Tetherd Cow Ahead

Because we’ve ventured back onto the topic of Bonox, it occurred to me that many of you across the various ponds may be interested in the most recent news from Bonox’s creators, Kraft, who I’m sure you will know better for their much more famous product Vegemite (we’ve discussed it before here).

Vegemite has been around in Australia since 1922, and has remained virtually unchanged. A year or so back, though, Kraft did a survey on their website to find out what Australians ‘wanted’ in their Vegemite, quite obviously with an eye to boosting the sales of their atramentous spread. This notion that you can somehow ‘improve’ an already perfectly acceptable product, is, it has to be said, a quintessentially American one. Australians don’t tend to think like that.[tippy title=”†”]Well, Australians who don’t subscribe to nutty ever-accelerating economic models, anyway.[/tippy] So it will come as no surprise to you at all to know that Vegemite is now 100% American-owned. Like most of the rest of Australia. But I digress. Vegemite occupies that most privileged of positions on the supermarket shelf, alongside strawberry jam and peanut butter; it is what it is, and trying to make it into something else ‘more successful’ is really only the kind of fluffy dream that fills the restless sleep of advertising people.[tippy title=”‡”]Yeah, I know what you’re going to say – peanut butter comes in crunchy and smooth, but I really don’t want to contemplate a crunchy Vegemite.[/tippy]

Anyhoo, Kraft got all kinds of suggestions about how Vegemite could be improved – there was a website you could visit and put in your threepence-worth about how you’d like to see it combined with muesli or salmon paste or whatnot. There were a lot of rather nauseating suggestions and I speculate that Kraft neglected to understand that they were not really seeing a proper representation of the Vegemite-buying public, but rather a whole bunch of people who evidently thought it had some kind of defect (although there were some like me who visited the site and left comments to the effect that they should simply leave it alone). As it turns out this led, eventually, to the announcement of a wonderful new product which has been sitting on supermarket shelves for the past few months sporting the moniker ‘Name Me’. Yes, that’s right, in a transparently sad grab for publicity, the people who run Kraft’s advertising campaign have attempted to rope in the hoardes of loyal Happy Little Vegemites to come up with a name for the new stuff.

This is not the first time that Kraft have tried to spin Vegemite off into something else. You’d have thought they’d have learnt their lesson about fiddling with an iconic cultural lynchpin after their merger of Vegemite and cheese in the 1990s failed to gain traction in the world of toast-topping comestibles.

But no. Now they’re doing pretty much the same thing again – this time it’s Vegemite and cream cheese. And, my prediction is that it will follow the same ignominious trajectory of the 1990s effort, particularly in light of what I’m now about to tell you.

You will have noticed that I haven’t linked to anything Vegemite so far in this post. And it’s not going to happen. Because, when I was doing a bit of legwork for y’all to read about the grand Vegemite saga, I came across this incredible disclaimer on the Vegemite website:

All other use, copying or reproduction of any part of this Site is prohibited (save to the extent permitted by law). Without limiting the foregoing, no part of this Site may be reproduced on any other internet site, and you are not authorised to redistribute or sell the material or reverse engineer, disassemble, or otherwise convert it to any other form that people can use. You are also prohibited from linking the Site to another website in any way whatsoever (emphasis mine).

Putting it succinctly, Kraft expressly forbids you to link to the ‘new Vegemite’ site!

There are few things quite so sad as business people who just completely fail to grok the zeitgeist. I can’t say whether it’s Kraft or their advertising agency who has prompted the instigation of Vegemite v.2 and this harebrained web campaign, but I know where I’d put my money. Mr Kraft, if you’re reading this, sack those goobers. NO-ONE in this early part of the 21st century makes a website that you are not allowed to link to and protects it with a legal rider! That’s the internet equivalent of building your retail outlet in Upper Siberia and then posting security guards with tasers at the front door just in case anyone does find you.

I can only surmise that Kraft is so nervous about their new product that they really don’t want to attract attention to it. Either that or they have arrived at the quite unbalanced conviction that someone might want to steal the idea. Really, I can’t think of one single sensible explanation for why you’d want to prevent people from wording up your spread. Or spreading your word.

I haven’t tried the new ‘Vegemite’ and I had no real intention of doing so. I like Vegemite just as it is, and I miss it if I can’t get it (like when I visit… well… anywhere…). But as you know I will pull out all the stops in the service of science, so I make a pledge to you Acowlytes – this weekend I will throw off my cultural preconceptions and try the new ‘Name Me’. This will allow me to post an appropriate food review to coincide with Kraft’s Grand Reveal of the new name on September 21.

I’d link you to where you can find out all about that, but hey – my hands are tied.

ADDENDUM: It’s been pointed out that the legal rider on the Vegemite site is probably intended to stop users in the Vegemite ‘community’ from posting links from inside the forums to other places. If this indeed the case, for a legal document it’s sloppily ambiguous (viz: ‘in any way whatsoever’), still dopey and in all likelihood just as unenforceable. And it’s madness that you are compelled to agree (via an irksome and irritatingly flakey Flash crawler) to a set of legal requirements before you can even read the ‘No Name’ site – something pretty much unparalleled on any commercial site I’ve ever visited, and again vividly demonstrating Kraft’s lack of web acumen.

ADDENDUM #2: The Flash User Agreement has now vanished from the Vegemite site. Obviously its ridiculous nature has been pointed out to someone. The site still retains all the conditions in its Terms of Use though, so nothing has really changed, other than that you’re not forced to agree to them before you can view anything.

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†Well, Australians who don’t subscribe to nutty ever-accelerating economic models, anyway.

‡Yeah, I know what you’re going to say – peanut butter comes in crunchy and smooth, but I really don’t want to contemplate a crunchy Vegemite.

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Dear Cowpokes. Sometimes one is beset with a problem so vexing and, er, personal that it’s difficult to know exactly where to turn for help. One such problem is Anal Haunting, and that is the topic of today’s discussion.

Yes, you read correctly – today we’re going to examine the problem of what to do if a ghost takes up residence in your ass. ((And by this I don’t mean ‘in your donkey’. That’s an altogether different (and, in the light of today’s discussion it has to be said, somewhat prosaic) kind of haunting.))

Over on Haunted America Tours someone by the name of Maryanna Chatelaine Moresby addresses the issue of ‘Sex after ghost hunting – exorcisms of a womb or anal ghosts: And when is the right time to have sex afterwards?’

You think I’m making it up, right? Or that someone’s having a leg pull, right? Oh no dear Acowlytes – by now you should surely know that when it comes to woo-woo, there is nothing under the sun that I could invent that would be as daffy as things some people really believe.

Maryanna has an awful lot to say on the subject of paranormal sex and I simply can’t cover it all – I don’t have the time and besides I’m almost exhausted from laughing so much. So for the purposes of this post, I’ll focus on the terrible ordeal of Maryanna’s husband, Riley, who, it appears has a chronic anal ghost problem. This is Riley:

The bright flare at the bottom left of Riley is an anal apparition. Hey! STOP LAUGHING! This is serious. According to Maryanna:

My husband Riley has had an anal ghost infection on several occasions in the past few years. The phenomena can be very disturbing and unnerving. And the word frightening does not equate to the level of panic it caused me.

Riley, it seems, is a ghost hunter, and his nocturnal adventures appear to have had some unexpected consequences:

At night laying inn bed after a ghost hunt with his group he would begin to let out gas. The stench was horrible. It smelt like something dead and raw sewerage.

After ghost hunting. R-i-i-i-g-h-t… Just in case you couldn’t make it out, Riley’s shirt says: If you can’t stand the heat, go get me a beer. I’m thinking that Riley has the grin of a man who really likes his beer. And his curry.

But wait! Maybe I’m being hasty…

It even formed word with the sounds of his flatulence. And it went as far as cursing out individuals in restuarants, Church and a funeral of a close relative.

Yeah, sure – I know how that goes: “I swear! Maryanna! It wasn’t me it was the ghost!”

The intense passing gas attacks my husband had actually produced audible words that clearly sounded like a man speaking with a gruff or raspy voice.

Is it just me, or is that something people want to hear a recording of? I mean really, the day my arse starts forming legible words, you can be sure I won’t just be fondly recalling the memory on some website. But what kinds of things did Riley’s sphincter have to say?

It would say ” You Are F——g Doomed!” in a farty sounding voice like sound. Or, “Mutha F__K, He Is mine until the day he dies!”

Yes, OK, well, I can see why that might not go down so well at a funeral. Maryanna goes on:

at first I thought it was Riley just playing games with me, throwing his voice like a ventriloquist, until the black diarrhea started while he was still asleep in his favorite chair.

Erk. Okk. I mean. Black diarrhea? Please! The image of Riley and his favourite chair soaking up a puddle of black diarrhea is really something I wish hadn’t formed in my brain..

If the voice from his anus was not enough when it grabbed the sheets and starting pulling it inside him! I was petrified and chilled to the bone, ready to run for the hills.

STOP LAUGHING! Riley is sitting in his favourite chair covered in black diarrhea, sucking sheets up his bum and you’re laughing. Some people.

Besides suffering from intense pain my husband would feel it move inside him like a clawing animal. Once it even blew out the candles on my mothers birthday cake from across the room. And the stench was like a dead skunk and a refrigerator that had lost power for two weeks and was full of food.

Wha… I… cggglfl… how? And… Truly I am at a loss for words. I feel that the only option we can take at this point is to take Maryanna’s lead and pray to St Michael:

† Oh great Angel St. Michael hear my prayer.
Please in your divine justice and wisdom remove this ghost that infest my bowels and anus.
Remove this foul ghost from me as you did the Devil from Heaven.
In your wisdom bless me and free me from this evil affliction now and forever.
† Amen

But even if St Michael successfully intercedes, the road to a happy and normal life is still fraught with difficulties:

After the removal of a real womb or anal ghost it’s not just you that might not feel like making love!

That’s right Cowpokes – an anal ghost problem shared is an anal ghost problem halved! If an anal ghost has been ruining your sex life, you might want to take some of Maryanna’s tips for dealing with the aftermath:

•Talk to each other about how you feel. Voice your fears!

•Be gentle with each other and build up to things gradually. Avoid the anus and vagina if it was recently haunted.

•Avoid penetration of these areas and concentrate on caressing and oral sex the first few times. The ghost might try to return or another take it’s place.

•Spend more time on kissing, caressing and foreplay to aid arousal.

•If you have dispelled a Vaginal ghost: Until your hormone levels are back to normal your vagina won’t lubricate itself very well, so try using a water-soluble lubricant.

•If you are in pain from a an anal ghost removal You may also find a warm bath and lubricant will help.

•Try different positions if you feel discomfort. And keep an eye in a mirror to see if you can see the ghost trying to return.

And please, if you get any pictures, you know where to send ’em.

I know that you’ve been breathlessly awaiting this weekend past dear Acowlytes, and I’m sure that, like me, you all stayed glued to your sets through the wee hours to absorb the delights of the 2009 Eurovision Song Contest! But if you didn’t, well that’s okay too, because today on The Cow we’re presenting a re-run of the Cow Commentary that went down live as the show unfolded. This year I was pleased to have with me my Cow co-commentators Vermilion and Viridian, mavens of the young fashion world, and Violet Towne, connoisseur of all things boppy.

But hush! The crowd is settling in, the mirror balls have fired up and Eurovision 2009, hosted this year by Russia, is off and running.

Lithuania is first up – an unenviable position. As seems usual, they offer up a young effete boy singer who delivers an unmemorable tune. What is memorable is the little magic trick he does at the end – a puff of flame from his hand. I’m not sure what it has to do with anything but it is pretty. The crowd responds politely as he shuffles off into obscurity.

Israel is next, with a ditty from Israeli-Arab duo Noa & Mira Awad. It is called There Must Be Another Way, a title that succinctly sums up the whole Eurovision experience. The tedium of their song is interrupted for a few sparkling seconds when they take to bashing some olive-oil tins in a kind of odd percussion solo. It’s touches like this that really set Eurovision apart.

Russia has gone all out this year to present the most lavish Eurovision ever. The entire Irkutsk region will have to live on stale potatoes and thawed snow for eighty years to pay for it. The staging is magnificent, with huge image projection screens enfolding the performance area, pyrotechnics in nearly every routine, and illuminated glass-bottom pools of water, complete with acrobatic dancers, swinging precariously above the audience. ((I can’t even imagine someone trying to pull something like this off in our hyper-litigious Western society…))

But on with the show! France has entered the fray with something that can only be described as very French. The singer ((Apparently a star of some repute; as we will see, the Big Guns are being wheeled out all over this year!)) wearing an off-the-shoulder black dress, delivers up a dirgy torch song that has the smoulder setting up so high that it’s in danger of choking on its own smoke. Ms France could seriously use a little help from Mr Lithuania’s flammable fingers.

Sweden takes the stage with a singing style that Vermilion immediately dubs as Op-Pop. The blond singer belts out a number that sits squarely between My Heart Will Go On and the Queen of the Night aria from Die Zauberflöte. Poking out of what looks like a small cloud of marshmallow, she is accompanied by the cheesiest dance troupe ever to grace the Eurovision stage. Well, until later on this evening anyway.

As Ms Sweden’s last penetrating note fades away, and the remaining shards of shattered glass from the aerial swimming pools rain down on the audience, Croatia takes the podium. The wind machines are racked up to full as the handsome lead man dressed suavely in black and flanked by a bevvy of vampire brides, plays the camera with winks and smiles and a fair chunk of the smoulder that had turned to charcoal for Ms France. “It’s a Croatian Twilight!” says Viridian, and so it seems! The song, alas, is rather dull, and somewhat dragged down by the sudden appearance of a most un-Twilight-like blonde who manages to provide the only atonal notes that we’ve heard so far, and as it turns out, for almost the entire evening.

Portugal comes on and goes off after having an energetic good time. They sure tried. Now it’s Iceland. The staging sets us up in the clouds. It’s all very blue. The blond viking lass doing the trilling is sweet in a freshly-washed-in-Persil kinda way, but the song truly sets a new standard for bland. A striking moment comes just before the inevitable key change, when a giant dolphin sails through the clouds. The number is called Is It True?, and sadly, yes it is.

Next up is Mr Greece, a strutting macho boy in a shirt and trousers so snowy bright that my tv monitor did a spontaneous auto white balance. This is Our Night! he pouts, doing his very best George Michael moves. Which consist mainly of him attempting to expose as much of his chest as possible without making it looking too much like that’s what he’s doing. “It’s Straight Guy for the Queer Eye!” shriek the twins. The song attempts to get make the Guinness Record for the ‘Most Clichés Strung Together in a Pop Song’ and is a significant contender until about three songs from now. The highlight of the number comes when Mr Greece does a Moonwalk. Except he doesn’t – a conveyor belt under his feet does it for him. Sadly, it doesn’t quite manage to take him completely off the stage.

Armenia is up now with a catchy little number called Jan Jan. It’s a fetching piece of Europop with some odd (presumably Armenian) costume work that is kinda funky. Unfortunately, the English lyrics that begin the song are rather tragic, and the eventual switch into Armenian doesn’t completely erase the musty taste of cheese – one has to suspect that the native-language lyrics aren’t really much better, just cooler-sounding to English-speakers…

Next, Ms Russia (who is definitely no Yuliya) opts for the heartfelt serious ballad. It’s a mistake – in a scant thirty seconds she completely undoes all the chirpy ‘we’re-not-really-stodgy-potato-eating-vodka-drinkers’ hipness that the host country is trying so earnestly to convey to the rest of the world. Her humourless pleading is accompanied by a video of herself aging. I imagine it closely emulates what is happening to her manager offstage, as he realises that a tactic that looked good on paper is about as welcome here as an undertaker at a kid’s birthday party.

Quick! Wheel on an antidote! Let’s try Azerbaijan! The boppy Azerbaijanis reel off the most impressive clichés of the evening:

Always on my mind
Always in my dreams
I wanna hold you close to me
Always all the time

I believe I’m addicted to you
In your eyes I see dreams coming true
Finally I have found you and now
I will never let you go

If they have a chance, it’s because Ms Azerbaijan is stunningly attractive. Her short skirt and some handy puffs from the wind machine almost offset the negative effect of short, bald Mr Azerbaijan…

Bosnia & Herzegovina‘s entry is a small troop of escaped 19th century soldiers whose uniforms have been bleached white in the sun. That’s about all that can be said for them. I think they sang something.

Moldova appears waving colourful rainbow mops and dressed in a funky version of what I assume is some kind of national costume (I think they should seriously consider permanently adopting the knee-high purple boots, if they’re not already compulsory). Malta‘s solo singer floats among Saturn’s rings and really gives it her all. Which isn’t enough. Estonia is instantly forgettable.

Denmark‘s effort is a kind of power ballad. The lead singer seems to be in a different band to the rest of the performers. ((Who evidently think they’re in Kiss judging by the fireworks they’ve requested for the song…)) He earnestly tells us I Wanna Believe Again! but this Dane’s tomorrows are numbered. He valiantly battles through a sea of troubles, but sadly, his future as the winner of Eurovision 2009 is not to be.

Germany rocks up with the colourful Miss Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. It’s Cab Calloway meets Casino Royale with music discarded by the Pet Shop Boys on an off night. Viridian and Vermilion think it’s cool. It sure is energetic, and just to make sure they really get noticed, the Germans perform the second of the evening’s three magic tricks by summoning up the very busty Dita Von Teese as a piece of human decoration (the eponymous ‘Miss Kiss Kiss Bang Bang’ in the flesh, one presumes). The crowd goes wild. Why, I’m not exactly sure, but I guess they are the first (and only, it turns out) impressive breasts of the night.

Turkey delivers a credible dancy pop beat which proves popular with the audience. Then it’s Albania‘s turn. This is the kind of performance we hang out for on Eurovision. The song itself is a colourless ditty with no single redeeming feature. The performance on the other hand is an eccentric outtake from a Fellini movie. The singer, dressed in a fluffy pink tutu is shadowed by a green man who looks like nothing so much as a giant Gumby. As she performs, he hovers around her like some kind of malevolent green Spiderman. Aphidman, maybe. It’s most disconcerting. But not as disconcerting as the two midgets in face makeup that prance to either side. None of us, neither Vermilion nor Viridian, nor Violet Towne nor myself can make head nor tail of what this is supposed to convey. Until Viridian screams “It’s her dreams!!!” And so it is. The song is called Carry Me in Your Dreams, and it appears that these weird dancers are supposed to be from pretty Ms Albania’s dreams. Of course! Everyone dreams about stretchy green men and midgets, right?

We’ve barely recovered our composure as Norway takes the spotlight. An impossible cutesy young boy fronts the band and delivers the soppy Fairytale. The lyrics are the worst kind of awful, the song is insipid and lame and the performance is tacky. But the twins love him. “He’s so c-u-u-u-u-u-t-e!!!” they squeal. And I have the terrible sinking feeling that young Mr Norway is going to romp home with the gong.

I’m ready to pack it in for the evening when the highlight of the show strikes up. It’s the Ukraine with Svetlana Loboda and the obscurely (if somehow appropriately) titled Be My Valentine (Anti Crisis Girl). O! M! G! Where to start? With the three nearly-naked centurion dancers that swing Svetlana around like she is a kitten? With the giant hamster wheels that make up the stage set? Or simply with the striking Svetlana herself? If the winner is getting voted on energy, Svetlana has no competition. She doesn’t stop throughout the entire number, belting out the song, dancing with the centurions and playing a drum solo. It’s high camp of Everest altitude. I am laughing so much that I’m sure she sings to one of the gay boys (for surely, they are) “You have sexy bum”, but it turns out she’s really singing “You are so sexy BOM”, which only makes sense when you know that another part of the lyric is “Because I’m crazy BOM”.

Here. Enjoy Svetlana and co. on their official preview video. It doesn’t have the er, glamour of the Eurovision performance, but it will give you some idea of the talent on offer.

[PARENTAL ADVISORY: Features images of coffee beans being crushed, naked people covered in chocolate, skimpy bikini shorts, fruit, archery and angels]

Phew. How do you follow an act like that?! Not with the insipid effort offered up by Romania, that’s for sure.

My hips are ready to glow,
This record is so hot and I have so much to show.
I’ll find a boy for a kiss.
Who knows maybe he’ll be my prince.

I hope you do find your prince, Ms Romania, because you’re never going to make a living off your songwriting.

Oh dear. Now it’s the United Kingdom‘s turn. Apparently the UK hasn’t won the Eurovision for many a year and they are desperate to get a look-in. And when I say desperate, I mean Desperate with a capital $. Ms UK, Jade Ewen, takes the platform and belts out a number penned by Andrew Llloyd Webber and Diane Warren. And, for that added je ne sais quoi, Sir Andrew is actually present tonight on piano, in support of Jade’s efforts. He’s had his ‘hair’ specially coiffed ((…or is that a squirrel sitting on his head…?)) for the occasion. The song is called It’s My Time:

There’s nothing I’m afraid of
I’ll show you what I’m made of
Show you all
It’s my time now

I’ve got the will
I’ve earned the right
Tonight… Tonight…

It’s my time
It’s my time

Jade. Dear. No it’s not.

Which leaves only Finland and Spain to clean up the mess. The Finnish entry is the wimpiest combination of pop and white-boy ‘rap’ (I use the word cringingly) you’re likely to encounter this side of a Christian Fundraiser, and the Spanish effort is remarkable only for the execution of perhaps the lamest magic trick ((The lead singer was ‘vanished’ in front of our very eyes! A couple of guys held up a curtain and then whisked it away and she was gone. Magic! Except that she very plainly just stepped off the back of the conveniently high platform she was on once the cloth was in position. Puh-leeze. And this in front of an estimated audience of 100 million people!)) ever performed outside of an 8 year old boy’s bedroom.

And so, without even a glimpse of a fat lady to sing us on our way, it’s all over. My vote is going to the Ukraine, because, well, someone has to preserve the true Eurovision tradition. Sadly though, after we cross to the International Space Station ((In space, no-one can hear you scream.)) for the announcement of the commencement of the voting process, the European viewers don’t seem to be agreeing with me. They all like the insufferably cute boy from Norway, who veritably trounces the competition in one of the most decisive wins in Eurovision history.

And so, as the Russians party well into the early hours with liberal helpings of borscht and vodka we bid a fond farewell to Eurovision 2009. Next year it looks like we’ll be in Norway acquiring tolerance for Rakfish and akvavit, and even more spectacle, as, in the tradition of Eurovision, the Norwegians attempt to outdo all those host nations who’ve come before. I know you just can’t wait to join me there.

According to Russian newspaper Komsomolskaya Gazeta, doctors operating on a 28 year-old Artyom Sidorkin for diagnosed lung cancer were astonished to find, instead of the expected tumour, a living fir tree. Mr Sidorkin had been experiencing strong pain and coughing up blood, and xrays showed a growth consistent with a lung cancer diagnosis. The tree was successfully removed.

They have now sent the patient home, advising him not to smoke through the summer months due to a further possible risk of forest fires.

Story here.

OK, as we’re on the subject of the Uncanny Valley, let’s drift over to the phenomenon of Reborn Baby Dolls. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, look here. This is a Reborn Baby Doll web ring. Kick back. Spend a few minutes browsing around. And be prepared to be really creeped out.

This is a huge community of people who are devoted to making, buying and selling minutely detailed facsimiles of babies. I’m not a biological parent, so I may not be the best one to judge, but these ‘dolls’ really give me the willies. They don’t say ‘cute lifelike baby’ to me – they say ‘DEAD baby’. I suppose the makers might argue that they are sleeping babies, but I would counter that they never wake up and are therefore back in the category of DEAD. Especially the ones with their eyes open.

If you had one of these things in your house, then I can guarantee that there’s one sound you’d never want to hear and that’s the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

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(Seriously – mothers who are reading – do you find this concept cute or weird? I’m really interested.)

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While we’re on the subject of religious personal hygiene products… this just in courtesy of JR:

You can buy it here. Confuse Creationists today! Wear the Pope’s Cologne and have breath like Mother Teresa, whilst being an atheist!

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I’m pretty sure this is a joke. Thing is, with religion, you just can’t tell.

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