Tuesday, September 29, 2009


One day Dalek decided to go for a wander across a strange new planet. "Golly," he thought, "I wonder who I shall exterminate today?"

In fact, he was so busy thinking about who he could exterminate that he didn't even notice Godzilla coming up behind him. At least until Godzilla started to bite his head off!

"Ha ha, I played a funny trick on you!" laughed Godzilla. Dalek wanted to exterminate him, but he couldn't, because he'd had his head ripped off, and he was dead.

Fortunately Mr Wampa happened to be strolling by, and he fixed Dalek as good as new. "Thanks, Mr Wampa!" said Dalek. "I didn't like being dead one bit!"

Then he exterminated both of them. Because he was kind of a dick like that.

Scream (Addendum)

More stills and commentary from 'Scream Blacula Scream'...

Willis: You mean to tell me I ain’t never gonna see my face again?

Me: No way!

Pam Grier is Indiana Jones in ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Funk’.

Pam Grier: Will you excuse me?

Me (as Pam): It's Thursday. I promised Roger Corman I'd make a couple of movies with him tonight. It should only take an hour or so.

Even in death, Gloria’s hair has more surface area than Venezuela.

Ah, the 70s. When a man could wear his pyjama pants to work and still be the best dressed dude in the office.

This is what the coolest vampire hunters are wearing this season. The turtleneck protects the throat, and the red acrylic hides the bloodstains. The purple safari suit is just there because it’s groovy.

Justin in a burgundy turtleneck with burnt orange suit jacket. Not shown: very tight matching burnt orange pants with lace up fly. Oh yeah, baby.

Blacula, either undergoing his death throes or practicing for his highly anticipated new role as Zombie Superman.

And finally, to understand everything that was wrong with the 70s, all you need to know is that this was supposed to be the home of a hip professional black man. Saints preserve us all.

Scream (Part 2)

How can one go past a 1971 film called ‘Die Screaming, Marianne’, featuring a blonde babe go-go dancing in a bikini on the cover? How, I ask you? I am not made of stone. I had to buy this film, even though it cost nearly $3.34.

‘Die Screaming, Marianne’ tells the story of the eponymous heroine trying, fairly unsuccessfully it must be said, to escape the clutches of her evil father and her whacked out half-sister. She briefly escapes to England with her lover, but forces conspire to drag her back to her father’s incongruously sunny lair in Portugal.

To get more of a feel for ‘Die Screaming, Marianne’, it may be instructive to take a closer look at the six main characters. It’s also enlightening to see how they die… and no, that’s not a spoiler. It’s a 70s film – of course everybody dies in the end. That’s why there are so few sequels of 70s films: the entire cast were generally dead by the closing credits.

Rodrigues (although we inevitably referred to him as “Senôr Combover”.)

Senôr Combover is the Judge's sinister henchman, whose oily broken English and equally oily strands of hair lend him a threatening aura. But he's not a really bad guy. If only he'd had wild, untrammeled Warren Beatty hair he could have been the hero.

Death By: Electric chair, probably, since he strangles Hildegard after she makes an ill-advised attempt to seduce him. Girls, never bat your oversized false eyelashes at a tonsorially challenged Portuguese. That's one of the first things they teach you at any good finishing school.

The Judge

Marianne’s father, known only as The Judge, made his millions by taking bribes, which explains why he eventually had to flee to Portugal. He may be corrupt, but he doesn't take up the offer of incest made by his loony daughter, so by 70s standards he's not all bad.

Death By: Austin Healey convertible with faulty brakes (so basically any Austin Healey convertible). Of course one could argue that it was actually the plunging mountain roads of Portugal that killed him... I mean, you're not going to die if your Austin Healey's brakes fail when you're sitting in a stationary traffic jam on the A45 outside Thrapston, are you?


Marianne's half-sister Hildegarde is as mad as a box of frogs, and looks like Twiggy must have felt when she was woken up at 6am after a particularly hard night of partying. I suspect that she applied her eyeshadow (in a classic 70s shade of blue) by painting it onto a boxing glove and then getting someone to clock her one.

Together with her father, Hildegarde plots to kill Marianne before her 21st birthday so that she and her father can steal her inheritance. Psychopaths with poor impulse control are not, however, the most astute project managers, and her plans inevitably end with Marianne escaping and Hildegarde left bedraggled and fuming, like a wild-eyed Petula Clark who's been shoved through a car wash.

Death By: Irritable Portuguese man.

Bury me... with... my false eyelashes...


In theory, she's the perfect exploitation heroine: a nubile, blonde, free-spirited, bikini-clad go-go girl. And yet for some unfathomable reason we never get to see her boobies. Somebody didn't really seem to understand what the 70s were all about.

Marianne's a sweet girl who's had a hard life, having left home at 14 to escape her deranged family and making her way in the world using nought but her go-go dancing skills. She's not the cleverest bikini on the beach, however. Even after she's had incontrovertible proof that her sister is trying to kill her, she keeps going back to the family home instead of holing up in a busy motel... in another country. What can one say?

On the plus side, she never seems to be wearing pants. For this at least we are grateful.

Death By: Loneliness, given that she was the only who didn’t end up dead or arrested.


As Marianne's naive love interest, Eli is all smooth boyish good looks (somewhere under that giant pink and purple cravat) and twinkly eyed kindliness. Bizarrely the audience gets to see him with his shirt off twice, while Marianne keeps her outfits resolutely G rated. What a gyp.

Death By: Obscurely motivated former best friend.


Perhaps at age 32 Christopher Sandford was a little old to be playing Sebastian, especially as he had one of those angular, cadaverous faces that make a man appear to be 70 his entire life. He looks like somebody's grandpa cunningly disguised as a mod youth, with tight paisley shirts and an enormous mop top wig which smothered his head like a hirsute jellyfish devouring a sardine.

Sebastian starts out as Marianne's boyfriend, but gets seduced over to the Dark Side by Hildegarde's wiles and the promise of £1000. I appreciate that inflation ran high in the 70s, but even so £1000 doesn't seem like a lot to doublecross your sweetheart and your best friend. That'll barely get you a good iPhone plan, let alone a buffer from karmic retribution. Still, Sebastian agrees to the scheme, and presumably died knowing that he could at last afford to get the brakes fixed on his Austin Healey.

Death By: Falling into an abandoned cellar and being forgotten.

The odd thing about ‘Die Screaming, Marianne’ is that I think it’s actually better now than when it was released thirty eight years ago. Back then it would have been nothing more than a bland, low-budget little thriller which scandalously wasted several perfect opportunities to showcase Susan George’s breasts. Now, on the other hand, it’s a hilarious cavalcade of ridiculous hairstyles, ludicrous clothes and quaint attempts to shock. The whole “no breasts” problem still stands, of course, but other than that it’s a priceless piece of kitsch.

If only they hadn’t killed everyone. Then we could have had a sequel.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Scream (Part 1)

On Saturday night some of my friends and I had a Festival of Bad Cinema which I am in retrospect calling ScreamFest. Not because they were particularly scary, at least not in the traditional sense, but because they both had the word “scream” in the title. I’m kinda obvious like that.

First up, we had 1973’s uniquely wonderful 'Scream, Blacula, Scream', a sequel to 1972’s ‘Blacula’. It was a clever title for a sequel, far cleverer than, say, 'Blacula II: Back in the Blood' or 'Blacula II: Bite Harder'. Although possibly not as evocative as 'Blacula II: Vascular Boogaloo'.

Irritated that his mother the Voodoo Queen has chosen to pass on her power to the lowly Lisa (Pam Grier) rather than him, Willis (Richard Lawson) uses some mysterious human bones he got from a witchdoctor to cast a voodoo spell against her. However the bones are those of Blacula (William Marshall) who arises from the dead, fangs Willis, then sets about creating a new army of the undead to do his bidding.

Sadly for Blacula, you just can't get good minions these days. For a start there's Willis, who is as whiny in undeath as he was in life. He's more concerned about not being able to see himself in the mirror than he is about being cursed for all eternity. I'd like to think that this explains his dress sense, but unfortunately I suspect it's just one of those 70s things.

Then there's Gloria (Janee Michelle), winner of the very hotly contested Biggest Hairdo of 1973 award. It's like someone stuck a grizzly bear on top of a popsicle stick.

Or Elaine (Barbara Rhoades), sporting the Auburn Tsunami over what looks like a figure hugging blue velvet hijab.

Perhaps this is why Blacula becomes enchanted with Lisa - she's the only one who dresses like a normal human being. That and the fact that she's one hot mama. Blacula may be dead but he's not dead.

Blacula hopes that Lisa will be able to use her voodoo powers to release him from the vampire curse. She eventually agrees, and there follows a lengthy ceremony that involves a lot of sweaty heaving and moaning from both parties. Unfortunately before the ceremony can reach its… er… climax, Lisa's boyfriend Justin (Don Mitchell) bursts in with a bunch of cops, hell bent on putting an end to the vampire invasion.

The cops are dispatched as gruesomely as one would expect them to be in this sort of movie, but not before they and Justin kill most of Blacula's legion. In the end, as Blacula's unholy appetite finally turns on Lisa, she dispatches him the only way she knows how: with voodoo. You don't see many vampire movies in which the head vampire is killed by someone sticking a stake into a voodoo doll dressed in an adorable little black cape.

I actually liked ‘Scream Blacula Scream’ more than the original. It had a bigger budget, a tighter script, and of course Pam Grier. There’s also a moment towards the end when Justin realises that the man he knew as Mamuwalde is a vampire, and he cries out his name. Blacula pauses, then responds; 'The name… is Blacula!' At his direst moment, Blacula identifes not with his regal African heritage but with an identity forced on him by a white man centuries ago. He's as trapped by it as his minions are by him. In a silly blaxploitation flick, it's an unexpected burst of poignant social commentary.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into William Marshall’s dark and dignified performance. Perhaps it’s not a good idea to read anything into a movie which has characters dressed like this:

And why do I have the overwhelming feeling that the guy in the pink plaid jacket is a jocular TV weatherman?

Tomorrow, the second of our ScreamFest movies: ‘Die Screaming, Marianne’.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


Melbourne prides itself in being the xenith of sophistication in Australia. Its residents generally regard Sydney as brash and materialistic, Adelaide as sleepy and Perth as beneath contempt.

Sadly for Melbourne's self-image as the centre of style and good taste, glaring exceptions have a tendency to pop up. We must remember Newton's* First Law of Interior Design: for every tasteful action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction of gaudy, screaming hideousness.

As a case in point, take this house in the satellite municipality of Hooper's Crossing. The residence is described as "palatial" and yet offers an opportunity for "possible redevelopment"... probably involving a bulldozer and some pent up aesthetic rage. Let us take a tour room by room.

Note the placement of the pedestal basins, right on the edge of a sudden change in floor level. If stubbed toes don't get you, falling over backwards while combing your hair and cracking your skull open on the floor will. Take that, houseguests who stay more than three days!

I'm guessing that the wrought iron railing in front of the window is to prevent Nonna from going through it when she comes tearing down the stairs and misses the turn. Which she will, since she's been temporarily blinded by the colour scheme.

Nothing says class like a chandelier over the dining table, a fancy lace tablecloth, and a TV in the corner so you can watch 'Dancing With The Stars' while eating your KFC Variety Bucket.

And for fancier occasions you can use the formal dining room. It has a bigger TV.

Apparently the house comes with its own thrift store. Everything on the table is only 50 cents!

The iron gates lend an old-fashioned, romantic air to the bed chamber, harking back to days of yore when maidens were locked in the bathroom to protect them from ravishment when barbarians invaded the castle. Now, of course, they are purely decorative... except when Dirty Uncle Dominic comes to visit.

It's good to see the family portraits on the table; Mama, Papa, the children, Nonna, and, er, Great Aunt Cleopatra. Notice that they are considerately arranged so that you can't see any of them no matter where you sit.

Seriously, you can never have too many chandeliers. Let no one tell you otherwise.

On the plus side, I've never seen a house that would be easier to convert into a bordello. Some red flocked wallpaper, a couple of "tasteful" nudes, and we're ready for business!

It's Price On Application, but go ahead... you know you want to.

*Obviously this is from fashion photographer Helmut Newton, rather than legendary physicist Sir Isaac Newton. By all accounts Sir Isaac had terrible taste in home furnishings.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


It's 1am, and I've tried, and failed, yet again, to go to bed.

Since 10pm or so I've just been noodling about, tidying the kitchen, writing an email or two, rereading some old blog posts (hey, wow, I used to be funny!) and sniggering my way through several pages of upcoming LOLcats. Eventually I went around and turned off all the lights, brushed my teeth, then headed for my bedroom, but only got as far as the doorway before I thought, "I really should floss." So back I went to the bathroom, and I flossed. I returned to the bedroom, faced the bed, and thought, "You know, I think I missed a bit." So back to the bathroom and more flossing. I was about to leave the bathroom again before I thought, "Mouthwash!" So I swigged, gargled and spat. Then I tidied up the bathroom, stacking the toilet paper rolls neatly and putting away my shaver and other odds and ends.

Then I thought, "Should I have a glance at the new book that arrived from The Book Depository?"

"No, bed!" announced whichever hemisphere of my brain is the sensible one.

Then I thought, "Maybe I should hang out the washing that's still in the machine?"

"No, bed!" said the sensible hemisphere.

Then I thought, "Maybe I could write a blog post about my hilarious inability to go to bed?"

"GAAAH! Fine, whatever, I give up," said my good sense. "Pfaff about. It not like you have to get up and go to work in a few hours. Idiot."

So here I am writing about nothing, struggling to keep my eyes in focus and feeling as if my head is encased in cement. And now it's 1.13am.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


I've recently discovered The Book Depository, a remarkable boon for anyone who a) lives in Australia and b) reads the occasional book. It's an online book store based in England, and their big gimmick is worldwide free delivery. This means that you only pay the cover price when you buy a book from them.

This wouldn't be all that exciting if books were not outrageously over-priced in Australia. Take Max Brooks' cult zombie novel 'World War Z'. It's $18 in England, and $32 in Australia. It's the same edition (that's how I know that it's 9 pounds - it's printed on the back cover) but for some reason it costs $14 more to put each copy on the shelf in Australia.

With savings like that, I'm wondering why I'd ever enter an Australian bookstore again. I've used The Book Depository twice already, and each time the book has arrived within a week. The first time I bought a copy of Claire Messud's exquistely crafted novel 'The Emperor's Children' for my sister's birthday. At $28, the hardback English copy was less than the price of the local paperback... which is out of print here anyway. The second time I bought the first two installments of Joss Whedon's new Buffy the Vampire Slayer graphic novel for my other sister's birthday. $17.50 each at The Book Depository, $27 each at Borders here.

The only downside to buying books in this way, besides having to wait a few days for delivery, is the delivery itself. The postman delivered 'The Emperor's Children' right on schedule but, discovering that the package didn't fit in the mailbox slot in my garden wall, he simply lobbed it through a gap in the gate into a flower bed. When I got home from work eight hours later, after a storm had swept through the city and lashed it with heavy rain, I found the sodden package already disintegrating into cardboard mush. The book was waterstained but salvagable, with the dust jacket puckered and split slightly on one edge.

I can see that I'm either going to have to limit myself to slender volumes or do all my book shopping during the summer months.


Over the last few weeks I've had a minor physical annoyance whenever I slept on my right side. As my head sank into the pillow my right ear would become blocked. It was easy to unblock just by pushing on the lower part of my ear, but let's face it, that's not condusive to relaxation.

This morning I'd had enough of it, so when I got up (at the crack of half past eight) I went straight to the bathroom and got out my otic irrigation syringe. It's a rubber bulb that you fill with warm water then stick in your ear to wash out excess wax, earwigs and bits of Lego, depending on your age and/or state of hygiene. It's one of those things that you can never imagine buying, but which is very handy on the rare occasions that you need it.

I filled the sink with warm water, flushed the bulb out a couple of times, then squirted it into my ear. The jet is quite powerful, and there's always that immovable anxiety that I'll do it too hard and punch a hole through my eardrum. Still I went ahead. Every time I'd flushed I glanced down at the water, and saw nothing much. A lot of tiny specks of dead skin cells, a few flecks of ear wax the size of pinheads; nothing significant.

Then I flushed again and immediately felt something change. "Ah," I thought. Then I glanced down at the water. "AAARGH!" I thought.

It was the biggest lump of ear wax I'd ever seen. I stared at it. How could I describe the size of this thing? The size of a couple of peas? No, it was bigger than that. The size of a raisin? No, too variable. I decided to stick with my favourite universal constant. Imagine the head of a standard Lego minifig. Now imagine it attached to another standard minifig head. This lump was bigger than that. It was big enough that I should have been charging it rent.

I got ready for work in a sort of daze, with the novel sensation of the breeze whispering through my ear canal. And ever since then I've been walking around the office bumping into door frames, as my sense of balance is shot because one side of my head is much lighter than it used to be.

Monday, September 14, 2009


I went to the Re Store with a friend on Saturday, so that we could fill the gaps in our respective liquor cabinets. The liquor section at the Re Store was created for dipsomaniacal old Mediterranean ladies to get their hands on whatever obscure alcohol reminds them most of the Old Country, and as such it's a cornucopia of exotic booze. If you want mandarin liqueur, saffron gin, macadamia schnapps or a dozen different varieties of absinthe, the Re Store is your one stop shop.

In my perfect world the Re Store would offer Booze Samplers, so that one could try little bottles of the liqueurs based on elderflowers, chamomile or white chocolate. As it is they all sound fascinating, but do I really want half a litre of any of them? Plus there’s always the horrible possibility that I’ll drop fifty bucks on something that ends up tasting like Becherovka.

I picked up another bottle of my favourite Zubrowka, a good chardonnay, and an extra-aged bottle of Penfolds port. My friend got some ruby port, a bottle of Glenfiddich for his brother's birthday, and, on a whim, a bottle of American Honey.

We tried it later that evening. American Honey is a whiskey-based honey liqueur in the same vein as Glayva or Drambuie, but with a stronger whiskey flavour. While it lacks the balance and refinement of Drambuie it's still a decent enough drink, and it's also somewhat cheaper. As an added bonus it comes in a handsome and very sturdy bottle, heavy and well-shaped for bludgeoning, should you be in the habit of bludgeoning people with whiskey bottles, as I am.

One might be moved to question the name, which frankly sounds like the title of a magazine hidden under a teenaged boy's mattress. But then again this may be intentional, given that American Honey is based on Wild Turkey bourbon, and Wild Turkey is the whiskey of choice for the bogan classes. As 'Idiocracy' noted, you can sell anything to the underclass with a well-placed suggestion of porn.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Get excited, people! David Hasselhoff's house is up for sale!

Now you too can enjoy a little bit of Hasselhoff Heaven. Cook on his stove! Swim in his pool! Discover his shameful stash of Harlequin romance novels under the loose floorboard in the spare bedroom!

It seems like a nice enough place, but I can't help but be a little surprised by the interior design. I would have thought that The Hoff's tastes would be a tad more... assertive.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009


Today we ask the question that has fashionistas across the globe wondering; Who Wore It Better?

Model A: Anonymous Woman, Utah Walmart.

Model B: Dr John Zoidberg.

I have major respect for that woman. Sure, she's repulsive, but she's not resting on her laurels. She's crossed the finish line of the Repulsive Marathon and just kept on running.


If you've ever been stuck in a traffic jam that appears to have no discernable cause, and, like me, swelled up with fury, misanthropy and invective, you may take comfort from this study at the University of Nagoya.

Serious jams can be caused by nothing more than tiny fluctuations in the speed of cars far ahead. That, and some dimwit in a beige Camry suddenly braking because she thought she saw the face of the Madonna in a pothole.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009


The Flatmate, on Tea and Theology

The Flatmate: Here's your tea. You can add your own Devil's Powder.

Me: You do mean sugar, don't you?

TF: Yes.

Me: For a moment there I thought you might mean cocaine.

TF: No.

Me: And I only have cocaine in my coffee.

TF: I meant sugar.

Me: So, wait, if sugar is the Devil's Powder...

TF: Which it is.

Me: ... what do you call these? (Holds up packet of aspartame tablets)

TF: I don't know. The Devil's seraphim... or cherabim... or whatever...

Me: But aren't they worse than sugar?

TF: Yes.

Me: But nothing's worse than the Devil.

TF: Ah, but the Devil's seraphim are worse than the Devil.

Me: How?

TF: Well, they're like the Devil's employees. They actually choose to work for evil, whereas the Devil just is evil. He can't help it.

Me: So the Devil's just being himself, while the Devil's seraphim are in it for the money?

TF: Yes.

Me: At least he's not a hypocrite, not like these seraphim who are paid evil-by-the-hour scumbags.

TF: Now you've got it.

Me: Yes, I understand.

TF: Excellent.

Me: You're an idiot.

Monday, September 07, 2009


On the way out to a friend's place with The Flatmate late last night, I discovered that I needed some cash, so I got The Flatmate to drive us up to the nearest ATM.

The nearest ATM is at the local shopping centre. After 6pm most suburban shopping centres in this city are inhabited solely by dodgy teenagers, but my local shopping centre is pretty much the only one in the state without a McDonalds, and as such the dodgy teenagers stay away. Instead, dithering old people have moved in to claim the turf and take up the slack.

As we pulled up in The Flatmate's Saab, I noticed a dithering old couple meandering about the ATM, as if they wanted some money but were afraid of all this high-tech witchcraft. The old woman pecked at the keypad, displaying the body language of someone unsure as to whether they'd receive fifty dollar bills or a hand grenade with the pin pulled.

I stood back and politely allowed the dithering old people to make their transaction. They seemed to notice me and finish what they were doing, then stood aside and waved me in.

I put in my card and punched in my PIN. The machine clattered to itself then started ticking, as if it were trying but failing to return my card. "Oh crap," I thought, as neither money nor card appeared. "This is one of those ATM skimmer scams or something." But eventually the screen regretfully advised that something had gone wrong and it had decided to retain my card, which is beyond the abilities of most ATM skimmers. I gave it a good glaring, which didn't achieve much, then muttered angry words and stomped back to the Saab with an empty wallet.

When I turned around to get into the car, I noticed that the dithering old people had returned to the machine. I called out a warning that it was broken, but they didn't respond. Then I noticed that the old woman was trying to stick her supermarket rewards card into the machine, and it suddenly dawned on me that they were probably the ones who had broken it. For all I knew the machine's input was clogged with a dozen of their liquor store loyalty cards, Blockbuster membership tags, Medicare cards, Seniors cards, drivers licences and Two For The Price Of One pizza vouchers. Presumably they'd decided to just keep sticking bits of plastic into the machine until it gave them money.

Further proof that old people shouldn't be allowed out at night.

Thursday, September 03, 2009


Speaking of inappropriate stickers, I've always liked this one produced by the Road Safety Council, which householders put on the sides of their garbage bins for passing motorists to read on collection day:

It never fails to make me think of a creepy weirdo in a dirty old van, slowly cruising by and thinking, "Oh, okay, if you really want me to. I'll taaaaaaaake... that one!"


Whoever first said that sarcasm is the lowest form of humour was obviously unfamiliar with the bumper sticker. Possibly this was because they lived in the era before the requisite bumpers had been invented: there is, after all, no space on an stagecoach for little signs saying "Syphillitic on board" or "I brake for peasants" or "If you can read this then you are the world's cleverest horse".

Bumper stickers are rarely witty and frequently sub-literate, but they do have their own rules of humour. Take the old trope, "(Members of a profession) do it with (a dim-witted double entendre based on an aspect of that profession)". For example, "Fishermen do it with their rods" or "Bakers do it first thing in the morning" or "Cricketers do it while bowling a maiden over".

I mention this because on my way to work this morning I spent some time driving behind a ute with the following bumpersticker on it: "Plumbers do it with fewer emissions".

What. The. Hell?

Firstly, I wasn't aware that one of the defining characteristics of the plumbing profession was producing fewer than average emissions. In fact when I hire a plumber I don't expect him to make emissions of any kind. If he does choose to make some, I'd expect him to do them on his own time and somewhere a decent distance from my property.

Secondly, given that plumbers aren't noted for their emissions, regardless of type or quantity, how is this a double entendre? Indeed, how is it even a single entendre? The only logical sexual connotation that one could take from this is that plumbers ejaculate less than the average man. It's basically a sticker for a tradesman to put on his ute to tell that world that, as a rule, "PLUMBERS SUFFER FROM SEXUAL DYSFUNCTION!"

I mean congratulations on taking ownership of your problems, but is this really what you want to share with the world at large?

There are two explanations for this bumpersticker. One is that it is some kind of obscure meta-joke, a step or two removed from pure dadaist humour like "Accountants do it with ocelots" or "My other car is a palindrome". The other is that some people are so dumb that they don't even understand bumper sticker gags, but are conditioned to assume that anything printed on a sticky label and stuck to a vehicle must be funny. They're probably sitting in their cars right now, behind a truck, chortling away at "Do Not Overtake Turning Vehicle".