This is my second posting of the day. I haven't posted twice in the one day since a time of extreme distress many, many years ago. Thankfully, I am not distressed. What I am is so damned pissed off and disgusted, that my fingers were itching to hit the keyboard here.
Anyone else happen to catch Michaelia Cash's performance in Parliament yesterday? A vicious, vile threat to reveal names of women about whom rumours had circulated regarding their 'relationships' with Bill Shorten. Yes, my use of inverted commas on that word is to imply innuendo and some type of impropriety. In short, shenanigans. Anyway, what we had was a former Minister for Women making menacing comments about other women on the basis of what, as previously mentioned, is just rumour. If, as rumour has it, they were 'involved with' Shorten, so bloody what? Presumably they are all consenting adults, and the only thing about this that raises my eyebrows is their taste in men.
What an utterly disgraceful display by Cash. She had the cold obsidian eyes of a malevolent reptile, and the tone of a nasty alpha bully. Once I got past this utterly outrageous nastiness of hers, and looked at the stiffened hair, the power suits, and the implied threats to exposure people's secrets, all I could think was: She's like a poor man's Alexis Carrington. Yes, it was like a scene from some guilty pleasure Eighties night-time soap opera, the characters of which are all rich, completely devoid of any scruples, seeped in avarice, and all have immovable hair. On the Alexis motif, maybe Michaelia is planning a catfight in Lake Burley-Griffin.
I have no doubt people are saying Cash is a disgrace to women. I'm going to go a step further and say she's a disgrace to people in general. Her behaviour was beyond foul. If Turnbull has any balls, he'll remove her portfolio from her.
Senator Penny Wong acted with style and grace in her refutation of Cash's vicious vitriol. Cash issued a Sorry-Not-Sorry apology (one of those 'I'm sorry if anyone was offended' types), and this is almost as insulting as her original comments.
Hey, Michaelia, you might want to ease up on the hairspray because perhaps it's seeping through your scalp and compromising your ability to think.
Wednesday 28 February 2018
Grotesque Buffoonery on 60 Minutes
Here are some of the things that either creep me out, or gross me out, or make me shudder like a Chihuahua in the rain:
1. People turning their eyelids inside out. *shuddering uncontrollably*
2. Trifle. This is a fiendish concoction masquerading as a dessert. It is an amalgamation of just about every food I hate, and the end product presents and smells like a freshly laid bowl of sick.
3. Pavlova. It consists of meringues which are just the stiffened, sickeningly sugared albumen prone to shattering to diabetic-inducing shrapnel, slathered with yucky cream. Like the trifle mentioned above, it is something I abhor, and will forego dessert when it is offered on the menu. (I'm not much of a sweet tooth).
4. Certain aspects of my job ('No, it doesn't matter that you let one rip on my hand as I was washing your backside. I'm sure I will be perfectly fine once the sprain in my wrist heals.'), and even worse ('No, it doesn't matter that you let one rip as I was pulling up your pants, the torque of which causing me to sustain a whiplash injury'), and let's not forget ('I'll just clean this toilet - hey, wow! There's a skidmark that looks like the M4!').
5. Frogs. Disgusting, slimy, green bastards that jump without warning.
6. Nick Cave. Dour, humourless, scowling, and a voice like an android.
But none of the above scenarios, on their own or combined, can hold a candle to the sheer grotesque buffoonery displayed by Charles Woolley interviewing New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern in a segment that aired on 60 Minutes last Sunday night. I don't watch this show, haven't in years, but I heard about the interview so went online to see if it was as bad as they were saying. It was. It was just as bad. He crapped on about the PM's youth and surface desirability. What about her brains, you horrid, leering fool? He was the very personification of every sleazy old bottom-pinching dude you ever encountered in your respective lives. He brought up a point that her unborn child would have been conceived during the election campaign. Since when did celibacy become a prerequisite to conducting successful election campaigns?
Well done, Woolley, you sleazy old fart. You left at least 50% of the viewing audience grimacing and reaching for the sick bucket.
1. People turning their eyelids inside out. *shuddering uncontrollably*
2. Trifle. This is a fiendish concoction masquerading as a dessert. It is an amalgamation of just about every food I hate, and the end product presents and smells like a freshly laid bowl of sick.
3. Pavlova. It consists of meringues which are just the stiffened, sickeningly sugared albumen prone to shattering to diabetic-inducing shrapnel, slathered with yucky cream. Like the trifle mentioned above, it is something I abhor, and will forego dessert when it is offered on the menu. (I'm not much of a sweet tooth).
4. Certain aspects of my job ('No, it doesn't matter that you let one rip on my hand as I was washing your backside. I'm sure I will be perfectly fine once the sprain in my wrist heals.'), and even worse ('No, it doesn't matter that you let one rip as I was pulling up your pants, the torque of which causing me to sustain a whiplash injury'), and let's not forget ('I'll just clean this toilet - hey, wow! There's a skidmark that looks like the M4!').
5. Frogs. Disgusting, slimy, green bastards that jump without warning.
6. Nick Cave. Dour, humourless, scowling, and a voice like an android.
But none of the above scenarios, on their own or combined, can hold a candle to the sheer grotesque buffoonery displayed by Charles Woolley interviewing New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern in a segment that aired on 60 Minutes last Sunday night. I don't watch this show, haven't in years, but I heard about the interview so went online to see if it was as bad as they were saying. It was. It was just as bad. He crapped on about the PM's youth and surface desirability. What about her brains, you horrid, leering fool? He was the very personification of every sleazy old bottom-pinching dude you ever encountered in your respective lives. He brought up a point that her unborn child would have been conceived during the election campaign. Since when did celibacy become a prerequisite to conducting successful election campaigns?
Well done, Woolley, you sleazy old fart. You left at least 50% of the viewing audience grimacing and reaching for the sick bucket.
Sunday 25 February 2018
My Take on the News this Week
The other day I heard about some private texts being posted on Instagram, these texts being an exchange between a male and female, and they went along the lines of:
'...really need to fuck you'
Well, that's me done for another few days. By the way, if you want to see a good movie, go and see I, Tonya. Saw it with a friend today, and we really enjoyed it. It takes an interesting approach to what is really very sad and ugly subject matter, and the performances of the two female leads as Tonya and her mother were just mesmerising.
'...really need to fuck you'
'...that time of the month...'
Okay, it's not quite the heated passion of Heathcliff and Cathy in Wuthering Heights, nor is it quite the frustrated yearning and hunger of the titular lovers of Romeo and Juliet, but I'm guessing the texters are into each other.
Turns out the male in these not quite Hallmark-worthy ramblings was cheating on his girlfriend, and this spurned girlfriend posted screenshots or whatever on Instagram. You'd be forgiven for thinking this is an episode in the very public (and seriously not that important) lives of the Kardashians, but it's actually - shock, horror! - parliamentarians. The man is NSW Innovation Minister (what's that?) Matt Kean, and the woman is another Liberal MP, Eleni Petinos. The spurned woman is Caitlin Keage, who is an advisor to the Prime Minister.
I am appalled. Not by the man cheating on his girlfriend; this stuff happens. Men cheat. Women cheat. It's not my business and as I have said so, so often: if the rumpy-pumpy is between consenting adults, then go for it. I actually don't care, and when it comes to Parliament, don't really want to think about it. Unfortunately, we've been forced to think about it like some kind of dystopian therapy a la A Clockwork Orange what with the constant articles about Barnaby Joyce (who is stepping down as Deputy Prime Minister tomorrow). No, what appals me is the public playing out of the disgruntlement. You people are elected Members of Parliament, so how about you all grow up and bloody act it? This is not high school.
Premier Gladys Berejiklian has stated she is 'disappointed', but will not be sacking Matt Kean. I should hope not, because (1) it's not your business, and (2) it is quite likely a form of unlawful discrimination to terminate an employee on the basis of LAWFUL sexual activity, and sexual activity between consenting adults is perfectly legal. Anyway, Berras, never mind your ministers' personal lives; what about the fact there weren't enough copies of To Kill a Mockingbird at my son's school last year, when there was funding to pull down and rebuild sports stadiums?
There's a quote attributed to King George VII that goes something along the lines of: 'I don't care what Parliament do, as long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses.' I love that quote, and I think it a most suitable metaphor for the lives of our civic leaders. It's a quote I am prone to appropriate most often.
But reading about this stupid public posting of private text messages, one would be forgiven for thinking one was being subjected to an episode of Keeping up with the Pointless Publicity Whores Kardashians. Speaking of which, I did something today I never thought I would. I responded on Twitter to one of them. I was looking at my Twitter feed 'moments', and there was one from Kim to the effect: Guess what the fam are doing today?
So I responded: Curing cancer?
As it happens, they're not. They were appearing on some special episode of the US version of Family Feud, and it was to be the Kardashian/Jenner crew pitted against the Wests (as in that tool Kanye). Hands up if you're desolate at having missed THAT! (Hint: I'm still typing with the fingers of both hands). What a stimulating episode that would have been: abound with repartee and riposte, banter and badinage to rival the Alginquin Round Table.
Okay, now what is everyone seemingly pissed off at this week? It's fashion label Gucci, who at a recent fashion show sent models down the runway in turbans. This has annoyed some of the Sikh faith, and of course it's got the Social Justice Warriors huffing and panting like a cow about to give birth, but check this picture from the show:
The whole ensemble just looks, well, inane. The model has enough armoury on his wrist to fell a hippopotamus. He's carrying a woman's handbag with an impractically lengthy strap. He looks like he just ate a shit sandwich. Who would go out looking like this? Besides, whilst accepting this might annoy some Sikhs, what about women who are undergoing chemotherapy? I've seen some women out and about wearing turban-fashioned scarves. They're thinking about their own health and well-being, and self-esteem regarding their appearance, not how to offend others.
Well, that's me done for another few days. By the way, if you want to see a good movie, go and see I, Tonya. Saw it with a friend today, and we really enjoyed it. It takes an interesting approach to what is really very sad and ugly subject matter, and the performances of the two female leads as Tonya and her mother were just mesmerising.
Thursday 15 February 2018
Lagomorph Lunacy & Bonk Ban
Some time well into the future, when I am approaching my dotage, I envisage myself being surrounded by cherubic grandchildren who will ask, 'Nanna Bing, when you were younger, what did YOU do to make a better world for people?'
I'm not sure what will be my demeanour when I answer. At the time of typing this post, I have no grandchildren, so I'm not sure how I will behave around them. If I inherit attitude and personality from of my own two grandmothers, I will likely flick out my false teeth at them, then snarl and bark at a perceived slight like some rabid female were-beast. Or maybe I will just chuckle, "I'll tell you, kiddies, but first of all pour Nana Bing a vodka, lime and soda. Use that silver measuring cup for the vodka - you know, Nana Bing bought that when she was first going out with your Poppy Pete - oh, and the vodka is in that bottle near Nanna Bing's glass skull collection. Okay, children - aaah, that's the ticket! - you will be an excellent bartender one day - you know, your great-grandmother was a barmaid because your great-great grandmother was a publican - and anyway, kiddies, this is what I did to make the world a better place back in those heady days of the Two Thousand and Tens...
"I used my social media platform to promote fair judicial process, and for the separation of parliamentary and judicial powers, and to promote my books - see them there on the bookshelf?"
At this point one of my hypothetical grandchildren will interrupt me with this question: "But Nana Bing, why didn't you call for the boycott of the Peter Rabbit movie that came out all those years ago in 2018?"
I will gather my descendant in my arms for a great big grandmotherly hug, and whisper, "Because, Honeybunch, your Nanna Bing knew about teaching kids right from wrong, and about plot devices used in works of fiction, and most of all, your Nanna Bing wasn't a. Big. Fucking. IDIOT!"
What a sweet, almost mawkish vision that imagined scene evokes. Perhaps you're wondering what's got me conjuring up such an offbeat inter-generational interchange.
Well, wonder no more. It's because people are calling for the boycott of a new movie about Beatrix Potter's fictional lagomorph wherein Farmer MacGregor is pelted with blackberries and needs an epi-pen. It seems the farmer is allergic to blackberries. Given the book was published just after the turn of the 20th century, and that the first self-administering epi-pen was invited in the mid-1970s, I kind of doubt this was featured in the original book. The film makers are not the first people to take artistic licence with Ms Potter's work: when my father read the tales many years ago, Peter Rabbit contracted myxomatosis and died. But back to the point. This scene has really raised the ire of many people on the basis it encourages and promotes allergy bullying. So let's ban it!, they say.
Look, I KNOW food allergies are not a joke, and I know there is danger and potential death in subjecting a person to a substance to which they react adversely. I KNOW this. But what I also know is that a scene like this can be taken as an opportunity to point out to people that you DON'T bombard a person with a substance to which they have a known allergy, because there are potential nasty consequences. Who's with me on this?
There is another point people are missing. This is a film about - wait for it - anthromorphic rabbits. Who's ever seen a bunch of rabbits sit down and plot out a nasty scheme against a person? I haven't.
When I was a kid watching cartoons, my mother didn't have to say, 'Simone, don't hold a lit stick of dynamite in your hand like that silly old coyote is doing.' This was not owing to the general unavailability of dynamite, but because we just weren't stupid back then.
The powers that be responsible for this movie have actually apologised for this scene. To use a pithy cliché: this sets a dangerous precedent. Do people seriously not understand fictional plot devices that are used to make things happen in stories anymore? We will soon be no longer able to write crazy scenes because someone will lose their shit over it. Peaceful conflict resolution is important in the real world, but why can't people just let stories be stories?
Oh, and today the Prime Minister has issued what's known as a 'Bonk Ban' among the ministers and their staffers. Sigh. Look, if they're consenting adults then it's nobody's bloody business. What are you going to do? "Pull it out, pull up your pants, and clear out your desk: you're fired!" Yeah, right.
Why to go, Turdball. I'd rather your cabinet and staff fuck each other, not the country.
I'm not sure what will be my demeanour when I answer. At the time of typing this post, I have no grandchildren, so I'm not sure how I will behave around them. If I inherit attitude and personality from of my own two grandmothers, I will likely flick out my false teeth at them, then snarl and bark at a perceived slight like some rabid female were-beast. Or maybe I will just chuckle, "I'll tell you, kiddies, but first of all pour Nana Bing a vodka, lime and soda. Use that silver measuring cup for the vodka - you know, Nana Bing bought that when she was first going out with your Poppy Pete - oh, and the vodka is in that bottle near Nanna Bing's glass skull collection. Okay, children - aaah, that's the ticket! - you will be an excellent bartender one day - you know, your great-grandmother was a barmaid because your great-great grandmother was a publican - and anyway, kiddies, this is what I did to make the world a better place back in those heady days of the Two Thousand and Tens...
"I used my social media platform to promote fair judicial process, and for the separation of parliamentary and judicial powers, and to promote my books - see them there on the bookshelf?"
At this point one of my hypothetical grandchildren will interrupt me with this question: "But Nana Bing, why didn't you call for the boycott of the Peter Rabbit movie that came out all those years ago in 2018?"
I will gather my descendant in my arms for a great big grandmotherly hug, and whisper, "Because, Honeybunch, your Nanna Bing knew about teaching kids right from wrong, and about plot devices used in works of fiction, and most of all, your Nanna Bing wasn't a. Big. Fucking. IDIOT!"
What a sweet, almost mawkish vision that imagined scene evokes. Perhaps you're wondering what's got me conjuring up such an offbeat inter-generational interchange.
Well, wonder no more. It's because people are calling for the boycott of a new movie about Beatrix Potter's fictional lagomorph wherein Farmer MacGregor is pelted with blackberries and needs an epi-pen. It seems the farmer is allergic to blackberries. Given the book was published just after the turn of the 20th century, and that the first self-administering epi-pen was invited in the mid-1970s, I kind of doubt this was featured in the original book. The film makers are not the first people to take artistic licence with Ms Potter's work: when my father read the tales many years ago, Peter Rabbit contracted myxomatosis and died. But back to the point. This scene has really raised the ire of many people on the basis it encourages and promotes allergy bullying. So let's ban it!, they say.
Look, I KNOW food allergies are not a joke, and I know there is danger and potential death in subjecting a person to a substance to which they react adversely. I KNOW this. But what I also know is that a scene like this can be taken as an opportunity to point out to people that you DON'T bombard a person with a substance to which they have a known allergy, because there are potential nasty consequences. Who's with me on this?
There is another point people are missing. This is a film about - wait for it - anthromorphic rabbits. Who's ever seen a bunch of rabbits sit down and plot out a nasty scheme against a person? I haven't.
When I was a kid watching cartoons, my mother didn't have to say, 'Simone, don't hold a lit stick of dynamite in your hand like that silly old coyote is doing.' This was not owing to the general unavailability of dynamite, but because we just weren't stupid back then.
The powers that be responsible for this movie have actually apologised for this scene. To use a pithy cliché: this sets a dangerous precedent. Do people seriously not understand fictional plot devices that are used to make things happen in stories anymore? We will soon be no longer able to write crazy scenes because someone will lose their shit over it. Peaceful conflict resolution is important in the real world, but why can't people just let stories be stories?
Oh, and today the Prime Minister has issued what's known as a 'Bonk Ban' among the ministers and their staffers. Sigh. Look, if they're consenting adults then it's nobody's bloody business. What are you going to do? "Pull it out, pull up your pants, and clear out your desk: you're fired!" Yeah, right.
Why to go, Turdball. I'd rather your cabinet and staff fuck each other, not the country.
Monday 12 February 2018
THe Post Where I Whinge About Triggered Snowflakes
'Contextualise': verb (used with object). To put a linguistic element or action in a context, particularly characteristic or appropriate, with a purpose to study.
If anyone cares, I'm under the impression 'contextualise' is a transitive verb.
The reason I am focusing on this word, this verb (likely transitive at that), is because I wish to High Heaven people would FUCKING LEARN TO DO IT!
Lately, I am reading asinine actions taken by triggered snowflakes. I am not keen on using what is becoming a rather hackneyed phrase du jour, but the problem is: the idiots are EVERYWHERE!
More snowflakes than a blizzard, and I would welcome a snowflake of the atmospheric type because it's in the low thirties here, and I'm cooking like a chook in a rotisserie. Anyway, I was doing a bit of online scrolling, and saw an article stating a learning institution in Minnesota is to drop two texts from their syllabus, those texts being amongst the pinnacle of modern American literature, those texts being: (1) To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and (2) Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.
Those of you familiar with these books will know a core element common to both is racism in the societies in which the stories are set. The racism is directed at African Americans, and given the settings of these works - being 1930s Alabama in the first instance, and 1840s Mississippi in the latter - a certain offensive word is used. Frequently. In the interests of prudence, I am going to call it the 'N-word'. The authors of the works have characters use this word. Given the settings of the novels, this is realistic. Indeed, a major character in Huckleberry Finn is known as N****r Jim. Now, all you (sigh) Triggered Snowflakes, this is where you have to apply contextualisation. Look at the definition at the top of this post and read it again. Slowly. Or have someone read and explain it to you.
If you dorks administering the syllabus stopped to think, and you pussy-arsed sooks complaining about the word also stopped to think, you'd realise these books have some great lessons to teach us. From To Kill a Mockingbird we learn: respect, importance of protecting the innocent, equality, and moral stance. From Huckleberry Finn we learn: the value of friendship, to question some societal rules that just don't seem quite right, ownership of another person is wrong, and to do what you know in your heart is right.
All students are going to learn these days is how to be a snivelling, diaper-soiled, whining, bubble-wrapped little turd with no moral compass or any idea on how to consult his or conscience. When the heat is on, those snowflakes are going to melt! (Like that analogy? I just thought of it whilst I was typing).
Similarly, there is a school in Western Australia seeking to remove, among other works, Romeo and Juliet from the syllabus. It's a bit racy and the lingo a bit raunchy for the teens studying it, you see. You know something? When you contextualise (my, I'm loving that word today), maybe there is a bit of sauce in the Bard's tragedy of the two star-crossed lovers. Is it Juliet's nurse who leers, 'By my maidenhead?' Or is that in another work? But Sweet Jesus jumping up and down on a pogo stick fitted with an outboard motor, this is getting beyond a joke! Some groan that Shakespeare wrote mainly in seventeenth century so where's the relevance? Okay, sit back; I'm about to tell you. Shakespeare's themes are timeless and easily identified with. Shakespeare's works have given us some remarkable phrases and sayings (such as 'green-eyed monster') still used in day-to-day speech. Shakespeare's plots are great. Shakespeare is a great study of human frailty and nature. And let's face it, if you want to learn to speak in iambic pentameter, than there's probably no better place to turn than the works of Ol' Will. Okay?
Must be on my way now. Thanks for reading.
If anyone cares, I'm under the impression 'contextualise' is a transitive verb.
The reason I am focusing on this word, this verb (likely transitive at that), is because I wish to High Heaven people would FUCKING LEARN TO DO IT!
Lately, I am reading asinine actions taken by triggered snowflakes. I am not keen on using what is becoming a rather hackneyed phrase du jour, but the problem is: the idiots are EVERYWHERE!
More snowflakes than a blizzard, and I would welcome a snowflake of the atmospheric type because it's in the low thirties here, and I'm cooking like a chook in a rotisserie. Anyway, I was doing a bit of online scrolling, and saw an article stating a learning institution in Minnesota is to drop two texts from their syllabus, those texts being amongst the pinnacle of modern American literature, those texts being: (1) To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and (2) Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.
Those of you familiar with these books will know a core element common to both is racism in the societies in which the stories are set. The racism is directed at African Americans, and given the settings of these works - being 1930s Alabama in the first instance, and 1840s Mississippi in the latter - a certain offensive word is used. Frequently. In the interests of prudence, I am going to call it the 'N-word'. The authors of the works have characters use this word. Given the settings of the novels, this is realistic. Indeed, a major character in Huckleberry Finn is known as N****r Jim. Now, all you (sigh) Triggered Snowflakes, this is where you have to apply contextualisation. Look at the definition at the top of this post and read it again. Slowly. Or have someone read and explain it to you.
If you dorks administering the syllabus stopped to think, and you pussy-arsed sooks complaining about the word also stopped to think, you'd realise these books have some great lessons to teach us. From To Kill a Mockingbird we learn: respect, importance of protecting the innocent, equality, and moral stance. From Huckleberry Finn we learn: the value of friendship, to question some societal rules that just don't seem quite right, ownership of another person is wrong, and to do what you know in your heart is right.
All students are going to learn these days is how to be a snivelling, diaper-soiled, whining, bubble-wrapped little turd with no moral compass or any idea on how to consult his or conscience. When the heat is on, those snowflakes are going to melt! (Like that analogy? I just thought of it whilst I was typing).
Similarly, there is a school in Western Australia seeking to remove, among other works, Romeo and Juliet from the syllabus. It's a bit racy and the lingo a bit raunchy for the teens studying it, you see. You know something? When you contextualise (my, I'm loving that word today), maybe there is a bit of sauce in the Bard's tragedy of the two star-crossed lovers. Is it Juliet's nurse who leers, 'By my maidenhead?' Or is that in another work? But Sweet Jesus jumping up and down on a pogo stick fitted with an outboard motor, this is getting beyond a joke! Some groan that Shakespeare wrote mainly in seventeenth century so where's the relevance? Okay, sit back; I'm about to tell you. Shakespeare's themes are timeless and easily identified with. Shakespeare's works have given us some remarkable phrases and sayings (such as 'green-eyed monster') still used in day-to-day speech. Shakespeare's plots are great. Shakespeare is a great study of human frailty and nature. And let's face it, if you want to learn to speak in iambic pentameter, than there's probably no better place to turn than the works of Ol' Will. Okay?
Must be on my way now. Thanks for reading.
Thursday 8 February 2018
Mundine the Mouth & Barnaby the Bonking Beetroot
I'm not one to watch I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here because: (1) I don't give a crap about reality television, and (2) I believe the shows should be retitled I'm A Z-List Has-Been Desperate For Another Shot At Fame, or I'm A Total Tool Everyone Hates And I'm Trying To Put Some Positive Spin On My Image Because My Publicist Thinks It's Imperative I Do So.
Anyway, Anthony Mundine is now leaving the jungle after a brief sojourn into this show. I'm not sure why he's in such a hurry to leave. Maybe his knuckles were sore and scraped from being dragged on the ground (I'd have thought the Channel 10 budget could have stretched to some Savlon for the First Aid kit). Being a jungle setting, surely he would be quite happy to climb the tree and fling his faeces around at people, given the archaic and frankly offensive rot he was spouting. Speaking of faeces, does his arse get jealous of the shit coming out his mouth?
Set out hereunder are his views on women wearing short skirts:
'You want to protect your women....You don't want other men having prerogative thoughts about your girl or your daughter...She can wear a dress...not a short skirt, not above the knees....' What the actual crikey fuck? But wait, like those aggravating steak knives ads, THERE'S MORE - you see, not wearing short skirts is - are you reading for this? Sitting Down? Done a wee? - not wearing short skirts is '...for their own good.'
First of all, I'm not sure what he's getting at with his use of the word 'prerogative'. A prerogative is a right or privilege, or can be used in common law terms when referring to the prerogative power of the monarch to appoint a prime minister. So in base terms Mundine will understand: Mate, what you are fucking on about? Did you perhaps mean 'predatory'. Get a dictionary, and get someone to read the definition to you.
If I was a man, I would be immensely offended by this twaddle. But as a woman, I am majorly pissed off that some blabbermouth pugilist seems to have arbitrarily appointed himself Guardian of the Women's Wardrobe, and by association Keeper of the Virtue. I'm of legal majority, pay taxes, and don't break laws, and will wear what I fucking well want (keeping within the actual legislation and dress regulations applicable to whatever function I am attending), and not what Mundine the Mouth thinks). Why don't you wear a bloody gag over your mouth, Mundine; and stop worrying about what law-abiding, free-thinking citizens wear? If you have any untoward thoughts when a woman wears a short skirt, then YOU'RE the one with the problem and should think about it.
I propose we women take an online protest, as much as online protests usually give me the Sighs & Accompanying Eyerolls. This proposed protest involves posting photos of ourselves in short skirts with the epithet: 'Fuck Off, Mundine!' Here's an example:
Yes, I KNOW this was photo is old, but it's the only one I have of myself in a short skirt, really.
And yes, I cannot let a blogging opportunity slip by without referring to the scandal involving our Deputy Prime Minister, Barnaby Joyce, whom I have seen referred to as Barnaby the Bonking Beetroot. I guess this moniker is a derisive paean to his complexion which is reminiscent of a baked beetroot, and his proclivities which have led to the impregnation of one of his staffers. But you know what? I actually do not really care that he has impregnated one of his staffers. I am gobsmacked that his staffer wanted to do him, but that's her choice. I do not care about the sex lives of consenting adults.
But what I DO care about is the hypocrisy. Barnaby Joyce is a man who opposed same sex marriage on the grounds it did not fit in with his view of a good traditional marriage. He was worried about his daughters' marriage prospects. Check out this quote:
"We know that the best protection for those girls is that they get themselves into a secure relationship with a loving husband, and I want that to happen for them. I don't want any legislator to take that right away from me."
Barnaby, are you seriously concerned the best prospects for your daughters are to find a husband? Are you channelling a Jane Austen novel? I fail to see how a same sex marriage between two other people is going to affect any hypothetical marriage into which your daughters enter.
Also, and this just has me simultaneously scratching my head and grinding my teeth, in 2006 you opposed Gardasil - a potentially life-saving vaccine against cervical cancer - on the grounds that it would 'give girls a licence to be promiscuous'. Again, you appear to have stepped into Dr Brown's De Lorean and gone back to the Sixties, or something. This was a similar fatuous argument trotted out when the contraceptive pill was introduced.
Barns, I'm not a pharmacologist, so I don't know if the vaccine has an ingredient that alters the girls' hormones to the point where they turn into raving nymphomaniacs. I'm guessing not. But whether or not a vaccine can make a girl become promiscuous is seriously nothing for YOU to worry about. Other people's sex lives are none of your business, and I'm sure you're finding out how it feels to have your own sex live dissected by a bunch of talking heads and strangers right now.
If the bedroom antics of other people are an affront to your Catholic faith, then maybe YOU'RE the one with the problem. I've been raised Catholic, too, and from memory there's something in the good ol' Decalogue about not committing adultery; I think it's no. 7 on the list. See where I'm going with this?
So yes, Reader, whilst I think Barnaby's sex life is really his own business; it irritates me to the nth power that he takes the high moral ground about the lives of others, all the while acting like quite the roister-doister himself. 'Roister-doister' is a new word I learned recently, and it is with great glee I have found an opportunity to use it in a blog post.
Until I next post in a few days, fare thee well.
Anyway, Anthony Mundine is now leaving the jungle after a brief sojourn into this show. I'm not sure why he's in such a hurry to leave. Maybe his knuckles were sore and scraped from being dragged on the ground (I'd have thought the Channel 10 budget could have stretched to some Savlon for the First Aid kit). Being a jungle setting, surely he would be quite happy to climb the tree and fling his faeces around at people, given the archaic and frankly offensive rot he was spouting. Speaking of faeces, does his arse get jealous of the shit coming out his mouth?
Set out hereunder are his views on women wearing short skirts:
'You want to protect your women....You don't want other men having prerogative thoughts about your girl or your daughter...She can wear a dress...not a short skirt, not above the knees....' What the actual crikey fuck? But wait, like those aggravating steak knives ads, THERE'S MORE - you see, not wearing short skirts is - are you reading for this? Sitting Down? Done a wee? - not wearing short skirts is '...for their own good.'
First of all, I'm not sure what he's getting at with his use of the word 'prerogative'. A prerogative is a right or privilege, or can be used in common law terms when referring to the prerogative power of the monarch to appoint a prime minister. So in base terms Mundine will understand: Mate, what you are fucking on about? Did you perhaps mean 'predatory'. Get a dictionary, and get someone to read the definition to you.
If I was a man, I would be immensely offended by this twaddle. But as a woman, I am majorly pissed off that some blabbermouth pugilist seems to have arbitrarily appointed himself Guardian of the Women's Wardrobe, and by association Keeper of the Virtue. I'm of legal majority, pay taxes, and don't break laws, and will wear what I fucking well want (keeping within the actual legislation and dress regulations applicable to whatever function I am attending), and not what Mundine the Mouth thinks). Why don't you wear a bloody gag over your mouth, Mundine; and stop worrying about what law-abiding, free-thinking citizens wear? If you have any untoward thoughts when a woman wears a short skirt, then YOU'RE the one with the problem and should think about it.
I propose we women take an online protest, as much as online protests usually give me the Sighs & Accompanying Eyerolls. This proposed protest involves posting photos of ourselves in short skirts with the epithet: 'Fuck Off, Mundine!' Here's an example:
Yes, I KNOW this was photo is old, but it's the only one I have of myself in a short skirt, really.
And yes, I cannot let a blogging opportunity slip by without referring to the scandal involving our Deputy Prime Minister, Barnaby Joyce, whom I have seen referred to as Barnaby the Bonking Beetroot. I guess this moniker is a derisive paean to his complexion which is reminiscent of a baked beetroot, and his proclivities which have led to the impregnation of one of his staffers. But you know what? I actually do not really care that he has impregnated one of his staffers. I am gobsmacked that his staffer wanted to do him, but that's her choice. I do not care about the sex lives of consenting adults.
But what I DO care about is the hypocrisy. Barnaby Joyce is a man who opposed same sex marriage on the grounds it did not fit in with his view of a good traditional marriage. He was worried about his daughters' marriage prospects. Check out this quote:
"We know that the best protection for those girls is that they get themselves into a secure relationship with a loving husband, and I want that to happen for them. I don't want any legislator to take that right away from me."
Barnaby, are you seriously concerned the best prospects for your daughters are to find a husband? Are you channelling a Jane Austen novel? I fail to see how a same sex marriage between two other people is going to affect any hypothetical marriage into which your daughters enter.
Also, and this just has me simultaneously scratching my head and grinding my teeth, in 2006 you opposed Gardasil - a potentially life-saving vaccine against cervical cancer - on the grounds that it would 'give girls a licence to be promiscuous'. Again, you appear to have stepped into Dr Brown's De Lorean and gone back to the Sixties, or something. This was a similar fatuous argument trotted out when the contraceptive pill was introduced.
Barns, I'm not a pharmacologist, so I don't know if the vaccine has an ingredient that alters the girls' hormones to the point where they turn into raving nymphomaniacs. I'm guessing not. But whether or not a vaccine can make a girl become promiscuous is seriously nothing for YOU to worry about. Other people's sex lives are none of your business, and I'm sure you're finding out how it feels to have your own sex live dissected by a bunch of talking heads and strangers right now.
If the bedroom antics of other people are an affront to your Catholic faith, then maybe YOU'RE the one with the problem. I've been raised Catholic, too, and from memory there's something in the good ol' Decalogue about not committing adultery; I think it's no. 7 on the list. See where I'm going with this?
So yes, Reader, whilst I think Barnaby's sex life is really his own business; it irritates me to the nth power that he takes the high moral ground about the lives of others, all the while acting like quite the roister-doister himself. 'Roister-doister' is a new word I learned recently, and it is with great glee I have found an opportunity to use it in a blog post.
Until I next post in a few days, fare thee well.
Sunday 4 February 2018
Tell You What I Want, What I Really, Really, Really Want
Often, we seem to be the recipients of crappy news. Today is no exception, to wit, the Spice Girls have confirmed they will be reuniting. I don't know what for; whether it be a tour, or an album. Perhaps it is their misguided intention to appear on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here as a group contestant. As an aside, can anybody tell me whether Victoria aka Posh Spice has ever actually smiled? She's the surliest, sulkiest looking creature, and radiates ill-will and gloomy malevolence like a miasma.
I know it is not mandatory for me to listen to their music (hah!), or watch them perform. That's just as well. Here are a list of things I would find more pleasurable than being subjected to their prefab pop putrescence:
1. Clean the wall of a William Street glory hole on any given early Sunday morning.
2. Drip Tabasco sauce into my urethra.
3. Enter a makeshift toilet used by new-chum Western tourists trekking the Himalayas, after a meal of game. (I've been there, done that, and - er - contributed to that; so I know it's putrid).
4. Sit through a performance of the score to The Sound of Music from Bob Dylan, Neil Young, James Reyne, Sid Barrett, James Blunt and Tom Waites. Perhaps for added horror the former Mr Zimmerman can solo on Climb Every Mountain.
5. Hearkening to Point 3 above, negotiate a field just vacated by a herd of diarrhetic elephants, barefoot.
Clearly I was not a child of the Nineties. Even more clearly I have decent taste in music. Well, I like to think my taste is decent. But the guilty pleasure of having enjoyed the Bay City Rollers as a child stays with me as an adult, and I am overjoyed to learn Les McKeon is touring with his own version of the Rollers, and they are playing at a venue near me, in July. Mr Bingells, I know what I want for my birthday, which is next week, but the ticket can be my birthday present! Heh-heh!
I know it is not mandatory for me to listen to their music (hah!), or watch them perform. That's just as well. Here are a list of things I would find more pleasurable than being subjected to their prefab pop putrescence:
1. Clean the wall of a William Street glory hole on any given early Sunday morning.
2. Drip Tabasco sauce into my urethra.
3. Enter a makeshift toilet used by new-chum Western tourists trekking the Himalayas, after a meal of game. (I've been there, done that, and - er - contributed to that; so I know it's putrid).
4. Sit through a performance of the score to The Sound of Music from Bob Dylan, Neil Young, James Reyne, Sid Barrett, James Blunt and Tom Waites. Perhaps for added horror the former Mr Zimmerman can solo on Climb Every Mountain.
5. Hearkening to Point 3 above, negotiate a field just vacated by a herd of diarrhetic elephants, barefoot.
Clearly I was not a child of the Nineties. Even more clearly I have decent taste in music. Well, I like to think my taste is decent. But the guilty pleasure of having enjoyed the Bay City Rollers as a child stays with me as an adult, and I am overjoyed to learn Les McKeon is touring with his own version of the Rollers, and they are playing at a venue near me, in July. Mr Bingells, I know what I want for my birthday, which is next week, but the ticket can be my birthday present! Heh-heh!
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