I'm wondering whether to thank that woman who complained to David Jones about their use of a Sudanese-Australian model in their campaign. Not because I agree with her stance. Indeed I do not. In fact, I think this woman has behaved somewhat offensively to say the least. No, it's because her jaw-dropping, mind-blowing, bowel-loosening stupidity has taken my mind off my own problems. It's nice to have a break from the anxiety that's bothering me at the moment, gnawing at my insides like a rat on a splintery piece of timber in a disused barn. Yes, what that woman did actually distracted me, and made me think: what the actual fuck?
To complain about the use of a model of Sudanese background, well, seriously, you might as well get yourself a tee-shirt that reads: I Am An Unadulterated Moron With An Undercurrent Of Racism. On the back can be printed: I Don't Understand It's Not Always About Me.
Apparently the problem this fool had was she cannot identify with the model. She doesn't have that skin colour, and wouldn't be wearing the cosmetics used on the model. Truly, so bloody what? Is there something inherently wrong with using a person of colour on the front page of a catalogue? I'm not sure what the problem is. I'm sure the campaign uses models of different skin tones and colours to showcase their cosmetics range.
David Jones is a very upmarket store. They are not going to put an ignorant bogan on the catalogue, so this woman might have trouble identifying with any models used in the campaign.
I am sure I am never going to identify with the models in the catalogues, either. This could change if DJs decide it's time to cast models who are middle-aged, with the occasional twinge of arthritis, and who are completely frazzled with the demands of work, motherhood, and life in general, and are therefore trying hard to not reach for the bottle of wine.
Shopping at David Jones is beyond my budget - except for perhaps hosiery, which I occasionally purchased when I was working at a law office in Elizabeth Street, Sydney CBD. One day, I was desperate after my pantihose laddered. I hurried to the store, and found it was the day Elle MacPherson was scheduled to do some promotional appearance. The store was utter bedlam. It was like the Boxing Day sales with people scurrying and squashing everywhere. An imperious store clerk waylaid me and cried in self-important tones, 'Ma'am, if you want to see Ms MacPherson, you will get a better vantage point by the Castlereagh Street entrance.' I snarled back that Ms MacPherson was right down the very bottom of my priorities, and I merely wished to purchase pantihose.
David Jones issued a response along the tones of being sorry she felt that way. This is a polite way of saying 'crawl back under your rock, you utter imbecile.'
Just when I thought people couldn't get sillier, Pauline Hanson entered Parliament wearing a burqa. Certainly a paper bag would have sufficed?
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