Is there anything to be glad about at the moment? Maybe the fact that it's sprinkling here. It's been so dry we have had several fire danger warnings, and the precipitation isn't particularly robust, but it's nice to have it. Even though I've pegged out three loads of washing, it's still nice to have rain. It kind of takes the edge off the all-pervasive gronkiness that infects our society of late. Thinks like:
1. Channel 9 News. I'm sure you, gentle blog-browser, would be aware of who Amal Clooney is. She is a human rights barrister who counts among her clients Julian Assange. She has been an advisor to Kofi Annan. I am delighted to hear she is up for a Nobel peace prize, and it's well deserved. With her heady mix of brains and compassion (and not bad looking, either), she is my girl-crush. So how did Channel 9 tweet the news she is up for a Nobel peace prize? By describing her as 'the wife of George Clooney, new mum, and human rights lawyer'. The tweet didn't even give her name! To the gronks who wrote the copy for this tweet: wait outside, Doc Brown's Delorean will be coming by to pick you up, whereupon you will be transported back to the 1950s. Seriously, how can you define this woman as being the wife of some actor?
2. Some bloke who lost a bet and had to get a tattoo of Dustin Martin tattooed on his arse. Look, I cannot tell people what to do with their own bodies, and if you want a tattoo, get one. But remember this - you're stuck with them. They can be covered or removed, but it is a pretty permanent decision to make. Getting one of the basis of a bet is really infantile and stupid. If you must make a bet over the Grand Final, how about making the stakes a nudie run? Silly, yes. But it won't last. Speaking of sporting grand finals, we segue to the next gronks:
3. Peter Dutton, Bob Katter, Tony Abbott et al who had a whinge about Macklemore performing a number called 'Same Love' at the NRL Grand Final. This is apparently one of his most successful numbers. Why wouldn't he perform it? I know there's the old chestnut about not politicising a sporting event, but apparently Midnight Oil didn't get that memo before they performed 'Beds Are Burning' whilst wearing pyjamas emblazoned with the word 'sorry' at the closing ceremony of the 2000 Sydney Olympics. On the other hand, the 'sorry' reference could have just been pertaining to Peter Garrett's dodgy dance moves and a singing style that is redolent of a series of dry heaves. But yeah, if 'Same Love' is one of his major hits, then naturally Macklemore is going to perform it. It would be like going to Vegas and watching Wayne Newton with no 'Danke Schon' forthcoming. Bob Katter particularly behaved in a vile manner, comparing the performing of a this number to seeping sewage at a deb ball. As far as I can tell, the only sewage was seeping from Katter's mouth. Better get some tweezers to remove the splinters from under his fingernails, where he's scraped the bottom of the barrel. So the Grand Final has been, Macklemore has performed, and the world did not spin off its axis and disintegrate. Besides, it's better than what happened when Billy Idol was to perform, and something electrical shit itself, leaving the audience with no sound.
4. The carriage-load of gronks who caught the Hamilton to Muswellbrook service yesterday. From here on in, I do believe this service should be known as the Gronk Express. The carriage was not entirely filled with gronks. Your blogger, for example, is a non-gronk. So too was the woman sitting across the aisle, and the elderly woman a few seats ahead of me appeared to have avoided the gronk gene, too. But everybody else was a feral gronk, from the mother screeching C-bombs, to the children just screeching. Oh, I know children have a natural ebullience and effervescence, and these are qualities I usually enjoy seeing in children. Children have a natural honesty and innocence that is the sole province of children only, and it's one of the things that makes them a delight. But the kids on the train yesterday just kept squealing with a shrill ululation that was pure fingernails-down-the-blackboard. Couldn't wait to get off the bloody train. I caught three trains yesterday. I had cause to stay in Penrith Saturday evening for a friend's birthday, and yesterday, being Sunday, I caught a train from Penrith to Strathfield, then Strathfield to Hamilton, and finally, Hamilton to Muswellbrook.
5. The taxi driver who drove me from my friend's house to Penrith is a gronk, too. He was very tardy in picking me up. He stopped to let some behemoth waddle S-L-O-W-L-Y across the road, and it is my contention he could have kept driving because the tub-o-guts hadn't yet stepped from the kerb. Maybe I'm wrong. But anyway, he stopped and I missed the train I had wanted to catch thanks to this, and his other fiddle-fart practices.
6. The final gronks on this list are whomsoever published the novelty greeting cards I perused at an adult store yesterday. I had some time before boarding the Gronk Express, so decided to browse in an adult store, as you do. As I have mentioned, there were some novel greeting cards on display. I might have even bought one if it didn't have 'which' spelled as 'wich'. No, I am not making that up. And such is the depth of my ingrained grammar Nazi-ism, I cannot even enjoy non-violent adult erotica if I see a misspelt word.
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