Root, Shoot or Marry?

Root Shoot Marry - Drunks and Lushes (hic)

Ooooooooh.  My head.

Last night - a school night I might add - I had to go to a farewell cocktail party for one of our directors for a couple of hours before heading off to the aforementioned launch of Safari, the fourth book written by a friend of many years and miles.

The sort of night, dear Internets, that one plans for well in advance. 

The sort of night, dearest Cyberwebbers, that one understands has to be well-paced and interspersed with much iced water.

The sort of night, darling Bloggles, in which it would be Just.Plain.Stoopid to drink too much, too fast, too soon.

So, naturally, as a responsible professional woman and mother of three with a job to go to the next day, I was as pissed as a cricket before the Prof picked me up from the first function to take me to the second one.

Ooooooooh.  Did I mention my head?

How about my eyes?

And the nausea?

Oooooh.

Was it the large bucket of champagne in which I soaked at the cocktail party?  Was it the even larger bucket of white wine at the launch?  Maybe it was the almost total absence of food?

Hmmmm.  Perhaps the Drambuie and the two cigarettes and the drag on the vanilla cigar?

What the fuck is a vanilla cigar, anyway?

Oooh.

So I've abandoned the Sidekicks theme that I had planned for this week's Root Shoot Marry.  My sympathies, today, lie with the world of drunks and lushes.

I am a lush, dammit.  Out and proud and wincing at bright lights.

Your job now is to pour yourself a large glass of something and consider well: of the male drunks and female lushes below, which will you shoot, which will you shag and which will you marry?

The Drunks

Hunter S Thompson. Legend.  Note the glass with ice cubes and (probably) whiskey down near his right foot.

Hunter S quote: I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.

Oliver Reed.  Favourite drink, reputedly, was creme de menthe. Also reported to be rum, scotch, beer and Bloody Marys.  Let's assume he liked the lot.

Did you ever see him crash through the set on Parkinson?

Oliver quote: I'm only drinking white wine because I'm on a diet and I don't eat.

Bon Scott. Hard core drunk. Two bottles of bourbon and a handful of pills before every AC/DC gig.

Bon quote: It keeps you fit - the alcohol, nasty women, sweat on stage, bad food - it's all very good for you.

The Lushes

Judy Garland. What a sweetie.  Vodka drinker, of course.

Judy quote: If I'm such a legend, why am I so lonely?

Marilyn Monroe. Poor baby, but what a lush!  Favourite drink champagne - preferably Dom Perignon 1953, or so they say.

Marilyn quote:What do I wear in bed? Why, Chanel No. 5, of course.

Janis Joplin. Southern Comfort, as befits a hippie bluesy pin up girl.

I'm adding this pic, just for the Prof.  Joke: look away, there's nipplage.

Janis quote: If I hold back, I'm no good. I'm no good. I'd rather be good sometimes, than holding back all the time.

EDITED FOR STOMPER GIRL

Seeing Stomper's comment just now I remembered this pic that I didn't post because it has Angus as well as Bon Scott.  But if you ever wondered what side Bon dressed to, this should answer your question.

So, I'm off to take another Stemetil with a mug of antioxidant rich White Tea as a chaser.

Party on, dudes: bed 'em, dead 'em and wed 'em.  But don't forget to drink a decent amount of water along the way, ok?

mtc

Bec

Root, Shoot, or Marry: the Rules!

The essence of Root Shoot or Marry is choice.

The harder the better.

And how do the choices become hard?

Through consistent, judicious application of The Rules, which (lucky you!) are very, very simple.

You have only three choices.  And when I am feeling very kind, you get to exercise your three choices in each of two genders.

Your first choice is: which one to root.  "To root" being an Australian verb meaning "to have sex with", or shag, or bonk, or bed.  And yes, unless otherwise specified in the game of the week, you may do so with your eyes closed.

Your second choice is: which one to shoot.  This means shoot dead and, in my experience, usually does not present a problem for any but the most feeble-hearted players.

Your third, and FINAL, choice is: which one to marry. Like, 'til death do you part.

Big sigh here. 

Now be fair, people, this is where way too many of you are not just spitting on the rules, you are fucking ripping them up and scattering them over the heads of returning sports heroes.  And then dancing in the littered gutters.

So let me make it perfectly clear that marriage ALSO means sex.  At least once. It's not a legal union otherwise, folks.  So yeah, you can focus on the shopping, or the travel, or the big house, or the pretty babies he or she will make if that gets you through ... but at the end of the wedding day you've still got to do the horizontal folk dance, my friends.

Otherwise, you're cheating. And cheating? Is bad*.

mtc

Bec

* As my mother was perhaps overly fond of saying: "they'd shoot you for that in poker."

Root Shoot Marry - I only read it for the articles

Bored.

Bored, bored, bored.

That's where I was heading with RSM this week.  I'm sorry.  What can I say? Even cowgirls get the blues.

I had thought I was all set with this brilliantly arty theme based on Klimt and other recent ramblings.

But you know what? Unless, I suspect, you are the Muse herself, those artist chaps Just.Aren't.That.Interesting.

I tried the three prettiest artists I could think of.  I tried the three ugliest.  I tried mixing them up.  I added muses.  I googled fascinating Renaissance female artists. Nothing worked.

In the end I fell asleep drooling into the laptop and hurt my forehead on the little latch on the top left corner as I unconsciously slid forwards and off the lounge.

So there you go.  The skinny on RSM: sometimes I Bore Myself to Sleep.

Fark.

Anyhoo.  I was on the very verge  of despair when the Professor, bless his cotton socks, piped up during an ad break in Bowling for Columbine (which just made me weep for America, but more of that another time) and started telling me about an article he'd read once about the US Government's subsidisation of terrorist groups and guns and weapons of mass destruction and blah blah blah blah blah

Stopped listening.

NOT because I didn't care.

But because he said the fateful words: "I read it in Playboy".

And I finally, finally, had my RSM for this week.

(Oh fuck yes I know. I'm shallow as shit and FACE IT - it's why you keep coming back).

So, without further ado, I give you Root Shoot Marry, the "I only read it for the articles" edition.

The Boys

Hugh Hefner.  My god, those eyes!

Ahem.

Larry Flynt.  Dear god, is that a lollipop?

And, because right now I can think of nothing more pornographic than pimping for the gun manufacturers, let's have:

Charlton Heston.  I don't often declare my hand on RSM but you know what? Michael Moore's still ringing in my ears and I'm going to make an exception.

Shoot the fucker.

(Hmm. I seem to have stumbled out of the shallows there for a moment.  You must, of course, follow your heart in RSM, as always.)

No women this week, although I do have three very tasty Madams in mind for a future edition.  We're back to the essence of RSM this week - three choices only and none of 'em easy. 

One to wed, one to bed, one to dead.

Flip your safety catch, play on.

mtc

Bec

Root Shoot Marry: Argh, Me Hearties!

Shiver me crossbones and yo-ho me parrots.

It be the Root Shoot Marry Pirate edition, it do. Be.

Ah fuck it.  There's only so long you can maintain an accent in print.

Remember last week, when I let slip I was bored?

I got some help, from here, and here and here. 

Actually, one of these suggestions came even before I was bored, but I'm lumping them all in together.

And yea, they came unto me through the great and lately unsung miracle of email, and they suggested themes.

Goooood themes.  Themes to amuse me, and you too, I hope.

Pirates! Comedians! Progeny!

You are, in case you missed the cannon load of cliches up thar atop the mizzen mast, getting Pirates this week.  Next week Comedians, and the following week, Progeny.

And I think part of the game this week could very well be to try to match the blogger to the theme. Give it a shot.  There could be bonus points.  There may even be a hint somewhere in the text...

So, before I get tempted to let slip about my very own pirate fantasy and the history thereof, let us draw blades! Rip our bodices! Swash our buckles!  And LEAP aboard the very very special Pirate edition of

Root, Shoot, or Marry!

And we're mixing up the boys and girls a bit this week, so pay attention.

Oh, and first up, a quick re-cap of the rules, because there have been some quite alarming departures lately and it Simply.Will.Not.Do.

Some of you more flagrant transgressors might actually want to bookmark my new Rules post.  You know who you are.  Don't make me hyperlink you in a paragraph of shame .

First up this week, of course, has to be Captain Jack Sparrow.

Was there ever a man who wore eyeliner in a blokier way?

Then, by special (actually, slightly obsessive) request of this week's RSM theme suggester

Ms Keira Knightley, Elizabeth somethingorother in the film, isn't it?

More convincing as a well-born wench here than as Elizabeth Bennett in that pointless remake of Pride and Prejudice, anyway...

And now, a special treat for the Australians, Captain Blood himself!

Oh, Errol.  I would give everything...

(I'd do anything for James Reyne, too, but that's for another RSM)

And back on his ship for the next pic, but this time I want you to think of that most gracious of wenches, Miss Olivia de Havilland.  Which is, a bit surprisingly, her real name.

And now, saving the best until last, a double act to make every Generation X heart beat just a little faster.

The Pirate Movie's Christopher Atkins and Kristy McNicholl

And he's SINGING! 

The scariest thing for me was realising that:

a) I knew every word to this song

and

b) I had no idea I'd learned it from this movie.

Ahem.

So there's your seafaring, rum-swilling, parrot-perching RSM for the week, my fellow sailors.

Johnny, Errol and Christopher; Keira, Olivia and Kristy.

Roger 'em senseless, make 'em walk the plank, or sail off with them into the sunset.

The choice is yours.

And remember the rules, else ye could find there be some mighty hungry sharks around here.

Yo ho ho.

mtc

Bec

ps - and a bonus set of cutlasses AND a free monkey for any commenter who correctly matches the three themes to their three suggesters.

Root Shoot Marry: The Warm-Up Act (And yes, you're right, it's later than a pregnant nun.)

Yeah, yeah, it should be RSM Friday, turns out it's Monday already. 

WHAT-evah.

I had weekend issues.  And broadband issues.  And monster work deadline issues. But here's a little something I almost had ready for you on Friday, truly, before real life took over...

Bon appetit.

***

What goes 'Ha ha plonk'?

Ah yes, my first riddle. 

First of many, many, many.

My poor parents.

They travelled by road for a whole year when I was six-going-on-seven years old.

Me.

Them.

My toddling middle brother.

A caravan, a basset hound (Benji), a budgerigar (Arthur), a Ford F-100, a Shell Service Station passport.

A folded up trampoline.

Maps to the whole of Eastern Australia.

And: My Big Book of 1001 Riddles.

Q. What does go 'ha ha plonk'?

A. A man laughing his head off, of course.

On and on, we drove, as the miles quite literally turned into kilometres that year (Dad got a set of little stickers to put on the speedometer so he knew how fast he was going without dividing by 5/8ths).

And riddle after riddle after riddle did I ask.

Q. What's yellow and dangerous?

A. Shark-infested custard.

I still remember how tactfully my mother (middle brother perched on her lap, no such thing as a booster seat) would say "Just one more now, then we'll play another game for a while..." *

Q. What did the bus conductor say to the man with three heads, no arms and one leg?

A. 'Ello, 'ello, 'ello.  You look 'armless, 'op aboard!

So many places we saw, so many towns they could have decided to live in forever.  And yet we still ended up in a hole on top of a mountain. (Apologies for the formatting if you bother to click through; it's my first attempt at copying over some of my Blogger archives and I'm not sure it's worth it.)

My parents, of course, by then had their little farm and their second son on the way and all the adult joys of stability and a roof over the head and the parrots arriving at dawn.

Q. What has five heads, 12 arms, 27 legs and REALLY big teeth?

A. I don't know, but look out! It's right behind you!

I, on the other hand, had lost the blissful freedom of correspondence school, the new beach to explore every other week, and the fun of being just one among many strangers wherever we stayed.

But I still had my Giant Book of Riddles.

Q. If you drop a green hat in the Red Sea, what does it become?

A. Wet.

Oh, and a pony.  Did I mention the pony ever before?  They got me a pony. That made up for a lot.

Now. Where were we?

Oh crap.  Root, shoot, marry!

My goodness.  Not only am I late in getting this posted, I'm late in getting to the point, too.

So, to quickly recap (and prove there really was some RSM relevance to all the above),

Do You Remember Last Week?

First up, the winner of the Spot the Inspiration blogger quiz was

(da, da, dah -DAH)

CRAFTY of the Allydillydally CraftyMum blog

who was the first person to correctly match the inspirer to the inspiration for last week's, this week's and next week's themes.

Crafty wins 1,000,000 RSM points, a Green Card and a set of steak knives. Clever lass.

Katy at Kamsarmer suggested 'progeny'.  And a damn fine idea it is, too.  Stay tuned for that one.

Tony was responsible for the pirates of the latest RSM, and H&B came up with the comedians idea a little while ago.

And that, my friends, is where I am leaving you for tonight.

(Right, this is the part where you collectively go AWWWWWW!! - or possibly, "Bitch")

Because I'm knackered,  and I've spent way too much time on this, the Warm Up Act for H&B's most excellent suggestion of RSM -The Comedy Special.

It's coming soon, probably tomorrow night (believe me?) when I'm hoping to be past the worst of my current monster work deadlines.

mtc

Bec

* Every Sunday, when the riddle-laden newspaper comics arrive, and my Pea Princess commences her epic readings of said riddles, and I laugh at the first, and I chuckle at the second, and I chortle at the third, and I start to grind my teeth at the fourth... I think of my poor sainted mother, and I wonder that such tolerance could ever have existed on this earth.

Root, Shoot, Marry: Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone.

After a fucking unforgivably long brief intermission, Becandcall is delighted to bring you Root Shoot Marry: the Comedy Edition, courtesy of the lovely and burgeoning H&B, who suggested the theme so long ago that she might not even have been up the duff at the time. 

(Quick idiom quiz: Would that mean she was actually down the duff?)

Now, it may be obvious to some but in case you haven't thought this through yet, it's almost impossible to find a truly gorgeous comedian.  Do pretty people have better ways to make a living? Probably.  Do odd-looking kids develop humour as a schoolyard defence? Usually.  Does this mean they're un-rootable? Not on your nelly.

Survey after survey about sex appeal will turn up "sense of humour" as a big turn-on for men and women alike. Ok, the men are just lying in order to impress the researchers - but let's give them credit for knowing that they should be turned on by a sense of humour, shall we?

In other words, you have NO EXCUSE not to follow the rules this week and pick one to wed, one to bed and one to be deader than dead.

(Just one more aside before the game: I recently read someone on the blogosphere protesting the word "comedienne" - quite right, an' all that, but I'm using it this week purely for practical purposes of gender division.  You'll see later why I can't go with "funny men/wome n". Don't get grouchy.)

The Comedians

First up, Robin Williams.  You wanted Mindy to kiss him; you wanted him to keep grooving on his radio show in Vietnam; you just plain want him, and you know it.

Robin Williams on women:

"If women ran the world we wouldn't have wars: just intense negotiations every 28 days"

Robin Williams on men:

"God gave men a penis and a brain, but unfortunately not enough blood supply to run both at the same time."

Robin Williams on his job:

"When in doubt, go for the dick joke."

Moving on to John Cleese.  The first man ever to make me fall off my chair laughing.  I was 14 and he was doing The Department of Funny Walks.  He got me 10 years later with his French and Russian accents, too...

John Cleese on politics:

"If life were fair, Dan Quayle would be making a living asking Do you want fries with that?"

John Cleese on food:

"If God did not intend for us to eat animals, then why did he make them out of meat?"

John Cleese on his job:

"Comedy always works best when it is mean-spirited."

And finally

< Oh Kermy, are you still waiting for me? Robin Williams has some nerve copying Kermit's pose here, if you ask me. Kermit The Frog on puns: "Time's fun when you're having flies." So off you go! Shoot, shag, marry. This girls will be a separate post as - you can probably tell - my editor is doing strange things to me just now and I'd like to get at least this much posted before my html explodes. mtc Bec

Root Shoot Marry: For this sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has troubles enough of its own.

The comediennes - main RSM post below.

It's been a great delight to the Prof and I recently, to watch the Pea Princess and Gorgeous Boy and Sparkle cackle away to the fun of I Love Lucy

And nonononononononononoo - yes.  We very very much love the Vicar of Dibley and its delectable Dawn French.

And finally...

Hello possums.

Dame Edna Everage.

You thought it would be Miss Piggy, didn't you?

Off you go then: complete your RSM bookends with the gals, or the reasonable facsimiles of gals, in Barry's case.

I'm off for a little trip to the country with the fambly.  Thanks to the magic power of post-published-posts, I can promise you won't even know I'm gone.

And don't miss the irony: I was here all week and didn't post a word.  I'm going away and posts are going to appear without me touching a button.

And while I want to believe it will all happen automatically, as promised, a part of me just can't wait for the cybernet to fuck it all up.  Watch this space.

mtc

Bec

Root Shoot Marry: A Family Affair

You know, the Blogosphere is a wonderful place.

One night an ordinary woman sitting in her Sydney lounge room happens to mention she's struggling for inspiration for her very silly online drinking game, and the next thing you know people from all over the country, and indeed all over the world, are offering to help.

If only we could turn this energy to the forces of good!

But we can't - so let's keep it with the forces of silliness instead.

The latest in a continuing series of Stealing-Other-People's-Ideas-For-RSM is from KT at Kamsarmer who came up with the idea of "Famous Progeny". 

Famous kids of famous parents.  Sometimes they're human traffic accidents (Drew Barrymore, Lisa Presley). Sometimes they rise beyond anything one could have imagined from their early and weirdly vampiric youths (Angelina Jolie - John Voight's daughter).  Sometimes they just seriously suck, no matter how much money and influence daddy or mummy can throw their way (Julio Iglesias junior, anyone?).

Without further ado, let's have at the young and pretty children of the formerly young and pretty, shall we?

(For newbies, the Root, Shoot or Marry Rules are here).

Famous boy-childs

Jakob Dylan, son of Bob

Not sure I'd really call him pretty but KT recommended him for the eyes, which are, without a doubt, piercing.

Kiefer Sutherland, son of Donald.

I can't look at him without thinking of Donald as the Watcher in the first Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie.  What a shocker. 

And finally, a special Australian inclusion, Julian McMahon

Son of the lovely Lady Sonia McMahon, she of the amazing split to the thigh dresses of the 1970s... Oh yeah, also the son of Sonia's husband, the Prime Minister Billy (Sir William) McMahon and former husband of Danniiiiii Minogue and therefore former brother-in-law of Our Kylie.

Famous girl-childs

Kate Hudson, daughter of Goldie Hawn

And isn't that a Goldie pose?

Liv Tyler, daughter of Steve Tyler (as all you Aerosmith obsessed women insist on telling me every time I mention her in either her elvish or human form)

And last, but not weirdest, Gwyneth Paltrow, daughter of Blythe Danner

Just a little note to the world here: is it really so bad to call your daughter Apple when your mother "Blythe" chooses to name you "Gwyneth"??  I'm just sayin'...

So off you go, players - root 'em, shoot 'em or marry 'em, and feel free to share your thoughts on the benefits -or otherwise - of being born to famous parents...

mtc

Bec 

Root shoot marry: it's much bigger on the inside...

I sent my baby back in time today.

The Pea Princess, age nine.  Unaccompanied minor to Perth on a very large aeroplane today. 

In length? Four hours and a continent away.

In time? Two hours backwards.

Oh she'll catch up when she returns next week. Two hours older again.  But for this eight days she is, for the first time, in a different time to me.  Our umbilical link is stretched further than it's ever been - and it's not the 4000 kilometres that play upon my mind.

It's those two hours.

Which, in true blogging style, segues beautifully into this week's Root Shoot or Marry. 

Dr Who.

Suggested by the lovely Allydilldally, she of the Blog That Will Not Let Me Comment, and a truly excellent suggestion it was!

The only problem is, which Doctors to choose?  And, just as importantly, which companions?

There was only one thing for it.  Pull up the main Wikipedia pages, close the eyes and click at random to get three of each...

(And yes, of CO URSE i cheated.  A bit. Wouldn't you?)

The Doctors

Tom Baker - "The Curly Haired One"

Also known for his veerry long scarf and his choice female companions (see Leela, below).

Skipping forwards, Christopher Eccleston, the ninth doctor

please note the Sonic Screwdriver.  My first husband had a Sonic Screwdriver.  It gets tired, after a while.

And last but SO not least, David Tennant.

Oh gawd.  I do try to stay impartial, truly I do.

But omydearfantasyheaven - yum.

Just.Fucking.Yum.

(pause to wipe drool from keyboard.)

Moving on.

The Companions

Sarah Jane Smith.  I worked very hard on having this hair when I was 11 and if I ever get my photos organised you might even see it in a Flashback Friday some day.

I had the vest too.  AND the boots.

A bit harder to follow this one, sartorially, but I lurved her nonetheless: Leela.

She had a very special way with accessories.

And finally, Billie Piper:

(what? who thought I'd do Martha? Puhlease. Total victim.)

so that's it.

Root, shoot or marry at will.  The rules are here.

Shag 'em, shoot 'em, shack up with 'em.  The choice is yours. 

And remember: if the Tardis is rockin', don't bother knockin'.

mtc

Bec

It Roots, It Shoots, It Marries... It's as tired as a cricket

It's - me!

Seriously folks, I am too freakin' tired to type.  I'm not even sure how my hands are moving other than around twenty years of touch typing make it possible for me to do so without thinking.

I wouldn't even be here tonight other than MY HUSBAND - O yes, he of the almost-this-time-last-year suggestion that I was spending too much time blogging - NOW suggestingI should come up with a Root Shoot Marry tonight.

Men.

Can't live without 'em.  Can't kill 'em without having to clean up the blood.

And I'm too tired to clean.

So.  Accepting the vagaries of men, and the oddly endearing vagueness of the man I love, here I am.

In brief.  It's October.  I am drenched in work in much the way I could be drenched in husbandly blood, should I summon the energy to act upon my murderous impulses.  And just like every other October in this per-tick-U-lar career move, I have had days that start at 4.30am and end at 11.30pm only to start again the next day at the grand ole sleep-in time of ... 4.42.

It's like having the newborn twins all over again, but this time getting paid for it - so admittedly it's not all bad.

I have no non-work time for thinking, and no time for planning and no time for friggin' Root Shoot Marryin' - but a small and obsessively blogging part of me is so encouraged by The Professor's thought that an RSM would cheer me up that, you guessed it, I'm doing one.

We've only done the personal kind once before, and it was a long time ago on a blog far away, so I'm not at all sure if it will work again.  However, since I'm (did I mention this?) TOO TIRED to hunt up pictures or past email suggestions, or even to search around to hyperlink to special bits of the past, you're going to have to be ballsy enough to take the plunge in plain text.

Three choices.  No options.

You will elect to root, shoot or marry:

Your first high school physical education teacher.

Your second boss.

Your third-most important past boyfriend/girlfriend.

AND - you will tell me why.

In return, I will answer all emails, visit all blogs and generally act like a social being instead of a pathetic, ungrateful pariah.

Truly. Trust me.

mtc

Bec