The other day I was alarmed I might have been morphing into some hybrid of Alice from 'The Brady Bunch', and June Cleaver, with all my Woman's Weekly-ish housewife duties. Like June Cleaver, I was smiling, but I forsook the pearl necklace and high heels (get your minds out of the gutter, you filthy smut-mongers).
I need worry about that aberration no longer as today I am back to my usual pissed off self. My ire is directed to the Government, and the pile of dung disguised as a budget handed down by Scott Morrison last night. My main issue at the time of typing is the drug testing of welfare recipients. This truly, seriously, really, fair dinkumly shits me big time. Yes, I am well aware welfare is not a gift, but a form of assistance. However, what purpose does this achieve? Am I the only person in the world who doesn't care if someone on welfare has a drink, or sucks a bong in privacy? Do what you like in your own home, provided you are a consenting adult of sound mind and not doing it in the street frightening the bicycle couriers. Many drugs are actually flushed from the body rather quickly, so by the time the a welfare recipient was tested, the test would be returned with a negative result. What a waste of time and money. It's hard enough being on welfare without being treated like a child. Many people who have found themselves on welfare have been tax payers themselves, too. I don't buy into that chestnut about how, 'Oh, I have to do a drug test to keep my job, so therefore people on the dole should, too.' That's utter cow dung, freshly flopped onto the ground and steaming. If you're getting drug tested at work, it's a WHS issue. The notion of drug testing welfare recipients is often just punitive and petty in its origins, and like I said, something of a waste of time. Why not drug test the politicians? Some of their ideas make me think they've chomped on a few tabs before handing into Parliament House. Want more money in the coffers? Then how's this for an idea: TAX THE FUCKING CHURCHES!
Speaking of churches, and religion - to the man who hit Qantas CEO in the face with a cream pie: you're a dick. No, really; you are. A complete, unadulterated, pure, thoroughbred dick. Qantas' support for same sex marriage offends your Christian sensibilities, does it? But carrying out a deliberate assault on someone doesn't. Yeah, makes sense. I sometimes question the wisdom of corporations buying into political hot potato arenas, but I don't lose sleep over it. If a corporation promotes an agenda with which I disagree, I will as far as practicable avoid that corporation. What I won't do is shove a cream pie in someone's face over it. Seriously, I saw this on the news, and it gave me Forest Whittaker eye. Who goes out and buys a pie, bides their time, and shoves it in the face of someone speaking at a conference? Oh, I know the old pie-in-the-face-gag is as staple of old slapstick comedies, but this is not a slapstick comedy; this is real life and whilst a pie is not exactly a lethal weapon, it's a really moronic thing to do. So you don't like gay marriage? Simple: don't marry another bloke, okay? Got that? Think about it for a minute, and maybe write it in a sentence to help it absorb. If you ever shoved a pie in my face, pal, you'd get an enema with it. Particularly as it's my understanding the dessert you chose was a lemon meringue pie, which comes direct from Satan's patisserie.
I'm not a song writer, but I think I know how to produce a country and western number. I heard one on the radio today, and it appeared to adhere to the principles of Country Music 101. Don't know the name of it, and don't intend to try and find out because I'd rather roll around naked in a cathead patch than listen to it again. Still, if I know the name of it, I can probably avoid it next time. Anyway, it was a text book example in that it followed these simple rules:
1. Tell a self-pitying story that nobody who has a life could possibly give a fuck about.
2. Fixate on a person or an object that, as in 1. above, nobody who has life could possibly give a fuck about.
3. Sing through your nose.
4. Enunciate in the manner of somebody with dentures chewing caramel toffees.
5. Sustain the notes in every diphthong to the point where you sound like you need oxygen.
Good news: worked on my author bio and started my dedications for the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon' yesterday. Got a little teary, because I now have less family members to mention. Oh, there will be a special mention for them, yes, but the fact that life has reached the point where they get that special mention made me feel somewhat emotional yesterday.
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