Repel of the Week: Pilot Fail

INT.  MINGA'S HOUSE, AUCKLAND CITY - DAY

Minga's Uncle who's a PILOT feels sorry for her.

Uncle:  I have a PILOT friend who asked me if I know anyone, any lovely single girls he could possibly date.  He's a great guy, a bit shy but very decent.

Minga:  Is he a cousin?

Uncle: No.

Minga:  Geriatric?

Uncle:  No.

Minga: Here's my number.

Two weeks go by.  Minga gets a call from Uncle, the PILOT.

Uncle:  So did you two meet up?

Minga:  He never called.

Uncle:  What?

Minga:  Yeah, he never called.

Awkward silence.

 Uncle:  Ah he was too shy anyway and who the hell wants to start a relationship with someone who's shy?  I say you're better off...

So in conclusion, Minga managed to repel a PILOT, who hadn't even met her, let alone even seen a picture of her.

I hate pilots.   They no longer deserve the caps lock.  Bastards.

Where's My Freakin' Letters? Dear Nick Jonas

Here at Sandwich, we don't get mail. Ever. So we've resorted to stealing other publications' correspondence and answered them ourselves. This week we took a page out of the abyss of disillusionment and disappointment that is, the celebrity fan mail.  (Yes, these are real and yes, Minga is now severely traumatised from finding these, particularly as some of the letters she found were from women who are OLDER than her).

Dear Nick Jonas,

Will you be my prom date?  Oh you wear suits so well!  Sigh.  He looks just like a modern day Beatle! 

Dearest Fan of the non-awesome-eyebrowed Jonas,

Have you ever seen a Beatle?

 

I rest my case.

Dear Rob Pattinson,

Rob I sat down to write about you and nothing came cause, surprised you’re MIA! Maybe you got sucked into the volcano when it erupted or maybe you’re in your parents basement on another 3 day game and drinking bender but whatever the reason, there’s NOTHING going on...

Well, I’ve put together a short list of things that you might think about doing in order to make your fans happy...

• “Accidentally” release a sex tape. Everyone’s doing it.  I don’t even care who it’s with.  Let’s face it, no one would be looking at the girl (or the guy).

• Talk with David Slade about releasing ANYTHING Eclipse related. Seriously, what’s with this guy?

Dearest Lover of the Man with the Magnificent Mane,

Though the image of someone actually getting physically sucked into a volcano would make an excellently bad Bay/Heimer film, with said person being Shia 'The Beef' LaBoeuf, the rest of your letter intrigued and disturbed me.  Disturbed because:  have you ever seen a sex tape?  They're not pretty.  They're not hot.

I once saw two turtles having sex at London Zoo and I felt rather nauseated.  Was it like Sartre, in that I was somehow having an existential moment and within that turtles grasp, found my own self and thus felt nauseated?  The same can be said when I had to watch porn (yes had to, some of us make a weird living).  Yet, I felt no philosophical question beckoning me, I just felt the nausea and boredom.  So in conclusion, watching others have sex, unless you're involved (Christophe can probably educate you on that one), is not good for your body, mentally and physically.  

Secondly, I think I can answer for both myself and Ginga and agree with you on David Slade.  What the hell IS up with that guy?  We can sadly testify that he is also an avid fan of sandwiches, even if they have been 'accidentally' dropped on the floor (which inspired our magnificent blog name).  

Dude definitely has said 'short man syndrome', in that he is so short, he can actually fit his own head up his own arse.  (This is all again coming from experience in the pit of hell that is the film set caste system...but again we digress). 

[For Jon Stewart]

Planet of the Apes: 2010 Special

Dearest Sandwich lovers,

Where were we for a whole week?  Oh woe.  It happened again.

We ran out of them damn apes again (please note:  the above photo-shopper of above image clearly does not know its apes from its less loved primates, monkeys.  Chimps are apes.  The difference?  Apes don't have tails.  But they have plenty of tales.)

Interview With A Tony Blair

(Note:  Apparently Blogger has issues with the UK Labour Party.  This interview was posted a week ago but failed to show.  Oh Blogger, why art thou a Tory?)

As promised a while ago now (look crack cake addiction is a full time job) we promised an exclusive meet and greet with the former UK Prime Minister, and other half to George W’s Bromance, Tony Blair.  Our political correspondent (and said crack cake whore) Minga, visited Mr Blair over two weeks during his whirlwind tour of the Middle East, as…Envoy to the Middle East.   

COFFEE

It’s unreasonably hot when I get into Dubai.  The dry air, the temperature soaring and wearing a full body suit made of llama fur was probably not the best idea.  I am ushered into a shiny black limousine straight from 1985 by a hairy cousin.  We drive fast.  I need to pee.

Arriving at some swank hotel café/bistro, there are patrons spilling out.  I am again ushered to a locked velvet room.  I buy my grade-A pure saffron for my mum.  I am ushered out again to the back.

There's a good looking male sitting in the garden, wrapped in about nine black sweaters and wearing a wool hat, smoking cigarettes, sipping a latte the size of his head, and furiously making notes on a script in the dry heat (I'm channelling/plagerising Details magazine).  My llama and I walk over and sit and smile lovingly.

"You still owe me that sponge bath and pack of fags”

Robert Pattinson looks at me rather disturbed.

Before I have a chance to gain a good grope, an older gentleman, dressed head to toe in Armani and a hairline receding for its life, comes over and shakes my hand.

“Hi, I’m Tony Blair”.  He smiles that infamous Mad Hatter on crack smile and I grudgingly get up and follow him, leaving Cedric Diggery and my fags.  Damn it.  I hate my job.

 

SHISHA

Charismatic; Informal; War-Monger; feral beast; Creepy; That Gimp Who Looks Like Michael Sheen; Those are just some of the adjectives the media has bestowed upon the UK Labour party’s longest serving Prime Minister.  Despite this, Blair’s face is constantly busy, creepy yes, but always thinking.

We sit on the velvet chaise in his Presidential suite as George W Bush sits in the corner playing Wii tennis.  He’s obviously losing as he continually yells obscenities to the TV in broken Spanish. 

Blair pours me some tea (no milk, I’m Persian and that’s how we roll) and lights up the gigantic purple shisha in front of him.  He inhales deeply as his face shows a man full of contradictions.

Still being high from the crack cakes I don’t waste time on chit chat. 

“So Tony, do you find it rather ironic that after bombing the crap outta two Middle Eastern countries, you were made the official Envoy of the Quartet on the Middle East?”

He pauses, his face contorting into that infamous Cheshire (yawn) grin and he blinks furiously.

“Well was it was ironic that after getting the Nobel Peace prize, Obama bombed the Moon?”  He finally exhales.

“Yes.  But at least no one lives there.”

Point: Minga. 

“Well I don’t get paid for being an Envoy”

Point: Blair

“But you ask for a quarter of a million dollars to do one speech.”

Check: Minga

“Yeah only Yanks though innit?”  He smiles.

Game set and match: Blair.  Damn it.

  [With W.  In happier times] 

 

Suddenly ol’ W yells from his corner, “Yo Blair!  Where’s my chai latte?” to which Blair just rolls his brown (or blue or green or whatever) eyes and turns to Bush and yells,

“What did I tell you?  This is Tony’s time!  Tony has to work, so make your own damn chump coffee!”

He sits back around, the anger slowly draining the red from his flushed face.  I look over to poor ol’ W who pouts and sits sullen in his couch.  He puts on Grand Theft Auto.

Could it be?  This is the finale to the world’s most famous Bromance?

Blair thinks so.  He talks about the good times and bad, and being BFF’s with one of the world’s most hated world leaders. 

“Sometimes there comes a point in every friendship when you just have to say, I never liked you, get lost”.  He contemplates, blowing out shisha smoke in the shape of a broken heart.

I look over to W.  He stares at me like one stares at a fish before gutting it.  I’m guessing W didn’t take that too well.

“Maybe I’ll miss him.  Just a little” Blair says as he looks over to W.  He rubs his palm on his heart and points it to W.

I hold back the vomit as I finish off the shisha.

Stay tuned for Part II: Cigarettes and Shisha Overdose, where we talk butch wives, Blair’s faith and Minga’s guilty pleasure – the  Foreign Secretary.  

Top 10 Romantic Movie Heroes - That Don't Exist.

So apparently the great Mills&Boon publishing house, now over 100 years old, has reported a high increase in women downloading E-books of their fabulous trashy romance novels.

Minga is personally looking forward to reading, "Nurse, Nanny...Bride!" from their medical series (a series dedicated to contemporary romances set against the medical profession....genius).  BBC called it 'women wishing to be swept off their feet by their hero'.

Here at Sandwich we're all about bullshit and non-existent realities too.   So this got us thinking about the typical heroes we fall in love with in the movies, but whom fail to present themselves in the miserable drag that is reality. 

1.  The Bradley Cooper Effect

The random hot guy who stands or sits next to you on a plane/at a cafe/tube/family tractor/log flume ride.  Often he takes the form of the charming Bradley Cooper, and more than often, he's actually married/gay/straight/emotionally barren/your second cousin/insert horrible reality.   That is if he even decides to talk you in the first place because lets face it, the Universe is just that cruel.

Damn you Universe, damn you Cooper.

Clash of the Titans - Haiku for Sam Worthington

Dear Sam Worthington

Dude, learn a bloody accent

'Bitch' is not 'Beech'

Your dialogue coach

Must have killed herself.  Just

Like the audience.

Splash.