'Cycle' of Stupidity

There is often a push for a change of term used to describe a sector of society. Somethings the idea has merit, and sometimes the idea totally fellates a camel's balls (complete with burrs tangled in the fur thereon).  An example of the former is referring to those of a darker skinned ethnicity as 'people of colour', instead of 'coloured'. I currently work in the care industry, and we have been instructed to refer to the relevant persons as 'person with a disability' instead of 'disabled.' The reasoning behind this is to put the person first, and I completely understand this. This is the meritorious of the notions.

As for the notion that runs its stupid tongue around the camel's burry-furry balls (and stops for a rimjob in its stupidity); there has been a push to ban the word 'cyclist'. Now, we're all just getting silly. There is nothing isolating or disenfranchising about the bloody word 'cyclist', for Christ's sake! The people who want this term banned say it is because the term is often associated with road-rage. You know what? Sometimes it is. But, sometimes it refers to people competing in a velodrome, or in a charity ride, or even the Tour de France.  Sometimes it refers to someone riding along in the allocated lane. Does the term 'cyclist' really offend you morons that much? Do entities actually throw money at these think-tanks to come up with such totally asinine and nincompoopish ideas? I will call a spade a spade, regardless of the circumstances, to wit, if I see someone on a bicycle, I am going to call him or her a cyclist. So shove that up your jumpers, all those who want us to spiral into some totally unrecognisable Orwellian Newspeak language! Besides, if I'm feeling annoyed at a pushbike-rider on the road, I don't say 'cyclist'. I say, 'That stupid cunt who's in the middle of the road and hasn't got the sense to move over to the side.'

But to summarise, I'm not going to change my terminology for some half-arsed reason devised by some researchers who have to really justify their existence.

Dear-oh-dear, Pauline Hanson, James Ashby, and Steve Dickson. I cannot believe the depths of stupidity and corruption to which you have plummeted. You approached the NRA, and what happened? You've each shot yourselves in the foot! Oh, the irony is just magnificent and delicious! After viewing Part 2 of How to Sell a Massacre last night, I was ready to reach for the sick bucket. How repulsive a slime-ball is Dickson? How repugnant was that spokeswoman for the NRA? She mentioned the spin they use is: 'God-given right'. Oh. My. Freaking. Gawd.  Honestly, when watching that show last night I could not recall having ever seen such a massive conglomeration of vile numpties. You are all a shit-stain in the underpants of humanity. Get in the bin, the lot of you.

On the brighter side, the release of my upcoming novel Howling on a Concrete Moon is getting closer. I have been emailed a final proof to approve before print. I will then have to approve cover design. This book is written in a different style to my previous novels, and it's in a different style and voice to my blog. The narrator is a seventeen-year-old girl in 1982. Anything set in 1982 that makes reference to Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice is Miles Franklin Award material, in my submission. When it's released, check it out.

Ashby is Getting Saucy

'On the sauce'; isn't that an interesting name for getting stonkered, drunk, imbibing, intoxication? It's been bandied about by James Ashby from One Nation to explain a rather questionable, to say the least, step they took by approaching the NRA. Here are some things I have done whilst on the sauce, and some them are very dull-witted decisions, to say the least:

1. Sung karaoke. You're likely thinking: So what? Lots of people have had a few drinks and belted out 'Rhinestone Cowboy' or 'MacArthur Park', so what makes you so special? You haven't heard me sing. I've got a voice that could drop a scud missile.

2. Told a string of filthy jokes. I have a remarkable repertoire of blue jokes, too.

3. Gone skinny-dipping.

4. Sneaked into my local swimming pool (no, it does not correlate with the point immediately above).

5. Tried to climb over a toilet stall wall to rescue a friend who had passed out on the floor therein, an apparent victim of drink spiking. I was stopped by another pub patron who had the advantage of youth and agility. She climbed the wall into the stall, and it was then we discovered the stall door was unlocked. We called an ambulance, and my friend turned out fine.

6. Busted some really terrible mum-moves on the dancefloor.

What I have NOT done, nor would I even consider, James Ashby and Steve Dickson, is seeking advice from the NRA about weakening Australia's gun laws. Our gun laws are actually working. Fuck me sideways with a toaster, you two are a pair of colossal shit-bags! You would be the first people to cry foul at any implied interference in our politics from a foreign nation (or doesn't it count because the nation in question has lots of whites?). Please consider this: today the father of one of the children slaughtered in the Sandy Hook massacre died, and it appears to be suicide. You could bet your lungs it's somehow related to the unspeakable grief from that terrible day.

Call me whimsical, or call me a dreamer, but I've got this funny quirk whereby I like the fact that when my kids go to school, there's a better chance of them coming home in one piece because they haven't been massacred by some sick fuck with an assault rifle. I'm funny like that.

Civic Duty, & Heated Uric Acid

Okay, my civic duty is done. I voted, and even managed to annoy people handing out leaflets on my way in to the polling area (I am certain this surprises you not at all). I was able to assist the man in the booth next to me, when he cried out in an exasperated voice, 'Jesus Christ!' I said Jesus Christ was not in the running, so I'm sure the man is thankful that he is no longer wasting his time perusing that spreadsheet of a paper trying to find Our Lord's party and candidacy.

At the time of typing this post (1.46pm AEDT), I have no idea who's going to get in. With every fibre of my being, I'm hoping it's not the Libs. My electorate is a Nationals-saturated one, and needless to say, they shit me, too. Hereunder are my reasons why this lot just boil my piss:

1. They capitulate to odious, ranting shock jocks (yes, I'm talking about you, Alan Jones, you blathering pissant).

2. Our Federal Nationals member tried to block potentially life saving cervical cancer vaccine on the grounds it might make girls 'promiscuous'. Dude, seriously, you impregnated a staffer (who was in a job especially created by you for her), and left your wife and kids. Get of the high moral ground.  I don't care about your personal life, I just care about your hypocrisy.

3. They want to tear down and rebuild sports stadiums in Sydney that quite frankly don't need tearing down and rebuilding. When I hear about this shite after my son has told me he needs to borrow my copy of the text his English class are studying because the school does not have enough copies, my piss goes from boil to nuclear meltdown.

4. They sell off our assets. As someone who has tried dealing with the now privatised Land & Property Information, this renders me very combative.  Years ago, as a junior law clerk, I would attend the then public Land Titles Office (as it was then known) to registered various conveyancing instruments such as Deeds, or Mortgages. I would also carry out searches and obtain photocopies of Certificates of Title, and other such things. Say what you will about the public service, the place actually ran like clockwork back then. Every department had their job, and everyone did their job, and I got along with every clerk working there. One of them (tee-hee!) actually fancied me. I didn't fancy him back; he was really gross.

5. On a national level, they want to introduce the putrescent Indue Card, or cashless welfare, or as it's best referred to: economic apartheid. This is the subject of another post entirely, and I won't go into it here.

6. They won't listen to drug and alcohol experts about the benefits of introducing pill testing at music festivals, and have killed the Sydney nightlife dead as a stone.

Anyway, I've got some other work to do now. Oh, and watch this space; I anticipate the release of my novel Howling on a Concrete Moon over the next few months!

My Take on Egg-Boy, and How To Tell If You're Having A Bad Day

Is it safe to look yet? (*logs into social media feeds to see if it's gone, and yes, it seems safe*)

Aaaah, they're dwindling in number and it's safe to look. Yes, I think I only saw one today. One what, you ask? One article on Egg-Boy, who in this weird and often overly-sensitive woke age has become some symbol of all that is good and just, and who will no doubt be the subject of a question at pub trivia night soon.  

Yes, I know I'm just buying into all the publicity and blathering myself now, but I've been flat out like a lizard drinking, and unable to sit at my computer.  So, here's my take:

Stop calling him a hero. He's not a hero. Saving somebody from drowning, or rushing into a burning building to rescue a trapped person makes you a hero. Smashing an egg on someone's noggin (even if that someone is a soiled sheet of toilet paper like Fraser Anning) does NOT make you a hero.  Also, the kid was filming himself. What did he hope to achieve? Social media fame? (Hint: it worked in buckets). I agree that Anning is a loathsome pile of shit, but smashing an egg on someone's head happens to constitute an assault.

Looking at it that way, I actually attribute Anning's initial response to the fight-or-flight instinct we have. He would have had a shock at being assaulted as he was, and lashed out. The continued hitting, and restraining of the kid by his Merry Band of Ruffians was totally not on. I read a lot of learned legal opinion on this, and I'm not going to bother repeating it here. Just look it up yourselves. 

But gosh, it all went Bonfire of the Vanities, didn't it? Has-been American actor Dean Cain (from Lois & Clark) said he would have knocked the kid out. Seriously, mate? This is a kid, and it was an EGG.

Yeah, I got over all the publicity very quickly. There was a fund set up for any donations to pay legal bills should the kid have ended up charged, and it's unlikely he will be charged. He has said he'd like to donate those proceeds to the victims of last week's Christchurch massacre, and for that he is to be commended. I applaud you, young man, for trying to help the very people that dickwad Anning vilified in a statement. 

Everyone, let's not go smashing eggs on people's heads, okay? And yes, I will admit to having had a chuckle when I saw that googy getting splattered on Anning's dastardly dome. 

Now, if anyone is wondering if they're having a bad day, have a read of this. It's why I haven't been at the computer lately, and it might be some steps to help clarify whether your day is turning to horse shit:

1. Get up at five o'clock because you have to head off at six o'clock to start work at SEVEN o'clock in a nearby town.

2. Become stuck in the most horrific traffic you've ever seen in town, bearing in mind you're residing in a country town, and spend half an hour travelling along a stretch of road that normally takes less than five minutes. Wonder has there been a car accident, and find out it's owing to road works that are expected to continue for a few months.

3. Start your shift reeeeeeaaaaaaallllly late because of that traffic, so realise with deep disgruntlement the rest of your day is going go be thrown out of whack.

4. Start driving to a farm you've never visited, and become lost. Realise instead of being an hour behind schedule, you're now an hour-and-a-half behind schedule. Think about alcohol. 

5. Get jumped on by an excitable but unfortunately really stinky dog. Wonder will you need a turbo wash to rid your nostrils of the beast's noisome stench.

6. After an exhausting shift, on the drive home, get held up by a coal train. Curse like a sailor who's dropped the anchor on his foot as you wait, and wait, and wait for at the railway crossing for the vehicle to finalise its interminable journey. Seriously, by the time the final carriage has passed, the engine has likely reached the Newcastle port for shipping.

7. Stagger in the house and pour wine.

Oh well, that's me done. Thanks for reading.

And They Call Union Members Thugs?

Although the notion of voting Liberal and/or National holds as much appeal to me as the notion of having Tabasco sauce dripped into my urethra, I try not to board the bandwagon that the Libs have a problem with women. I try not to pigeonhole people, nor make assumptions, nor buy into stereotypes.

That is about to change.

From what I saw yesterday, the Libs DO have a problem with women. I'm not just talking about Tones punching a hole in a wall beside the head of a woman to whom he had lost in some debate back in his university days, nor the fact that they didn't elect Julie Bishop as their leader when she's probably the best of a bad bunch, nor the fact that their leader (hah!) made a leering remark about Pamela Anderson. Where women are concerned, people have spoken of a bullying culture that permeates the party the way a Pal fart permeates the dog's bedding You know something? This theory holds water. Lots and lots of water. A whole Pacific Ocean of water, in fact.

Reader, cast your ocular organs upon this photograph. The woman in the picture is Karyn Laxale. She is the wife of Ryde Labor candidate Jerome Laxale. The nervous little girl gripping her hand is their daughter. Karyn is going about her lawful business, which in this instance was distributing flyers regarding her husband.

The group of young arsewipes (they aren't men) circling like a pack of jackals are members of the Young Liberals, who were campaigning for the Liberal member for Ryde, Victor Dominello. Here's the bit where I make obnoxious assumptions about them (but no more obnoxious than their respective actions toward this woman and her daughter). They are a bunch of private school educated cum-rags whose respective daddies took them skiing every winter, and sailing around the Bahamas in the summer;who have been brought (dragged!) up to believe everything is theirs for the taking because they've got money which makes them the elite, unlike all those grubby peasants; that it's heroic to pick on some party that doesn't match theirs in number. To say the very least: a pack of crumbs held together by their parents' dough.

If any of you pampered Little Lord Snotlington-Wankersby types are reading this, please be informed you are a pack of snivelling poltroons. Look at that little girl: she's frightened. Does it feel good to scare a kid?  Little girl, take it from Auntie Bingells, if you say 'Boo!' to this lot, they will piss where they're standing, and ruin their calfskin loafers. I'd love to see a guy take this lot on. Cowards hunting in packs, the lot of them.

Oh, their leader Dominello did offer an apology. He telephoned his political rival Jerome Laxale to apologise. Dom, mate, just a heads up: Karyn Laxale is a person in her own right, and not a chattel of her husband. Why don't you apologise to HER, and to their daughter? I'm sure the 1950s will let you out long enough to do this.

In light of this sickening display from Dominello's craven, timorous goons, maybe the Libs would reconsider their stance on union members. You know, the one where they described the unions as 'thugs'? Looks like the Libs have a fair representation of that barbaric, lowbred sector of society in their own party.

In parting, I would just like to say to the guys who thought this okay: fuck you.

Censorship Stupidity

It's come to my notice radio stations in New Zealand are removing the music of Michael Jackson from their playlists, and I've also just read the producers of The Simpsons are removing the episode wherein Homer Simpson meets a man who believes himself to be Michael Jackson. This is of course in the wake of the Finding Neverland documentary, which dealt with allegations of pederasty supposedly committed by the late King of Plastic, er Poop, that is, I mean to say: Pop.  

From the final sentence of the above paragraph, you're probably surmising I'm not a huge fan of Jacko's. You would be right: I'm not. I always considered him a pasty, plastic-faced weirdo who should have been nailed to a tree for giving us that horrific song The Man in the Mirror ('I'm looking at the man in the mirror...' Oh, are you just? Can you actually see a reflection? I thought ghostly things didn't reflect). That being said, I've always enjoyed watching footage of him performing because he was a phenomenally talented man, and I'm mature enough to admit that, even if I am not a fan of his oeuvre.  

But what I am even less a fan of is the unqualified and absolute stupidity shown by the aforementioned bodies who have made a decision to remove the music/episode. Can I please point out two things:

1. Michael Jackson was acquitted of sexual offence charges in 2005 in a court of law after due process. Give him that courtesy; and

2. The allegations raised in the aforementioned documentary cannot be substantiated and tested, given Jackson is deceased.

I have no idea if Michael Jackson is guilty of the offences. I do think he was as weird as fuck. Being weird as fuck is no reason to not play music. Nor, in my submission, are any allegations of impropriety. One must separate the art from the artist. 

Just because the creator of the work is depraved does not mean the work should not be enjoyed. Oscar Wilde was in the habit of picking up ten-year-old rent boys, a common practice of his societal circle at the time, but a repugnant idea to all of us. Do we stop producing his plays? I sincerely hope we never do.  

Think about this:

1. Let's stop playing Led Zeppelin because they were pretty awful to women, and banged underage groupies.

2. Let's not play David Bowie any more because he was banging an underage groupie.

3. Let's stop playing MOST of our classic artists because odds are they were banging underage groupies.

4. Let's stop playing any of the fantastic music produced by Phil Spector because he's serving a sentence for second-degree murder.

5. Let's stop playing music produced by anybody who has ever done anything morally objectionable, ethically questionable, illegal, or downright stupid. 

Okay, let's turn on radio. Oh, the Osmonds. Okay. Hey, they're playing another Osmonds song. Oh, man; here comes ANOTHER Osmonds song! I'm getting sick of this, so let's change stations. What the fuck! ANOTHER Osmonds song? Is that all anybody's going to play now? I'm changing stations; what's one that won't play Osmonds? Ah, here we are. Let's all listen to some nice, smooth, easy-listening... static. 

Feeling 'Flinty'

This is a bummer of a day. Both Luke Perry and Keith Flint have died. Some would say it's weird of me to grieve over people whom I've not met, but it is a real thing: people do 'feel it' when a celebrity dies. Neither of these men were particularly old, Perry was 52 and Flint only 49, so I guess that's part of the disquiet people are experiencing. It's really very sad that a stroke could claim someone at a relatively tender age, as in Perry's case. 

Neither of these men graced my walls in the form of posters. I'm just outside the age-bracket to have decorated my wall with their countenances. Nay, were you to wander into my room when I was a teenybopper, you'd have seen posters of Luke Skywalker (*sighs dreamily*).

But I did become a regular viewer of Beverly Hills, 90210. I don't know why. I was in my mid-twenties when the show started, and logically a bit old to be crushing on any of the cast. If you're wondering: no, I did not crush on any of the cast. It's not like the show was in any way relatable to me; I was not a teenager in high school at the salient time, and I attended a public school in a small town in rural New South Wales, not a rich school in LA where the students were a bunch of vacuous, coked-up snots with wealthy, and in some cases - famous - parents.

But the show was my guilty viewing pleasure. I got right into it. It's not like I could understand the appeal of any of the characters. Perry's character Dylan was so broody I thought he was going to lay an egg. Steve was a dickhead. Brenda, a total goody-two-shoes, was the most annoying one of the lot. When the producers finally booted Shannon Doherty for being too much of a punchable malefactor, I did like the Brenda replacement character, Valerie Malone. She and Kellie quarrelled and sniped, but stopped short of a catfight. Kellie also got on my nerves, so I used to barrack for Valerie.

But despite my irritation at the characters, I still watched as much of the show as I could.

And along with developing a taste for this show, I also developed something of a tolerance for techno rave, which means I rather liked the oeuvre of The Prodigy, the band led by Keith Flint.

So RIP, Luke and Keith. You've both been taken too soon.

Re-PELL-ent

Being what I would like to consider something of a wordsmith, my online games are limited to bouts of Words with Friends, and Boggle (naturally, I also play Trivia Rush, but that doesn't really count as a 'word game'). Aside from the fun mental challenge, these games also have a function that enables players to 'chat' with their opponents. I've been enjoying the interchanges between me and my Boggle opponents, most of whom are in the US. Usually the chats are about the differences in climate between Australia (currently melting into a puddle) and the US (cold as fuck).

Anyway, the other night I received notification of a new challenger, and a new message. The message went something along these lines:

'...Me and my friend made a bet for $100 for the first one to show 10 girls a picture of his dick can you help me...'

As you can imagine, I was absolutely incensed! The appalling grammar had me snorting like an angry bull, and I had to be restrained from writing back with corrections. I actually did respond and inform him that I am a middle-aged woman in Australia, and surely to God he can find someone closer to his own age who just might have a skerrick of interest in viewing a photograph of his weiner. I also played the round in Boggle and metaphorically kicked the little degenerate's arse from here to Kingdom Come. I've not heard back, and I'm guessing the reason is twofold: firstly, I am not going to assist him in being the victor of this depraved wager (no doubt devised over a session on the x-box and the bong in someone's basement); and secondly, I am going to flay him alive in Boggle.

On the other hand, I am aware one can do fun things with the 'edit' function; so, perhaps I should have said, 'Yes, I'd love to see your pic!' (and thrown in a few kisses and hearts), and when the priapic image arrived in my in-box 'drawn' googly eyes on it, before sending it back to the satyriatic little twerp (or broadcast the image until it went viral instead). I know it's childish, but googly eyes make EVERYTHING funny!

Okay, like every other commentator that has gone before me, I am going to weigh in on the comments made by Cardinal Pell's lawyer in his submission to the judge in light of Pell's conviction by the jury. Regular followers already know this, but if I've obtained a new follower today (welcome, great to have you!), I will point out my background is one in law, specialising in criminal defence work. I'm not a qualified lawyer, my role was strictly paralegal/secretarial, but I have a good understanding of how and why it works the way it does, and my knowledge and experience shits copious amounts over the comments made by many others.  Everyone has lost their shit over Richter QC's use of the term 'vanilla' to describe the offence for which His Honour must formulate a sentence. Others are of the mind Richter has admitted Pell's guilt in his submission. Sit back, and read carefully:

In making reference to the incident, Richter is NOT saying is client is guilty. Richter's role is to achieve the best outcome he can for his client (keeping within the parameters of the law), and that means arguing for the most lenient sentence he can. Richter is referring to an incident for which a jury has found Pell guilty, and he must therefore argue on the circumstances set out in this offence. This does not mean he is saying client guilty.

The term 'vanilla' is not the best one, but it was not used to diminish any trauma experienced by victims. Richter's role first and foremost is to protect the interests of Pell. Any sexual assault is bad, but the court must take into account any mitigating factors such as aggravated violence. A grope on the bus is a sexual assault, but a perpetrator will receive a more lenient sentence than someone convicted of a sexual assault involving bodily penetration and a knife held to the victim's throat. Understand? What Richter's saying is along the lines of: 'The offence involved X and Y, but not Z'. Like it or not, he's got to do it. It's his job.

Some of the comments I've read go beyond ridiculous. Things like: 'Only a pedo would act for a pedo.' People who think this, can you please not breed? Using this logic, a lawyer representing a person charged with armed robbery must have committed an armed robbery him- or herself.

Also, John Howard is allowed to write a reference for Pell, if he believes it is the right thing to do. We're a democracy, and it is his right to do so.

Another bizarre line of commentary I've been reading is that there are some who are demanding to know the names of people who have contributed to the legal fees for Pell's trial. How do I put this? Oh, I know: It's nobody's business. Think about it, folks. If you decide to donate to a cause, you don't have to disclose this to the general public. If people are disbursing their money for a lawful transaction, it's really nobody else's business. What do you think the office of the solicitors for Pell are going to say if someone rings up and demands to see their trust account ledgers? The response will be a polite: 'I'm sorry, but we will not disclose our personal financial information', whereupon the receiver will be replaced whilst the office representative mutters, 'Fuck off, you idiot!' under his or her breath.

Okay, that's enough of my lecturing for today. I'm aware my thoughts might not be in keeping with the mainstream shock-jock rantings, but I just wanted to explain a few things.

And talk about the request I got to be shown a dick pic.