Posted by JC on November 23rd, 2011
I guess everything comes down to tits and arse if you’re female.
JC: Well, that’s Rafael put in his place!
ah em – our Raf was only interested in the female form as beauty personified.
Is that Hannah Tamaki in the middle?
Awesome comeback Judy…any vague feelings of feminist outrage have now dissipated.
What is it with Auckland Central? I could never bring myself to vote for a woman candidate. Never. And here we have 3 of them representing the 3 main parties.
Nikki Kaye in the middle appears to be able to rotate her neck 360 degrees. Is this a symbolic turning of the back by Kaye and are Ardern and Roche happy with full frontal exposure?
Kat – continuing your deep analysis, notice the National candidate has her hand on Labour..but not the Greens!
What does this mean?
Richard – yes and notice Kaye is facing Roche and the National & Greens logo are side by side. All highly unlikely of course! But then it must be a hidden message there somewhere!!….ha ha ha.
On a sober note according to latest ‘poll’ today National will govern alone! Time to out these bogus mainstream ‘polls’ I say, along with worms and has-been TV celeb jocks.
Ohhhh Lordy, Lordy !, I’ve just spelt my coffee (I mean that in a literal rather than smutty-metaphorical sense, you understand).
“Ohhhh Lordy, Lordy !, I’ve just spelt my coffee (I mean that in a literal rather than smutty-metaphorical sense, you understand)”.
Yes, I had the same reaction when Darcy Warlock described the Greens as a “main” party.
Clearly, I really was ‘all shook up’ by this attractive image. For the very same reason I spilt my coffee, I also spelt spilt as “spelt”.
I have to confess to the group, of spending a good deal of my more attractive years, on a couch every Wednesday talking to a man with a slight Viennese accent, about my mother and other disasters and it is this experience I now bring to bear on this topic. I have to say that your previous correspondent Richard was most perceptive in his analysis of the deeper symbolism within the painting which I imagine will be lost on most of Brian’ usual correspondents.
Let me tell you that I didn’t spend all those years having dreams about shooting cows and taking train journeys, to not know this image has a deeper inner meaning. What in fact we are seeing here is a visual metaphor for the current Asset sales…in deed the very word Ass (as in Asset), is displayed quite unashamedly by the young lass in the middle. Butt as any women knows, a woman’s ass will only get her so far and a woman’s true assets lie in her open honest face, proud countenance,upturned breasts and in the fecundity of her rounded stomach and thighs. (Not so much mine I admit, but then I am in the sunset of my life…if not the twilight phase….and I don’t mean wolves) One can only conclude that the young lasses holding the red and green orbs, are proud of their assets and unlikely to give them away lightly to the first foreign sailor who passes by. As for the young lass in the middle with her blue ball, of her I am not so sure. She appears to be capricious in her pose and one must ask what has she got to hide?
Or upon reflection of my own body…maybe dried apricot should be my nondeplume.
Well Peach. It is still not too late to find a husband. Some good blokes still around to take your mind off the female butt.
I know you are attempting to be both sweet, provocative and offer a kernel of hope in these recessionary times of love, but alas many of the men from my past have simply turned out to be faulty. If you have ever tried returning a husband to its manufacturer (mother) with a list of deficiencies…I can assure you there is little sympathy to be had…even under the fair trading act.. I am not obsessed by the female derriere as you imply in your thinly veiled hyper sexualised comments, (you are not a Catholic are you?) but I think we can all agree that a pert bottom on man or woman does set the imagination alight.
My own bottom in case you were asking is still highly regarded by some, even if it is only men from NASA, where have they used its topographical profile to provide the 3D modelling for the Mars Rover in the testing phase.
PS I am proud to say the Rover never fell into a crevasse it was unable to climb out of
Fair enough Peach old chap. Good riposte. I look wistfully at the beauty of form. I remember….
@ Peach. I have to take you to task on a couple of statements.
“I have to confess to the group, of spending a good deal of my more attractive years, on a couch every Wednesday talking to a man with a slight Viennese accent,”
And what’s wrong with our graveled-voiced “Good on yer, mate” Kiwi bloke?
He, not good enough for you? Prefer the soothing sotto voce intonation of an Austrian ponce, err…prince; who sups champers outta a flute instead of cracking a Speights?
“I have to say that your previous correspondent Richard was most perceptive in his analysis of the deeper symbolism within the painting which I imagine will be lost on most of Brian’ usual correspondents”.
The rest of us, posters, don’t understand art and symbolism; because we’ve spent too much time in the paddock, shooting cows and train-spotting? Is that what you’re saying, Girl?
Peach – was that Viennese, or Vietnamese?
I have not garnered so much attention in recent times since the elastic snapped on my bloomers in Smith an Caugheys. To answer some of your observations, Ian sweet you sound with your comment…
“Fair enough Peach old chap. Good riposte. I look wistfully at the beauty of form. I remember”
That you have gone blind in recent times…what perchance has caused that I wonder? Darling everyone over the age of forty looks back wistfully at most things. Indeed for many of us, it is only through medication that we are able to achieve even this most modest engagement with life.
As for Merv (from what I can only assume to be rural New Zealand), he is obviously unfamiliar with the works of Freud and Psychoanalysis in general and the inherent symbolic sexualisation of much that one dreams about under their tutelage. (What do you dream about Merv?) The only way I can begin to explain to you Merv what a Psychoanalyst is really like… is to think of a sort of Temple Grandin like figure, but for people and not Herefords. As for your one man advertising campaign on the merits of a kiwi accent and cracking a “Speights”as a form of rustic foreplay…I think we can all agree…that’s just a cry for help from the back paddock.
Merv dear I was not trying to cast aspersions on your ability to judge art or culture and indeed I am sure that your local A&P show is knee deep in watercolours of gaily painted flowers, and New Zealand beach scenes….but it is only through leaving our shores and travelling through the great cities and galleries of Europe that one is able to find a real appreciation for beauty not only in art, human endeavour, music and poetry but love….love Merv. Now look what you have done…there are wistful tears on my keyboard and I blame you Merv….I blame you.
Peach like you I to have done my share of time on the coach. Actually I wonder if it may not be the same coach, I remember a lingering fragrance there, you don’t by any chance use Chanel No 5 ? Could have been projection.
Your interpretation of the image does bear sweet fruit especially your concerns about the “young lass in the middle”,she too concerns me greatly. Her head is turned far too much and suggests an about face is imminent. Her left hand is not only on Labour’s shoulder but very close to Labour’s right breast, perhaps uncomfortably close for Labour. Could our young lass be unconsciously left leaning, could she be reaching out as it were to her own inner Labour nature. Or does she simply want to take a part of Labour unto her own bosom. Loves labours lost and all that.
OMG…I go on holiday to Iran for a few months and on my return find BE and JC’s website has become a dating site.
Merv, don’t get your hopes up…I think Peach may be a guy.
Richard. Beware of sharing time on a coach. Just look at what happened to Graham Henry.
Ian thanks for your concern and for pointing our the little Freudian slip on my part .
Coach, Couch they are so… close .
@ The Real Tony
Re “Merv, don’t get your hopes up…I think, Peach may be a guy.”
Mate, it did cross my mind: but whatever/whomever Peach happens to be, He/She/It is spending way too much time in places like the Googgie and Pompy-doo Centre, looking at inanimate objets d’art and abstract paintings; with a look, I’m betting, that’s less preoccupied and immersed than it is outright blank. Most Kiwi fellas just can’t get a handle on that. And we don’t, much, care for folk who act all uppity and ‘proudful-like’.
Peach, needs to get out and frolic amongst the wild pastoral flowers and tussock. You know, step on the odd cow patty, etc. Might find, then, that the miscegenation of the Artistic and Agrestic, makes for a more well-rounded person.
When you frolic in the cow-patties Merv, be warned that they only warm your toes when very fresh at about 40degrees. Within 30 minutes they are down to the ambient temperature. All those stories about cold frosty mornings and cold feet…. Damn another myth blasted.
There Peach old chap. Take the heat off?
Merv – I reckon a well rounded kiwi bloke should be able to appreciate art, poetry, literature, philosophy, mythology, psychology and the finer points of his language of choice. Not to mention build stuff, grow stuff, kill stuff and be an all round expert on trains and the machinery of WWII.
As a starter.
Peach you have a lot to answer for. You have singlehandedly neutered Merv and therefore ruined this bogside…excuse me blogsite. Merv take a grip man. What are you made of? Can’t you be offensive, objectionable, or at least abusive.
I had no intention of creating such a fuss, this discussion is beginning to degenerate to that of my Bridge Club. It is as if you have suddenly discovered your feminine side your “Bitchiness” and let it rise up from that secret place within. Indeed even Richard now is admitting to certain secret homoerotic longings for his rugby coach of old. Merv has confessed to a certain predilection for Coprophilia, among his bovine friends…(“nothing like putting on a Jersy when you are Fresian as my great Uncle Toby used to say…from Mt Crawford admittedly ) but that is perfectly normal amongst rural folk.
Anyway enough is enough…we really ought to try and find each others point of view and in that journey celebrate that which makes us both flawed and human and dare I say it friends.
I freely admit Merv that some can find me a touch “proudful like”, but that is merely the scars I carry from a convent education near Lucerne. What’s more I would love to frolic with you amongst your tussock, for it is years since I have seen good Tussock growth. The cow pats I fear I would forgo, as that for me is a step too far. As for me becoming more rounded, darling I am rounded enough let me assure you…this is one Birth of Venus where the gestation was just too many decades too long.
Ian you are a dear…and at this stage of our banter perhaps my favorite…along with Richard of course now that he has finally come out. Richard is sensitive I fear and may well have been bullied at school…so I want the rest of you to behave and treat him well. And as for Rick well….I hardly know you…perhaps we to might become friends….
I see it is time for Moet so must dash you snuggle bandits
OMG – Peach, Richard, Ianmac et al, apart from Kimbo, you have surely made my week. It’s been a bit hard to swallow with all those damn polls. Never mind, onwards and upwards and hopefully I’ll have a good day on Saturday scrutineering at my local polling place.
Good to see you back, Real Tony. I’ve missed your hilarious on-going fisticuffs with The Fake Tony: Labour and National, Yin and Yang, Sweet and Sour, Sugar and Spice, Peaches and Cream, and so on……
My Dearest Cuddle Bandits and sweet Jill…
It is so good to have the voice of another woman appear, in what has become a Dali like testosterone filled landscape over which I have been forced to plough alone. I fear though Jill, that to my merry band of bandits, I have become something of a femme fatal and thence killed all conversation dead. Certainly my presence seems to have given them all …even Merv a case of performance anxiety. Poor Brian, what will he do now in his pre Milo moments of an evening to occupy himself, in what must surely be, the final few chapters of his life. I imagine that even as we speak Judy is now attempting to erase from her browsing history the words “Dr Kevorkien.
Anyway let me apologise to all for being so forthright and yes even indiscrete about your various predilections for coaches on couches, or bovine bevies. It is good to have these things out in the open however and we all know now a little more about our respective secret selves.
Richard darling I have to say I felt a little slighted when you suggested that I might be the sort of woman to wear that Nazi perfume Chanel No 5…certainly not.
Anyway my dear bandits, I am only writing in an attempt to apologise for slights cast upon delicate egos. I know that men are far more sensitive than they would have us believe, their egos delicate flowers and easily buised…yes even Merv’s tussock can be trampled down …Even as we speak Merv is probably in a back paddock somewhere killing a cow to relieve his pent up anger. Well I hope it is just killing….Oh dear I do hope he hasn’t named it Peach….you don’t think Merv is Michael Laws in disguise do you? They both seem very angry….and I think we need to talk more on where this anger comes from
Toodlelooo chaps…take your Warfarin and seize the day…as best as your arthritic hands will allow
Why thank you Markus.
Allah hu akbar.
As posters, JC has reminded us that we are guests at her dinner table. She has made a point of saying that those who make crude “scatological” references, will be ushered out the front door sans coat, hat and cane. Necessary, to ensure proper decorum and mutual regard for your fellow guests. I remind her of this, because ‘Queen’ Peach alleges that I engage in unspeakable fetishtic activity. I, who have received Final Notice — for a trivial infraction — need to ensure my posts are twice-soapsuds washed, rinsed in Napisan, spot-bleached; and rinsed, again. Lest, I go the way of “millsy”.
Here, we have an interloper, who barges onto the dinner table and hogs the food; so that when the intestinal nodes begin to pulse from all this gluttony — signalling a tightening of the sphincter for a controlled-and-intermittent polite “release” — leans over, hard-left and startles us, further, with an impersonation of the French Horn. To add further degradation and indignity, He/She/It sniffs the air.
JC: Quite right, Merv! I should have sent you all to the naughty corner. Unfortunately I was laughing too hard…
Peach, you’re a legend… though your grammar and spelling leave a lot to be desired…