Drinking, Movies and Elephant Butts

My weekend started with a night out in Newtown with Edna and a few other from when I still worked at Statewide Speedy. We started in The Courthouse before moving to Zanzibar when we all got kicked out at closing. Quite a bit of alcohol was consumed, philosophies were debated, girls were pulled, girls were put in taxi’s and I was called a anthropologist by a cab driver. Got in at 4.30am.

At 11am on Saturday I rolled out bed feeling tired and sorry for myself before consuming the classic morning after fodder of a chicken kebab with barbeque sauce. Feeling much better I went to the movies to catch up on some of the flicks I’ve missed. So I treated myself to a visual feast of Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale in The Prestige. It was full of twists and turns and double crosses, making an unusual film in the current season of animation. On the way home we drove past Aussie Stadium and got a brief taste of Robbie.

Sunday started with a trip to Taronga Zoo. They opened a new exhibit about a month ago, five new Elephants arrived. We also saw chimps, spoonbills and silvery gibbons, crocodiles and ohh… yes elephants. Hubby caught me out with a dumb blond joke. We were walking along and he said ‘we can’t go there, ‘it’s sealed off!’ It took at least a few seconds before I realised we were walking past the seal tanks.

Sunday evening was rounded off with another trip to the movies to see Casino Royale. Were do I start without given you a plethora of spoilers, but I will say that why do Hollywood producers and directors insist of on f*cking with Bond. They’ve taken the girlie silhouettes away from the opening credits but replaced them with guys getting shot silhouettes being serenaded by an unknown singer. He’s blonde with the most piecing blue eyes, surely they aren’t real? No gadget collection point with bad jokes about lunch and he get injured! Bond doesn’t get injured! He does however, look very good in a dinner jacket as well as having a cute butt in trunks.

Why do they insist on treating Bond like a spy...he isn’t a spy, no spy would escape after a year in a Korean torture camp, swim across Hong Kong Harbour in his pj’s, walk into the Yacht Club soaking wet to be greeted by the manager with ‘Good Evening Mr. Bond, your usual suite?’

He’s a good darn super hero, do you see them dressing Superman in purple?!

(400 Words)