Don't get me wrong: I think Tom's great for entertainment - all that acting just with his eyes. It reminds me of Roger Moore with all the acting he put into his eyebrows. Seriously, it kinda blows me away. Talking of blowing, though, I was thinking what is it exactly that disturbs me most about the relationship between Tom and Katie.
Well, first things first: Let me say upfront that I'm sure they're absolutely genuine, marvellous, warm, loving, wonderful, truly inspired and inspirational people. Water walks under their feet. They transcend, they shine, they are evolving. They are the future, and the future's bright, and it's fcuking orange, innit? (By the way: That bloody telecomms company is due for a right kicking, and I look forward to throwing my reeking spleen onto their smug superiority in a future blog entry, rest assured.) Anyway, shall we agree to all of that and their glory? Shall we? Good, good. Right, now I've said these things, let me fcuking vent.
What effin bothers me is, for starters, Katie's mouth. Now, talking as one with a mouth larger than the Merseyside tunnel in Liverpool, or the Blackwall tunnel in London, I'm an expert to talk, in case you're wondering, how rude. So, dear reader: it's her bloody big, rectangular gob. I mean, it's effin weird. You know whose it reminds me of? Bloody Cherie Blair's, that's who. See the connection? Are these mouths bred in some Frankenstein's laboratory somewhere in Milton Keynes?
So then you imagine this mouth in action - I mean, making an overwhelmng effort to ensure that absolutely every word comes out with the same tone of voice - a banal, dribbling bibbling, mouse-squeeky, meandering, blah - devoid of all emotion and meaning and good only for throwing you violently into a coma. But, hey! Each to their own; that's okay, I mean that's bearable.
But then you have to get to see it kiss Tom. With his nose. And then I'm just totally freaked. Now don't get me wrong, dear reader, as I'm one to talk: last week I rented out the bridge of my own to a team of impoverished skiers from Dundee to practice on as they couldn't afford the fancy resorts of Europe.
But, but - jeez, I can hardly bring myself to say it: What if her weird mouth gets onto his big nose? I mean, that's the blowjob to end them all, right? I mean, the Armageddon, n'est pas? I can't even bring myself to imagine the apocalyptic event that such an encounter would be. Forget kinky, that's downright scary. You know where my disturbing mind has gone to.
Of course, there are those unforgivable and, I'm sure, entirely nefariously, wrongly informed, ignorant, misjudgemental and surmising bstds out there who question a certain You Know Who, and say that he is in fact you-know-what, and that his you-know-what is more comfortable in a you-know-what rather than in a you-know-where. Not that I even know what these people mean, because it's all you-know what to me - um, code, that is.
But it's just that I'm thinking: well, if that were the case, whatever 'that' means, then it does make sense that his current you-know-what is deliriously happy you-know-where because some unforgivably rude and ignorant and entirely erroneous nasty trogdwellers on this planet say that doing you-know-what where it currently is, is no different to doing it with you-know-what else, elsewhere with you-know-another.
Or, You Know Who could just flip her over and all people essentially are just a pair of buttocks, right? I mean, I'm one to talk: dear reader, you will recall from my log about pavement Nazis for my on the town label, that to say my ass is huge compared to others is like saying the Eiffel Tower is large for a sewing needle. I don't even want to get into you-know-what, especially you-know-where. I mean, I've just had dinner, and you?
Anyway, back to Tom and Katie (shame on those of you who thought I was making up you-know-what about You Know Who doing you-know-what because you-know-what was you-know-where and not elsewhere, as you-well-know). So: big bless to them both, and, of course, their child (I confess I don't know what it looks like, nor, I must further confess, whether it's a male or female, as I haven't read or seen the news - which is desperately sad for a fan of celeb actors such as yours truly; but I do look forward to providing a view when I do. Yippee, can't wait! Thank you god, for such an opportunity.).
But meanwhile, just to be safe and sure, I send a fervent prayer into the ether every night, begging - nay, pleading, that I may never, ever see a sudden collision - collusion? - of her nose and his mouth. Freaky. I mean, interstellar, transglobally scary. It gives me the heebie-jeebies, and makes my you-know-whats tingle in a you-know-what not very nice way you-know-where. Moving swiftly on, dear reader...
Well, first things first: Let me say upfront that I'm sure they're absolutely genuine, marvellous, warm, loving, wonderful, truly inspired and inspirational people. Water walks under their feet. They transcend, they shine, they are evolving. They are the future, and the future's bright, and it's fcuking orange, innit? (By the way: That bloody telecomms company is due for a right kicking, and I look forward to throwing my reeking spleen onto their smug superiority in a future blog entry, rest assured.) Anyway, shall we agree to all of that and their glory? Shall we? Good, good. Right, now I've said these things, let me fcuking vent.
What effin bothers me is, for starters, Katie's mouth. Now, talking as one with a mouth larger than the Merseyside tunnel in Liverpool, or the Blackwall tunnel in London, I'm an expert to talk, in case you're wondering, how rude. So, dear reader: it's her bloody big, rectangular gob. I mean, it's effin weird. You know whose it reminds me of? Bloody Cherie Blair's, that's who. See the connection? Are these mouths bred in some Frankenstein's laboratory somewhere in Milton Keynes?
So then you imagine this mouth in action - I mean, making an overwhelmng effort to ensure that absolutely every word comes out with the same tone of voice - a banal, dribbling bibbling, mouse-squeeky, meandering, blah - devoid of all emotion and meaning and good only for throwing you violently into a coma. But, hey! Each to their own; that's okay, I mean that's bearable.
But then you have to get to see it kiss Tom. With his nose. And then I'm just totally freaked. Now don't get me wrong, dear reader, as I'm one to talk: last week I rented out the bridge of my own to a team of impoverished skiers from Dundee to practice on as they couldn't afford the fancy resorts of Europe.
But, but - jeez, I can hardly bring myself to say it: What if her weird mouth gets onto his big nose? I mean, that's the blowjob to end them all, right? I mean, the Armageddon, n'est pas? I can't even bring myself to imagine the apocalyptic event that such an encounter would be. Forget kinky, that's downright scary. You know where my disturbing mind has gone to.
Of course, there are those unforgivable and, I'm sure, entirely nefariously, wrongly informed, ignorant, misjudgemental and surmising bstds out there who question a certain You Know Who, and say that he is in fact you-know-what, and that his you-know-what is more comfortable in a you-know-what rather than in a you-know-where. Not that I even know what these people mean, because it's all you-know what to me - um, code, that is.
But it's just that I'm thinking: well, if that were the case, whatever 'that' means, then it does make sense that his current you-know-what is deliriously happy you-know-where because some unforgivably rude and ignorant and entirely erroneous nasty trogdwellers on this planet say that doing you-know-what where it currently is, is no different to doing it with you-know-what else, elsewhere with you-know-another.
Or, You Know Who could just flip her over and all people essentially are just a pair of buttocks, right? I mean, I'm one to talk: dear reader, you will recall from my log about pavement Nazis for my on the town label, that to say my ass is huge compared to others is like saying the Eiffel Tower is large for a sewing needle. I don't even want to get into you-know-what, especially you-know-where. I mean, I've just had dinner, and you?
Anyway, back to Tom and Katie (shame on those of you who thought I was making up you-know-what about You Know Who doing you-know-what because you-know-what was you-know-where and not elsewhere, as you-well-know). So: big bless to them both, and, of course, their child (I confess I don't know what it looks like, nor, I must further confess, whether it's a male or female, as I haven't read or seen the news - which is desperately sad for a fan of celeb actors such as yours truly; but I do look forward to providing a view when I do. Yippee, can't wait! Thank you god, for such an opportunity.).
But meanwhile, just to be safe and sure, I send a fervent prayer into the ether every night, begging - nay, pleading, that I may never, ever see a sudden collision - collusion? - of her nose and his mouth. Freaky. I mean, interstellar, transglobally scary. It gives me the heebie-jeebies, and makes my you-know-whats tingle in a you-know-what not very nice way you-know-where. Moving swiftly on, dear reader...
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Note re photograph: This marvellously scary picture was collected freely from the internet and is believed to be public domain. If you own the copyright to this image, please send an email to perspectiveiskey@yahoo.co.uk and Bobbyg will remove it.
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Hey Bobby G,
ReplyDeleteIs it true you are actually the bitter, unsuccessful younger brother of Ali G? I think it is pure jealousy that prompts you to pick on a fine upstanding individual such as TomKat. What's wrong with Kat's voice? You say she is monotone, but I have it on good authority that she just is a nutter for fluffernutters - you know - the classic American sandwich made from peanutbutter and Marshmallow fluff. She just has a perpetual buildup of the stuff on the roof of her mouth, which results in that sound like she's got peanutbutter on the roof of her mouth - and by the way smarty-pants the technical term is "Peanut Butter Roof." It's a well-known affliction among American actors and actresses who are trying to subsist on an all protein diet. You may have also noticed that Melanie Griffiths suffers from peanutbutter voice. (rumor has it that this is why she and Don Johnson split)