Posts Tagged ‘Sylvester Stallone’

Every idea, even the bad and the exceedingly strange ones, had to have had a moment of conception. I mean, someone somewhere had to have come up with the initial idea for Hooked on Classics (“Let’s breathe new life into the musical medley format by adding an infectious disco beat!”) or for a flopster film like Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot! (“Sly Stallone really should do more comedy…”) or even the Bratz franchise (“We’re bringing sexy back… to the pre-teen market!”).

I personally have always wished I could have been there when they came up with the concept for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I like to think the conversation went a little something like this:

PERSON A: Hey, let’s do a cartoon series about a bunch of teenagers who fight crime… 

PERSON B: Uh, I think Scooby Doo covered that. 

A: Okay, okay. But what if these kids were trained in the deadly martial arts of the Exotic Far East?

B: Nah, too Karate Kid

A: What if.. what if… they’re wise-crackin’ crime-fightin’ ninja-trained TURTLES!

B: Meh…

A: MUTANT turtles!

B: Now you’re talking…

A: And their ninja master is a giant anthropomorphic rat!

B: Keep it coming!

A: And they say stuff like “Cowabunga!” and “What the shell?” and… and.. and “Let’s turtlize them!”

B: Aw, yeah… Bring it home, baby!

A: And they’re named after Renaissance artists!


B: Aw, now you’ve gone and blown your ride… and yet… it’s so crazy, it might just work…

Yep, I was pretty sure that’s how it would have gone. Except I’ve now since read on Wikipedia that the TMNT concept “arose from a humorous drawing sketched out by Kevin Eastman during a casual evening of brainstorming with his friend Peter Laird”, which is quite possibly a polite way of saying they were on mind-enhancing drugs at the time.

Anyway, to save dear Mr Eastman and Mr Laird from further damage to their brain-cells, I came up with some possible “Joanie loves Chachi”-style spin-offs for a variety of different age groups:

FKLTL: Freakish Kabuki-Loving Toddling Lizards

TRLGG: Tweenie Reptilomorph Labyrinthodontic Geisha Girls

MLCASW: Mid-Life-Critical Amphisbaenian Sumo Wrestlers

OAPDTS: Old Age Pensioner Deviant Trouser Snakes

And that’s just for starters. How many times do I have to spell it out for you people? IDEAS. PERSON.

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I caught up with some friends the other day and one friend – Mzzzzz E (she of “Fi-DIE-lity” notoriety) – began showing off how she had just been to the Friendliest Street in Blahblah-shire. How did she know? Because there was a big bloody sign saying “Friendliest Street in Blahblah-shire 2007”. And, as if to prove a point, as she arrived there was a burst of friendly activity between neighbours all calling out to each other and wishing each other well and handing each other macrobiotic tartlets, fresh out of the oven and probably served in a little hand-woven wicker basket covered with a freshly laundered gingham tea-towel. How perfectly Stepford of them.

This then led to a general discussion about what “macrobiotic” actually meant – another friend at the gathering (the one who actually lives on the Friendliest Street in Blahblahshire) did her street proud by cheerfully educating us. Her explanation went something like “macrobiotic means whole foods, pulses, fermented soy, and possibly gluten-free shit and that”. Actually, she didn’t use the words “shit and that”, it’s just that I sort of glazed over after the mention of “whole foods” and so have had to make up what she said. But she definitely used the word “gluten-free” because it got another friend, Mr MacDonald, all fired up. Mr MacDonald proclaimed: “I don’t know what gluten is but I must really really like it because, quite frankly, food tastes crap without it.” I think he might have even pounded his fist on the table to punctuate his point.

Which must make life pretty grim for the poor souls with coeliac disease, who can’t even say the word “Gluten” out loud without instantly getting the blurts. Their lives are possibly only matched in grimness by my little friends Master L and Master D, who, because of their allergies, live without butter, which as we know from previous posts such as “More than a Matter of Taste“, is the definition of life as I know it. (Although, if you ask Mr Justice, the true meaning of life is apparently in the dictionary – something he has told me with no trace of irony whatsoever). And their lives must also be pretty grim without peanuts, although arguably their life would be considerably grimmer *with* peanuts, because anaphlyaxis ain’t no damn picnic, sister-girlfriend-whatever.

Let me just say now that the whole peanuts-in-school thing gets me riled. Some people get very emotional about potentially being deprived of their Natural Born Right to put peanut butter in their child’s lunchbox. One could argue that they would be a little more emotional should their child’s peanut butter sandwich deprive another child of the right to live. Last year, when all I could get The Pixie to eat was peanut butter, we went away with KC, MM and Master D, as we do every year. As I was packing to go, KC rang to ask us if we wouldn’t mind not packing the peanut butter because they didn’t have an epi-pen for Master D and we were going to be in the middle of f’ing nowhere without mobile reception. My answer? You bet! Of course! I mean, what was the worse thing that would have happened if we didn’t bring her beloved peanut butter? She’d go a little hungry. And the worse thing to happen if we *did* bring the peanut butter? I personally don’t want to go there.

There seems to be some people out there who regard the whole peanut allergy thing as the delusions of middle-class drama queens. Recently Master D touched some minute traces of a cashew-spread which one of his little friends had micro-smeared around the house, and then Master D must have rubbed his eyes because within an instant, he looked like Sly Stallone after having taken a whuppin’ from our man Mr T. Actually let’s upgrade that metaphor and make him more like Sly Stallone just after he’s had work done by his mother’s plastic surgeon.

A combination of this story and the look on KC’s face when she saw the nut-related items on our canteen list, plus some other “shit and that”, has galvanised me into action to get our school canteen nut-free (though by “galvanised me into action” means I’ve written this blog entry and had passing conversations with other mothers in the playground – but watch this space, peoples! I’m a steam train comin’!). I’m not gunning for a total school ban – not yet at least, as I’m sure that might make parents like Mother of Master L and KC sleep better at night. And we don’t have to go as far as giving everyone allergy-free macrobiotic lunches (did someone say…*yawn*…) but we could take two items off the canteen list: Peanut Butter and Nutella.

Two little items. Out of a hundred items. That’s not too high a price to pay for a bit of piece of mind, is it? After all, it really is more than just a matter of taste for these kids. They’re not being fussy or precious or over-indulged by their parents. They’re just trying to stay alive and the Friendliest thing we could do is to let them.

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The Pixie is sandwiched between two brothers, and it shows in her choice of toys. Her mainstays are four plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (aka “Inja Turtles”). There is Daddy Inja, Brother and Sister, and some other lesser, unnamed turtle who just tags along with the others.  

The Injas like to mix it up with the cars from the Car Box from time to time. Here is a small sample of their conversation as they cruise the loungeroom in their hot pink Barbie roadster :

DADDY INJA: Let’s play ring-a-ring-a-rosie!

ALL: Yaaaayyyyyy!

DADDY INJA: Sister, that blue car wants to kill you.

SISTER: (cheerfully) Okay!

It’s not surprising, therefore, that The Pixie has come up with the concept of the “Boy-Girl”. She will often declare someone to be a Boy-Girl and then qualify it with a reason such as “because they like cheese” or, even more intriguingly, when talking about the girliest-girly-girl that ever walked the planet, “them have a penis”. 

I’ve yet to ascertain a clear definition of the Boy-Girl from The Pixie. For someone who’s always going on about it, she’s remarkably cagey about its exact meaning. Perhaps she’s trying to protect the intellectual property rights,  no doubt under the advice of Mr Justice (also known, upon occasion, as “The Pixie’s Lawyer”).

In any case, having a certified Boy-Girl assessor in the house can certainly keep things interesting. One morning I went from just a girl, to a  Boy-Girl and back to a girl again – and all I had done was change my shoes.

And then in waltzes TIddles McGee, wearing a glittery headband and some pretty pink beads and carrying a large plastic weapon, walking that fine fine line between Paris Hilton in Who Weekly and Sty Stallone in “First Blood”. Perhaps, I hesitantly suggest to The One Who Knows, Tiddles – in his current acouterment – is the perfect example of the Boy-Girl?

The Pixie solemnly shakes her head. “He’s not a Boy-Girl, mummy…. He’s a poo-poo pants”.

And indeed he is. As I engage in the usual pitched hand-to-hand battle with Tiddles that is our nappy-changing routine, I reflect that this will not the be the last time that The Pixie will be in the “Know” and I’ll be in the “Don’t Have a Frigging Clue”. My children will be my navigators in an increasingly alien world of popular culture and I’ll just have to tag along for the ride, much like that unnamed Inja.

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