Pittman runs out of steam, boost juice lacking

Ethan Switch - Thursday, 26 August 2004 - 08:14:03 - print it raw

Busted like a knuckle, Jana Pittman, 21, of the Australian athletics track team, wobbled into fifth with her matron hairdo, placing out of medal contention by more than one in the women's 400 metre hurdles.

Distraught to an emotional level following the soda popping of her right knee only a few weeks before the race, Pittman is now considering moving toward the flat track; the event Cathy Freeman won back in Sydney.

In Freeman's race toward the gold, the nation threw itself into a partial auto-erotic asphyxiation event assisted by a leather belt in rented accomodations as it watched her run the race in a full body condom. Feeling the pressure of a nation's eyeballs like a cheap lump of coal in Superman's hands, the diamond result left her collapsed and winded. It was a similar pressure Pittman was after, recuperating so quickly after the surgery on her knee.

With media crews taking to Pittman as the next Bigfoot, the comeback kid has set her sights toward Beijing in 2008 where she will complete the backstory of an athlete overcoming adversity and shining through slow-motion footage.

 

Lick the red box and keep a fresh and up-to-date eyeball on our latest reviews, articles and filthy somesuch. Or kiss it.

Or simply subscribe via email:

 

Articles and essays

Red Riding Trilogy
This is an attempt to understand the newish British television series Red Riding. Due to the regional accents, the muttering, the byzantine plot, and that British inability to provide subtitles, I am writing a detailed synopsis to get my head around this excellent television show. In short, it is nothing but spoilers, spoilers, spoilers...
Kitchen Antics - Chicken in Faux Ragoƻt
Ladder of flavour? A few rungs above bland. This can be constructed & delivered in less than 30 minutes, depending on your aptitude with a knife.
Lassitude abandons the Throwing Knives
Down on the chamber pot, the percolating smells brew up quite the nasal fest. From the wafting fumes, the air solidifies partial sweaty rock and musty punk, a taste hinting at delicious pockets of after-aftertaste, and the not so floral punch of an undone music interview leaves the tongue wanting something else.

Undone, unbound, the sounds aground, life's taking the train with a soundtrack of harmonic dissonance, of inner turmoils and evolutionary spotchecking.

Copyright 2002-2010 The Wax Conspiracy

 

 

Nipple protection from the elements?
Armpit hair needs a lair?
Bellybutton catching too many flies?

Then grab this comfy chest covering and other kinds of T-shirts at The Wax Sweatshop.

id=ufo