemorate the moment (of bittersweet triumph) with a Pointer Sisters-related post.

So here it is. 'Don't Walk Away'. Enjoy:

My Own Private Sandwich

Once again your Sandwich whores are busy, attempting multiple repels, molesting random Austrian backpackers, avoiding Danish ones.  So here is another fabulous video find courtesy of Minga's Ultimate Porno, 'My Own Private Idaho' (though to be honest, we were a bit jipped as Keanu and River barely got it on...*sigh*).

Bring it on Hans....

Miss Universe 2010

My mentor, guru and ultimate dinner guest nominee, Chris Rock, once noted how he does not believe in The Stripper Myth, that strippers strip to pay their way through college.  He proudly asks, "Then how come I never got a smart lapdance?  How come I never got a girl going, 'ever since the end of the Cold War, I'm finding NATO obsolete'..."

So why are we bringing the idea of strippers and obsoletes under the Miss Universe umbrella?  Because Minga was forced to watch the god forsaken atrocity that is the Miss Universe pageant last night and cannot for the life of her understand why this hideous excuse for a cosmetic surgery orgy is still around.  Here's my beef on why it has and always will be, wrong:

1.  There is obviously a cosmetic surgeon monopoly on the girls.  They all lookalike.  You tell me how the Filipino looks half black, half Middle Eastern???

2.  It's owned by Donald Trump.  Dude who brags about his wealth but really is not that rich in comparison to the big honchos.  It's like comparing Lindsay Lohan to Robert Downey Jnr.  Yeah she did coke, but Downey probably helped raise the GDP of the entire nation of Colombia.

3.  Is it just me or does the show get more boring and banal?  Perhaps the contestants could walk in their swimsuits whilst reciting some Sartre?  Perhaps they could act out scenes from the books of Marquis de Sade whilst dressed in their national garb?  Perhaps they should unban the eligibility of trans-sexuals and stop accepting Singapore as a real country?  

4.  Do you think because she is named Miss UNIVERSE, once her reign ends, they shove her into a secret test rocket to send into outer space with hopes of running into an alien lifeforce?  Because first impressions count and perhaps if the aliens believe that all of humanity looks like this they might be more inclined to make contact?  Then again silicon would be such a waste in space where gravity is non-existent.  

5.  In conclusion, just like strippers, Miss Universe is cliched, desperate and wastes a lot of money, and just like NATO, it should definitely become obsolete.

Speaking of other fabulously ridiculous things that should not see the light of day again, our fashionable part time Sandwich wench, Titan Lover, found us this hilarious video. 

Hero of the Month: Joaquin Phoenix

So many things could be said, but we feel that this video is enough to make Joaquin "I'm going to marry Minga because River promised and failed" Phoenix our prestigious Hero of the Month...and subsequently Yeti of the Year (take note R-Patz).....All bow down....

Annual Sandwich Choice Awards

After enjoying another ravishing Saturday night watching the epic odyssey that is the horrific Teen Choice Awards, Minga and her accomplice in all things sad, Chinga, enjoyed the delightfully super specific and irrelevant awards categories, such as:

Teen Choice Award for Masturbating Whilst Your Hot Gay Poet Lover Shags His Desperate Girlfriend in Front of You:

Robert Pattinson in Little Ashes.

 

Since here at Sandwich we're all for plagiarising, we thought we'd start our own Annual Sandwich Choice Awards.  Enjoy and please vote (can you guess the Supreme Sandwich Winner?)

 

 The French and Saunders Award for French and Saunders:

French and Saunders.   

 poll by twiigs.com

Top Google Searches

So Google analytics is rather awesome.  So are the keywords that people use in Google search  in order to find some sort of enlightenment in this twisted, over-saturated Internet world.  However some poor bastards are refused that enlightenment and instead are directed to this sad excuse for a blog. 

Interesting what you people are trying to find, interesting and hilarious.  Here they are (for real!) : 

The Top Most Awesome Search Keywords That Bring You to Sandwich Glory

10. Sandwich stereotypes

9. Aladdin porn or Aladdin sex scene or Aladdin shirtless

8. Is Lestat de Lioncourt racist? Is Tony Blair damned?

7. How to bum cigarettes in Paris

6.  Woman, where's my freakin' sandwich?

5. Sexiest Sandwich

4.  My jizz tube.

3. Prince Carl Philip + trouser braces

2. Horny Ginga Minga

And the number one most AWESOME keyword search that brings you to casa de Sandwich is...

1. Super Mutated Epic Llama

                                           

Top 5 Reasons New Zealand is Better Than Australia

Yeah you read right cretins.   This is the mother of all lists.  In 1993 it would be the Mac Daddy of all lists.  In classical Greece, it would be the Illiad of all lists.  If it were a tasteless vomit-like burger, it would be the Whopper of all lists.  BRING. IT.  Rachinga, this is dedicated to you, you third-caste Aussie-German-S'porean wench.

5.

For every Goddess like Cate Blanchett, you then have a handful of excessively hideous villains like Pauline Hanson, Mel Gibson, John Howard and that douche Lleyton Hewitt.  

4. There's a popular saying in Middle Earth, 'support NZ or any team playing against Australia'.  This has nothing to do with athleticism or nationalism (Minga's two worst enemies) but the monstrosity that is the Australian national colours.  Observe and recoil in horror:

3.  Australia was founded by criminals and social rejects of the UK, who were sent there, often by force, to carry out their sentence in this new found world.  New Zealand was founded by those criminals and social rejects of Australia who were deemed mentally insane.  In the Sandwich book of who's cooler, crazy people would be Ice Cold.

 [alright so he was Aussie, we'll give you that one]

 2.

 [Australia}

 [New Zealand]

List of things that can literally KILL you in Australia:

Giant bugs

Snakes

Crocodiles

Sharks

The Sun

Other Aussies

List of things that can kill you in NZ:

Possible overload of love and licks by fluffy kittens and puppies.

1.

 

Australia is obviously so good that Rachinga decided to instead get a UK passport and gain UK residency.  Ohhh diplomatic burn.

Haiku for Gucci

Haiku for Gucci.

Your ads are the reason

I can stand my job.

Otherwise I would

Torch the place down whilst watching

With a fag in hand.

Splash.

Hero of the Month: SIR Peter Jackson

This month instead of our usual horrid Enemy of the Month, we thought it right to acknowledge one of our loveable heroes instead.  Because as they sing it in Miss Congeniality, you're one in a million, once in a lifetime...

NAME:  SIR Peter Jackson.  You heard right plebs.  He is now half imperialist.

NATIONALITY:  New Zealand.  Even though he's from Wellington, boring central, we won't hold it against him.

 

CATEGORIES OF DEFENCE:  Totally told the evil Trolls at the New Zealand Film Commission what we always knew, that they suck arse big time.  He notes that unlike Hollywood, the commission does not focus on talent but on individual projects.  That's right, you're worse than Hollywood. You got served indeed.

HEROIC LEVEL:  The legend that made those big epic movies with hairy midget Yeti's and Orlando Bloom, the legend who made that epic movie about a giant Yeti, weightwatchers poster-child, and possibly the most huggable man in the known Universe. 

IF YOU SEE THIS HERO:  Give him money so he can finally start that damn Hobbit film so we can  finally get some damn work.  Unemployed drunken Hobbits are rather vicious.  We heart you SIR PJ.

London vs Paris: A Tale of Two Cities Part Deux

Here at Sandwich we consider ourselves citizens of the world, eternal nomads and intellectually driven adventurers on a quest to find the ultimate enlightenment through the process of world travel.  In other words, we liked Europe and are willing to marry for passports. 

Sunday is back to cousins where one must contain the rage within after being insulted and lectured about the correct way to grab a husband.

#1  One must learn to cook and clean.  No man wants a wife who can’t.
#2  Don’t bother about a job, find a man who’ll give you enough money to keep you happy and shut up.
#3  Men want to be looked after like their mothers.
#4  Get a nose job and lighten your dark skin.

Later I make my way back to the epic train station that is Gare du Nord which is apparently the beacon pick up joint for junkies, cousins and African Royalty.

Stalker junkie #1 comes out looking well high.  I reply “Je ne parle pas Francais” in such perfect form that he refuses to believe me.  Then he eyes me up and down and sucks his lips.  Charming.  He mumbles some more French.  I laugh.  He introduces himself, stares some more then fucks off to bum a cigarette off another victim.

Stalker #2 is slightly younger, not really a junkie, dark skinned and dressed in trendy jeans with perfect teeth  I try to explain that I live in London, he says “J’aime beaucoup”.  Another bum comes over asking me for a cig,  I say “Sorry it’s my last one”.  He’s intrigued by the sentence and repeats it “the last one” as if I’ve given him a new glamorous phase that will somehow unlock a box full of bum cigarettes.  He then asks Stalker #2 if we’re together.  Stalker #2 replies with something like “I’m trying”.  

You have to hand it to the Parisian bums – hideous they may be, but also witty and so very socialist as they’re not ignored and sneered at as they are in Anglo countries.
Stalker #2 asks for my number but I say that I’m waiting for my (homo) boyfriend.  He smiles, thanks me and leaves.  If only all rejections were so civil and satisfying.  Paris, je t’aime indeed.

Later we again wander into some cafe, drink the beauty that is European espresso, spark up and talk Iranian politics.  How pretentiously Left Bank.  

We then wander through Le Marais (the Jewish/Homo Haven or as I refer to it, My Utopia with it’s middle finger extended).
After eating some delicious crepes served by a fat waiter from Brittany, we make our way to the pretentious yet casually dressed crowd at La Perle.  Rows of gorgeous men, Russell and his date, then us surrounded by four homos.  

I must say French men live up to the cliche of being dark, chic and arrogant.  A mixture of Guillame Canet/Romain Duris and that Dreamers dude.  Floppy hair, jackets and eyes that scan every person in the bar.  Unlike London where invisibilty reigns supreme, here people acknowledge your existence – and usually are not offended by it.

Some Yanks sit behind us on a double date.  A Slavak looking bald bouncer stalks Ginga’s breasts which becomes annoyingly comical.  We down some more wine, perve at Russell and his date (as we’re all so sad that we can’t get our own thus must crash someone elses), then stumble home singing power ballads.  To send us to sleep with sweet dreams, Christophe gives us a one man homo show of the song “I Touch Myself” in his underpants.  God I love Paris.

The next morning we board a bus back to London and are already hearing people complaining and being horrid to each other.  Welcome back.  Your own personal Hell missed you.

Ross Gellar's Sandwich

So apparently we are super busy, what with breeding super mutant Ninja Llamas to post anything at the moment, though rest assured more love is coming (one can handle only so many angry llamas). Until then, enjoy this sandwich loving gem from our man Ross Gellar from Friends.

Repel of the Week: Repelling with Bunny Ears

Here at Sandwich, we are no strangers to cyberspace (our magnificent is blog is proof of this, no thanks to Chinga, of Minga and Ginga). And it won't come as any surprise to you that I, Christophe, have MASSIVELY repelled on Facebook.

It all happened a few years ago. At the time, I was still living in the Marais, surrounded by my cousins (yes, I'm a homo, and probably a Jew too). One of my homo hotties (let's call her Minerva-Dawn) came to visit.

When she arrived, I was on Facebook, and I didn't see any great need to log off. Desperate to find more Facebook friends, I suggested that Minerva-Dawn sign up. She did, then and there, and went through her list of emails contacts, deciding who she should invite to sign up or be Facebook friends with her. A hundred or so people.

A few days passed. Then, all of a sudden, Facebook told me that this girl (let's call her Calandre Deladrier) had accepted my friend request. However, as far as I knew, I hadn't sent Calandre a friend request. In fact, I didn't even know her, and let's face it: being a big homo, I wasn't exactly going to ask some girl that I didn't know to be friends.

The next few days brought more such acceptances. About five or so. These acceptances allowed me to join the dots: my new friends were all (Facebook and real-world) friends of Minerva-Dawn's. To this day, my theory is that, because I hadn't logged off, my account invited all the people that Minerva-Dawn had invited. This theory is all the more convincing since, when she told me that a few of her (Facebook and real-world) friends had written to her asking why her friend, the Weird Rabbit Man (of course, I was wearing bunny ears in my profile picture), had asked them to be friends.

So there you have it: I repelled a hundred or so people without even realising it.

And it gets better. There's this one guy - a very nice, cute guy - who accepted my request and who I actually got to meet in the real world. I repelled him too. But that's a repel for another week...

What a Minga Wants

Today is Minga's birthday.  Horaay.  And as it is Minga's last year of her delicate (read: disappointing) 20's, she would like to present a list of what she would like this year to the Universe (read: life ruiner).  Please Universe, don't be a wanker this year, it's not good for your image.

What A Minga Wants:   (Because her body is saying let's go, but her heart is saying no...)

1.  Love, sex and magic (some magic is needed for the first two to occur)
2.  Her wife to not be killed by a snake, scorpion or militant Filipino.
3.  To kill off Jon Stewart's bitch of a wife and take her much deserved place.  Homewrecker.
4.  Talkback radio to be sent to the netherworlds of Hell never to return.
5.  Helen Mirren.
6.  Ugly ignorant people to stop procreating.
7.  Lifetime supply of crack cakes.
8.  Sheenghis to buy a house in London so that I can fulfil my dream of becoming a full time squatter artist who only wears brown wool cardigans whilst reading Tolstoy in the garden as Cedric Diggery serenades me with a ukulele.  
9.  To promote the ukulele because it has the word lele in it. 
10. To go to this mysterious bar in Paris with Christophe where hot bartenders bathe naked - why are all good ideas already taken?  


Come on Universe, you owe me.  April, 2009 - need I say more?  Hater.
Love Minga.  

London Vs Paris: A Tale of Two Cities

ere at Sandwich we consider ourselves citizens of the world, eternal nomads and intellectually driven adventurers on a quest to find the ultimate enlightenment through the process of world travel.  In other words, we liked Europe and are willing to marry for passports.

London is described by Minga and Ginga as another version of the 7 Levels of Hell much like Dante’s Inferno where he described the personal purgatory of us mortals once deceased. 

London is also like an abusive boyfriend whom you naively think you can change and who’ll one day love you back instead of beating you down physically, mentally and spiritually. London is also exactly how Dicken’s described it – a replica of an industrial time with some modernism but equal in the level of inequality.

In comparison, Paris becomes Voltaire – a place of beauty where one wanders, falls into cafes, sparks up and philosophises amongst the endless beautiful people. Plus being unemployed there is a status symbol of the cool artiste.

A tale of two cities indeed – The Wifebeater vs The Romantic Unemployed

Paris the Hobo Voyage begins with Minga and the Ginga undertaking the odyssey that is a bus trip of 9 hours that includes a hideous overcrowded tour coach and a massive ferry filled with refugees and class rejects from Britain.  (Don't diss the rejects because clearly we fall into that category).

Arrive at some ungodly hour in the morning. End up queuing for an hour to receive one Metro ticket. Yet salvation arrives in the form of our favourite Tahitian/New Zealand resident Parisian homo – Christophe. 

He gallantly takes us to lunch where we gorge on rich steak and beautiful wine since our poor taste buds have been deprived of real food for so long.

Wander over to cousins to be accosted by her spawns. Two adorable yet highly ADD dysfunctional girls who get frustrated at my limited French yet adore me nonetheless.

The next day is a day of continuous wandering. As if reliving all three Lord of the Rings films, we just walk, endlessly taking in the incredible architecture, hideous smells and gorgeous men. Eye rape the same beautiful men as Christophe. As eyes are exhausted we slump down by the tragic Seine and attempt to sunbathe whilst repelling some randoms from across the way.

Wander yet again out to the Isle de la Cite in search of glorious patisseries then onto the St Michel Canal to gulp more replenishing ‘vin’ whilst never fully taking eyes off the aesthetically pleasing locals. However, the fact that we are both ridiculously socially inept in the ways of picking up, one wonders why we even bother.

That night we’re invited to a Swedish party full of Brit expats, the Shiny Jew Alice (her words) and Swedish Anna who makes the same type of meatballs I once had an Ikea in Toronto. Lovely bunch, genuine, funny and constantly intrigued at the epic failings that is Minga and Ginga’s lovelife (or lack thereof). We all curse Irish Boy and Darcy but realise Alice is the winner in the rejection stakes after some cunt had called her ‘the fat girl’. Decide Alice is new hero. We organise to crash Brit Russell’s date tomorrow night then stalk the girl on Facebook. Finish forth bottle of Vin.

“Le Marais (Jewish area) won’t be open Easter.  Oh no hang on, what do we care about more, religon or money? (pause) Yeah Le Marais will be open” –  Alice

Next time Part II

Enemy of the Month: Justin Bieber

  

After naming some truley horrendous enemies of the month, we thought we'd ease up a little.  So Biebz, you're no Netanyahu or Pauline Hanson, but you still freak us out.
 
NAME:  Justin 'I'm Not Aaron Carter reincarnated' Bieber.

NATIONALITY:   Not German apparently.

CATEGORIES OF OFFENCE:  Hideously banal pop music about love, parties and pyschadelic acid trips.  According to a source (for real, not just existentially) when Bieber was waiting to go through hordes of over-eager teens and unimpressed airport staff in New Zealand, he refused to wait for his mother.  Our source, the Adonis looking cop, told the Beeb, 'you're waiting for your mum, mate'.  Then some kid juiced up on Ritalin stole Bieber's cap and it was all over. 

THREAT LEVEL:  OMG / WTF level.  Possibly going for world domination judging by his album name 'My World' (geniusly subtle) and above video has had 190 million hits...holy Santa Claus!  Our youth will never be the same again.  (and that is all I will say about youth, because after a 9000 word essay on that fucking topic and now this goober, I'm done with youth!).  So young, yet so deadly.

IF YOU SEE THIS ENEMY:  Don't stress, let puberty do its dirty work.

Which Blatantly Racist Hollywood Character Are You?

Since our lovely cougar quiz proved to be so popular - well Harold in Colchester liked it, so big ups Harold- our quiz maestro monkey (aka Minga on a two week vodka binge forgoing showers and shaving), has decided to bring you another astonishingly accurate quiz that questions injustice and political in-correctness. 

Which Blatantly Racist Hollywood Character Are You?

1. What is your musical anthem?

a) Classical high opera to add that extra oomph to your slow motion death scene.

b) Music? Shit, you barely get a last name and costume change before you're tazed off set.

c) 'I Got Ho's In Different Area Codes', clearly the mastery of the wordplay and existentialist thematics make this a winner.

2. Your ideal date would be:

a) Yourself.  Because clearly no one else likes you and you can't afford to be picky.

b) Someone who also enjoys living on the edge and not knowing what tomorrow could bring - whether it's being mauled by mutated sharks or chain-sawed by an inbred lover of hockey masks.

c) The preppy boy/girl next door who understands that underneath your tough exterior lies a sissy soul who believes the words of Keats and Wordsworth have just as much relevance as Ludacris' 'Let me give you some swimming lessons on the penis/ Backstroke, breaststroke, stroke of a genius...Shake your money maker/Like somebody's bout to pay ya'

3. Your ideal holiday would be:

a) You believe it's the journey not the destination, particularly as you've never even made it off the plane/cruise ship/stolen submarine.

b) A nice cabin in hick country, an abandoned campsite by the lake or a rat infested brothel in central Saigon.

c) Holidays are only available to rich white folk who use the time to contemplate what they can do to help the world, then they get drunk and forget it all the next day.

4. Your biggest fear is:

a) Non-smokers.

b) Other ethnics - then you've got no chance.

c) Becoming a junkie/hustler/500 pounds overweight just like your mama/daddy/rapist uncle.

5. Your ideal goal is:

a) World domination.  Isn't everyone's?

b) To make it to the 3D sequel.

c) To prove that you are incredibly smart and work your arse off so you can get accepted into an Ivy league college and use that time to ...play football. 

Mostly A's:The Vengeful Arab/Russian

 

You put the guish in anguish.  Somebody did you wrong a while back and you've had personal beef (and unstable mania) since.  Often sporting an impressive moustache or intolerable hairpiece and high IQ, you're often brought down by your own narcissism and some beefed up white guy in a wifebeater.  More than often you're not actually the ethnicity you are playing and are forced to belt out some hideous fake accent to compensate.

See Gary Oldman in Air Force One, or any recent war on terror flicks with Minga's faux cousins.  Note: This does not include Alan Rickman in Die Hard, because a) he was German and b) He is Alan fucking Rickman, he can do no wrong.

Mostly B's: The Expendable Ethnic

You're the poor sod who gets killed off first.  That's it.  That's your job.  Enjoy.

See any slasher/horror flicks or action films set in 'Nam.

Mostly C's: The Poetic Gangster

You're often black or Latino from the wrong side of the tracks but with a heart of gold and remarkable IQ.  Your mama is a junkie, your daddy left when you were born and you got social services pounding on your door.  It's war on the streets and you're just a soldier, determined to get out but only with the aide of your all-knowing white teacher/fake mama with the heart of gold, armed only with a street smart leather jacket and football/English scholarship.  Just picture you rollin...  (ps Tupac totally did ballet and wrote poetry...hero).

See The Blind Side and the 50's film Blackboard Jungle - the first offender of those bullshit classroom dramas that keep coming back every two years like unavoidable fungi.

Of course these were just a few, there are plenty more fashionable racist characters, the Dumb Sex-Obsessed Exchange Student (think Kal Penn in Van Wilder or the fabulously named Long Duk Dong in 16 Candles), The Noble Native (Last of the Mohicans, Avatar, Indiana Jones), The Funny Fatty....the list is endless.  Oh Hollywood, don't go a changin'!

Repel of the Week: "Ne partez pas sans moi"

In this week's Repel of the Week, the names of the repeller, the (hot) repellee and the witness to the repel have obviously been changed, to protect their identities. Although Camilien was obviously me.

* * *

Ext. Montreal. A park home to a number of beavers. A sunny Sunday afternoon.

WALTERUS: Lydéric, this is my friend Camilien from France.

LYDERIC: Enchanté.

CAMILIEN: Enchanté.

LYDERIC (to CAMILIEN): So what brings you and your lovely blue eyes that look so much like my boyfriend's to Montreal?

CAMILIEN (coyly): Lots of things.

WALTERUS (to LYDERIC): Will you be coming out with us tonight?

LYDERIC: I will if Camilien's coming.

WALTERUS: Oh, he'll be there. The only thing that he's got planned for tomorrow is a trip to Charlemagne.

LYDERIC: Why?

WALTERUS: Because that's Céline Dion's hometown.

LYDERIC: But Camilien, you seemed cool.

CAMILIEN: But I am!

LYDERIC: I said seemED.

Exit LYDERIC.

Prince of Persia

A film such as this deserves only one quote (courtesy of Gladys):

"What a load of shit.  No Persian's hair is ever that tame."

The Last Living Slut

Another shameless plug for a Sandwich friend, Roxana Shirazi who has written a fabulously raunchy book, The Last Living Slut: Born In Iran, Bred Backstage, detailing her sex-ploitations with some rather famous rock stars.  Including one loveable story involving Top Ginga nominee Axel 'no one can wear bike shorts as tight as these' Rose.  

Read the interview with her here at NY Daily News.  Go on buy it, she's awesome and Axel needs some press.

Top 5 Gingas

Since my beautiful Ginga is leaving me once again to whore herself out to the cretins of the film industry whilst possibly scoring some Third World intern, I thought it fitting to bid her farewell with a list of Top 5 Ginga's of the World.

Oh wife, you will be missed.  Just a little.  Then I'll get over it and forget you ever existed.

So here we go.  (forgetting those self hating Ginga deniers, Lohan and Kidman we're looking at you).

5.  Ron Weasley

Oh Ron, the loveable, slightly dim witted sidekick to Glady's boyfriend Harry Potter.  Obviously not as molest-worthy as Schwarzkoff poster-child Cedric Diggory, nor as awesome as uber-geek Neville Longbottom, yet Ron proves that you can still be loveable after six instalments of films about kids and wands.  You hear that Hermione? 

4. Julianne Moore

I think this was a given.  She is the Ginga Goddess of Ginger Goodness.  Gingas and plebs alike bow down to her awesomeness that oozes out of every orifice.  She is like a demi-God from Mount Gingompus.  Sent down by Zeus, the bearded Ginge, as a sign of his master-piece in aesthetic wonders.  She turns rivers into gold, hate into love, and grown mammals weep at the mere sight of her. 

3. Elizabeth 1 right through to Prince Harry

 

Elizabeth 1 not only survived being the child of Fatty the 8th, but she reigned the British Empire for over 40 years, kicked Spain's arse and said no to marriage, all that with an impressive Ginga fro. 

If you have ever visited the National Portrait Gallery in London, you will realise that all those jokes and mere musings regarding the incest that exists within Royal families, is rather true. And why would you want to breed with blonde or brunette degenerates and risk losing your magnificent Ginga genes?  They didn't and right through the centuries, Ginga monarchs have ruled, right through to Prince Harry - the cool, edgy, Nazi costume wearing one.  Respect.

2. The Gingerbread Man

GINGEEE!!! Three words: Gum drop buttons.   Oh we heart you Gingerbread man, don't go changing (or get eaten).

1.  Catherine Tate

Some of you may argue against British comedian and all-round lele, Catherine Tate being our numero uno.  To that I say, no haters allowed, holla to my bitches and hoes, Tate is bringing Ginga back.  Hero, saviour and hardcore advocater of Ginga rights, she is like the Karl Marx of Gingas everywhere, shouting her cries for Ginga equality, appealing to the Ginga masses for unity 'Be a ginger, not a Whinger!'.
If you need more assurance just watch the video below, or if you'd prefer to skip the pleasantries, go on and sex a Ginga here.