Q. Why am I sitting in the library reading the incomprehensible mindless drivel on the blog of a leering holier-than-thou redhead shit vomiting moron mechanism instead of doing my mis-en-scene analysis essay on the last scene from the film about chopper read called chopper, the one where he is sitting in his cell watching the screening of the interview he did for the commercial television network current affairs show, the one with the journalist who he wrote about in his book also the book which I was meant to have finished reading ages ago for my australian writing and cultural change class because the essay was due last friday but I haven't even finished reading the book let alone started writing the essay either because he thought she was sexy and had guts and determination unlike everyone else in the television as opposed to torture industry in his opinion because she was willing to fly to tassie to watch him shoot stubbies out of the fat outstretched fists of bikies in order to get a good scoop for her commerical television network current affairs show and then in the interview on the little tv in the cell he jokes with her about chopping off her toes or something then says she has nice toes and clearly as the stuff on the tv screen is all brightly lit while the lighting in the cell is all dark and moody and there is sun shining in to the cell both from the window behind the tv and from the doorway behind the prison guards with whom he jokes about how much money the tv interview is going to make him in book sales and a copy of his book is placed behind the tv somehow this is all amounts to extremely masterful meaningful film-making and i'm supposed to be able to wax lyrical for two thousand words about how profound all of the above is without once questioning why arguing endlessly about cinematic techniques and styles and the manner in which they generate meanings is a legitimate intellectual pursuit worthy of my precious time and therefore under the old adages spouted by alcoholic uncles are always right so fucking do what your told act of 1954 money for my cinema studies class?
A. Because I drank too much coffee before coming to the library so I can now only concentrate on short spasms of awesomely entertaining idiotic internet drivel with all the videos and links and sounds and pictures to go with the words web pages such as Dry Red, or this, instead of the dryer-than-dry ice self-indulgent academic wankery the establishment makes me read endlessly in order to obtain a piece of paper which will amount to either a ticket to employment in the field of photocopying and data entry or a ticket to years upon years of reading ever-increasing amounts of dry self-indulgent academic wankery on pieces of paper made from the trees we so desperately need to store our rapidly diminishing levels of carbon in our atmosphere so that one day I may be deemed qualified to begin attempting to force new generations of drug-addled and disaffected young minds who unlike their educators are still more interested in socialising and sex and enjoying life and trying avoid falling into the ever-increasingly materialistic middle-class lifestyles of their quasi-non-conformist educators than making buckets of money to feed said educators said increasing need for material consumption into reading unreasonably large bundles of exactly the same crusty soul crushing academia while at the same time encouraging them to think freely and creatively about ways to trying to liberate society from outdated structures of debilitating conformity.
Who needs speed when you get unlimited free coffee and breakfast from a dodgy mate who works in swanky camberwell cafe's?
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