Turkey of the Year 2007..... & the Nominees are:

Turkey Fool - Simone Warne
Pretentious Sci-Fi Turkey - Jamie Packer and that fuckin' wedding.
Real-Life Turkey - Mark Philippoussis
Small Turkey Syndrome - John Howard
Turkey Chick - Bindi Irwin
"Clean" Turkey - Phil Jamieson on Enough Rope
Turkey For Sale - Peter Garrett

Punted By The Mask

We're still recovering from election night over at our friend Footballer (no name)'s house in Brighton. It was the dawning of a new era and a night of revelations that left us questioning our ability to read people. Kaet (not her real name), Footballer (no name)'s wife, has always been like a sister to us, but that night she was a stranger.

Always the great hostess Kaet had driven all the way to Prahran Market to get some mini Kosher hot dogs. She served them with buttered, crustless white bread and off the shelf tomato sauce jazzed up with some of Maggie Beer's Verjuice. But something was amiss that night. Whenever we made witty and insightful remarks about the tally room coverage, Footballer (no name) would piss himself laughing and she would look at us blankly and say, "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard". After this happened a few times we began to feel insecure, like she thought we were idiots or something. Whenever Footballer (no name) wasn't in the room it was really awkward because she'd bring up 'her feelings' about 'her marriage'. This was very confusing because she said she'd been really depressed and anxious but to us she was looking better than ever! When we're depressed we don't look good at all so we quickly became suspicious. Maybe she wasn't down, maybe she was setting a trap, maybe she was testing to see if we have designs on her husband. It's true, one of us was in a spa with Footballer (no name) early on in our friendship, but we've moved on from that, and so has he.

By the time Troubled Footballer (no name) came over, just before Mr Howard surrendered, we were so removed from our instincts we had to remind each other to blink. Out of control, we assumed Troubled Footballer (no name)'s arrogance was drug induced and not a symptom of self doubt. We heard him on his mobile saying he wanted a kitchen he could cook in and thought he was talking to The Coffin Cheaters but it turned out that he was discussing his renovation. After Kevin claimed victory Footballer (no name) muted the sound and stood in front of the TV. He asked us to charge our glasses for a nation that could now play by Australian Rules. Kaet sits there looking completely chilled and then we see a solitary tear slide down her wax like face. Troubled Footballer (no name) starts to weep silently. His frequent hard swallows and the famous snap of the Kosher hot dogs we were nervously eating the only sounds in a tense room. Footballer (no-name), who has a problem with public displays of emotion, leaves the room and we back out after him. We find him on the deck, hand balling a footy against the wall and ask him why his wife is so distant and why the hell does he have a drug addict coming down in his lounge room. Footballer (no name) goes, 'She's had botox and he's grieving for Deceased Footballer (no name)'.

So Long Hedi

After a couple of wonderful months we've had to let our tapeworm go. It's been such a gas having him on the inside, but Hedi exists in his own right. In a way it's been too good with us, we've been catering to his every whim. He's got to realise his full potential as a parasite and move on to more character building hosts. Let's take several minutes to relive our journey with Hedi to the tunes of Sir Elton John...

Panda B. (Bandit) Listening to His Masters Voice

Panda B. (bandit) is in a very strange mood

Inpatients

Because of Claire and some of our other friends, we've checked ourselves into the Eating Disorder Unit at the Melbourne Clinic. They all suspect our tapeworm is a symptom of some kind of eating disorder, but we've just got a tapeworm so that we can keep eating. Life's too sort to stop eating. We know we got caught up in thinspiration with Karl Lagerfeld, but if anything his food has propelled us in the opposite direction. Food is great. We love food. And so does our 'friend on the inside', Hedi.

We've had our worm for a few months now and we're spending a fortune at the supermarket. It's great! You can eat whatever you want, at anytime and not put on one gram. This is really confusing for the other inmates. The anas and the mias stand there (always standing - it burns more calories) whilst we relax on the couch feasting on sausage rolls and sponge cakes. They follow us to restrooms to see if we throw up, but Hedi never lets that happen. He's an insatiable parasite.

To tell the truth we don't connect with the ED Crowd, they're always telling each other how beautiful and slim they are whilst swapping lollypops. The lollypop thing is really weird, they lick the lolly (strictly one lick, no swallow) and then stick on a cut out picture of their favourite thinspiration girls - pink for Mary-Kate, lemonade for Allegra Beck and orange for Nicole Richie. These skinny girls spook everyone out, every day there are different registered nurses. We've started to hang with the patients from the other wards. One of our bi-polar friends is of Italian heritage (second generation) and his family bring in huge hampers of the best smallgoods.

Letter To All Friends of Punk and Blanket re Their Condition From Claire Voyant

Hello all,

The last time I saw punk and blanket I was in a hypertensive state because I was being forced to eat my lunch with Karl Lagerfeld's compact disc album playing. They were taking this Karl Lagerfeld diet thing a bit far at that stage, I would even say it was borderline hero worship. They showed me what they called an 'installation', but it was clearly an altar (pictured below).






Since that day I've only been communicating via text message with punk und blanket, as they are calling themselves these days. Their messages are random accounts of calorie burning, spinning classes and German style boot camps or invitations to go over for 'bowls' (always plural) of Karl's Lemon Soup. Last night after my evening Baileys and last ciggie, I saw it all as I stared into the fridge door. There they were, out the back of Melbourne's Watergrill restaurant, scavenging through the scraps of Sir Bert Newton's seafood, and I knew then what they were up to. They were angling for a tapeworm. Not only are they deifying a rubber man but they have succumb to the lazy persons idea of weight loss. I have seen their future and it's not nice. They hold a Naming Ceremony for their tapeworm in the park over the road from their house (because of the malnutrition, this is the greatest distance they can travel) and they call it Hedi. Hedi Slim-man.


For further information on tapeworms, go to: http://www.parasitecleanse.com/fishtapeworms.htm

Our Karl Lagerfeld Diet Luncheon

Our luncheon was a huge success. It was a glorious autumnal day in Melbourne and our guests were delighted with the recipes, particularly the lemon soup, the pizza and the creamed cucumber. The eggplant and pink grapefruit dish was left untouched as it was inedible. Only one hiccup arose during the course of the day and it happened when we put on Karl's new CD release, Karl Lagerfeld Les Musiques Que J’aime. This had an extremely adverse effect on the atmosphere. The industrially inspired tunes, a sound favored by many people of German extraction, resulted in our guests showing signs of acute acoustic trauma and some of our older guests like Claire began to experience rising blood pressure. When some of them threatened to leave the premises we knew we had to push the stop button. Later that evening we decided to sell the CD on ebay as we too have difficulty with Karl's musical choices, especially as it was daring us to defy Karl's strict two glasses of red wine policy. We're very surprised as we had been lead to believe that Karl has a vast music collection and that he owns 10 ipods with 80 gigabytes each. Our hearts go out to Karl as he is obviously trying very hard to appreciate music but unfortunately we feel he will never get it because from the evidence available it seems Karl has no sense of rhythm or beauty when it comes to music. One of our guests remarked that maybe Karl should smoke marijuana as it could assist him to tune in.

Invitation zum mittagesessen

Karl Lagerfeld's Weltanschauung

Lately we've been getting into fashion. We really like the look
that's around these days, slim fitting jeans and mini skirts, but when
we try to wear the clothes, our friends look at us disapprovingly and
suggest we opt for the more relaxed, roomy look that's also fashionable, oversized t-shirts and floor length kaftans. Recently, we received a brown paper package in the mail from an unidentified source. The notesaid simply, 'Try zis. You vont be disappointed.' It was the Karl Lagerfeld Diet Book. At first we were incensed. Given our dealing with the Kaiser in the past, who would ever think we would want to read his obsessive rantings? Of course, curiosity, and yes, a touch of schandenfreude, got the better of us and we had to read it. Half-way through it became very apparent: we had to hold an invitation only luncheon for our friends.

A Common Excuse

Carole Middle England, mother of the ex-future Queen of England (now just a fashion buyer), is copping it from the British for being common; she got sprung chewing gum at one of Prince Billy's military parades, when she met the Queen, she said "Pleased to meet you," without adding "M'aam" and like Delta Goodrem's mum, Lea Goodrem, she's one of those monster stage door mothers, forcing her daughter to ride horses and dress like a modest monarch. That may be so, but we at punkandblanket.blogspot.com think that if anyone is common, it's the Booze Brothers, Billy and Hank, bumping and grinding low-born girls and drugs into the early hours in public nightclubs. Don't these boys have palaces to go to? Surely Tom Parker-Bowles has a mirror at his house!

Billy dropped Kate Middle England not because of any pressure from anyone (quit blaming us and your Granny, you out-of-it sooks), but because he just wants to sew his wild seeds into as many babes as possible before he goes bald, and, because he can. We believe the Booze Brothers will be the ultimate downfall of the House of Windsor because they are dumb and like their Mummy, loose cannons.


A drug crazed and pash-rashed Prince Billy mauls a subject with his congenital sausage fingers


We feel that these boys should really take a leaf out of our own post-colonial Royalty from the Principality of Hutt River, HRH Prince Leonard and Princess Shirley, who on the 19th of this month celebrate their diamond wedding anniversary.

Famous People Bore Us To Tracksuits

As you all (the thousand upon thousands of you) may have noticed, we have been on sabbatical for quite some time now and we feel it's only fair to explain why. In recent months we have been lost in the foggy haze of disillusion. We have been wandering around, wearing nothing but tracksuits, staring blankly at the tabloids, at the television and at each other. We go online, we read Popbitch where they tell us Bono turns poverty into a brand and a lot of money along the way; we are not surprised, we said that months ago. When we go shopping in our trackies we study chewing gum and chocolate wrappers, when once we would have grabbed every publication with Britney's bald head on it, but she's just yet another sellebrity cruising for a comeback (Keith Urban-Kidman is another one. And as for Anna-Nicole Smith, she was trying for it, then realised death was her only comeback). We force ourselves to watch E! News in an effort to shake ourselves from our fame fatigue. Then it happened: our epiphany. We saw that the United Nations poster couple intend to adopt yet another child, this time from Chad, to provide racial balance in their rainbow tribe. That was it. No wonder we are tired! We just can't take it anymore! There are too many turkeys around the globe and we are sick of their gobbling! We don't need to write about them. There are plenty of other online institutions for this purpose.

Driving Panda B. (bandit)

Winner - Turkey Of The Year 2006

Keith Urban wins Turkey Of The Year 2006 wings down!

All over the world, and in aircraft, people are asking for 'The Keith' - a Wild Turkey on Ice, in a tall, thin, frosted glass with a dash of ginger.



Keith Urban entering the rehab facility - note his womanly curves, in stark contrast to his 'wife's'.