Things that won't die:
1. Cockroaches. They are seriously tenacious little bastards, scrabbling around on their six hairy legs, a layer of bugs spray glistening like a drag queen's sequins on their carapace, as you chase after them and keep spraying, and spraying, and spraying; spraying so much that it is you who ends up green-faced and wheezing, and the cockroaches go about their business. Well, it's been said they can withstand a nuclear fallout, so why am I not surprised?
2. Keith Richards. The man is a living defiance of all laws of physiology. It is my theory his innards and internal organs have been preserved in alcohol, kind of like that wombat foetus floating in some kind of suspended animation in a jar of formaldehyde up the back of my old school science lab .
3. The Israel Folau stink. I don't mean a literal malodorous stench (although he MIGHT have BO, but I don't know). I mean this fuss over his sacking by the ARU. Parliament are pushing for some kind of religious freedom thing, and Barnaby Joyce added his two cents with words to the effect:
"If we are going to support religious freedoms then start with the ARU’s approach to Israel Folau. They may not be my views but he shouldn’t be sacked because of his on how he gets to “heaven”. He wasn’t preaching violence."
This was on Twitter. Honestly, Beetroot-Man, have you been missing the freaking POINT? The ARU quite likely don't give a shit about Folau's religious views. The sacking stemmed from a breach of contractual obligations! Faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrkkkkkk! Will you get a CLUE? The rule of law, whose umbrella shelters contracts, overrides religious views, okay? Hell, you're a freaking politician, and you don't understand that basic little scintilla of how things work in this country? Get in the bin; you're a dumpster fire.
Thursday, 30 May 2019
Thursday, 23 May 2019
The Artist's Vision vs Woke Politically Correct Bitching
I can recall when the Harry Potter books became popular that there was some disgruntlement among those in favour of equal rights because the series' protagonist was not a girl. I don't know Rowling personally, but I'm guessing when she devised her juvenile wizard, she felt the character was male. She's the artist, and this was her vision. I don't care if Harry is male, female, non-binary gender, or a gibbon prancing around with a strap-on dildo and brandishing a syringe of testosterone; he's a character created by another writer, and I am not concerned at the gender presented to the reader.
My protagonists have been equally spread across the board. My first novel has a strong twenty-something, my second novel's protagonist is a shy fourteen-year-old boy, my third novel tells the story of an unfortunate forty-year-old man, and my upcoming novel is from the point of view of a seventeen-year-old girl. This is not a deliberate attempt by me to dole out the parts equally; it's just how I view my characters. My supporting characters are given as much space as I see fit to the story.
Unfortunately, we live in times when everybody gets offended about the smallest thing. The headlines I see are peppered with phrases and words like 'outrage'. Hey, everyone? Here's a tip: STOP BEING SO FUCKING OFFENDED BY EVERY FUCKING THING YOU SEE, AND MAYBE YOU'LL BE A LOT HAPPIER!
Okay?
What's got me arcing up is the stupid story I saw that indicates Quentin Tarantino 'snapped' at a female reporter who asked him why Margot Robbie had not been granted more lines in his new movie Once Upon A Time... in Hollywood. From what I can tell, this movie is about an actor and his body double (played by Leonardo Di Caprio and Brad Pitt respectively) during the late Sixties, and part of the film deals with the Manson family murders. Those in the know will be aware some monstrous cretins slaughtered several people in Hollywood, one such victim being a heavily pregnant Sharon Tate, wife of Roman Polanski. It's an utterly foul, horrifying tragedy. Anyway, Tate is played by Margot Robbie.
The question put to Tarantino was loaded like a Glock pistol pointing at a would-be victim's face. The subtext, as heavy and saturated as a soaking sponge, screamed: YOU PATRIARCHAL ARSEHOLE! WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE MARGOT ROBBIE AT LEAST FIFTY PER CENT OF ALL THE LINES IN THE MOVIE BECAUSE SHE IS A FEMALE AND THEREFORE MUST HAVE EQUAL SCREEN AND DIALOGUE TIME AS HER MALE CO-STARS? YOU SEXIST SHIT-GIBBON THAT IS DRIPPING WITH INTERNALISED MISOGYNY!!! Tarantino picked up on this, and said - yes, 'said'; not 'snapped' - 'Well, I just reject your hypothesis.' And good for him!
The question was a completely asinine load of twaddle. If the film is about the actor and his body double, then the Sharon Tate character is not the film's main focus, and if she is not the film's main focus, she is not going to be given the lion's share of the lines in the script, okay? Faaaaaaaarking Hell, it's hard to put up with people at times. When the artist has a vision, then it's the artist's vision. Art doesn't have to read the room, nor does it have to conform to societal trends. If you have a problem with this, don't watch the movie. And don't forget, Tarantino has brought strong female characters to the screen: Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction and The Bride in Kill Bill, for starters.
So, did anybody happen to catch Mastermind Australia last night (22 May 2019)? I was on it. You'd have picked me - I was the only female, and wowing with my knowledge of the books of Harper Lee. Copped some hard ones in my general knowledge round, but overall, I was happy with how it all went!
My protagonists have been equally spread across the board. My first novel has a strong twenty-something, my second novel's protagonist is a shy fourteen-year-old boy, my third novel tells the story of an unfortunate forty-year-old man, and my upcoming novel is from the point of view of a seventeen-year-old girl. This is not a deliberate attempt by me to dole out the parts equally; it's just how I view my characters. My supporting characters are given as much space as I see fit to the story.
Unfortunately, we live in times when everybody gets offended about the smallest thing. The headlines I see are peppered with phrases and words like 'outrage'. Hey, everyone? Here's a tip: STOP BEING SO FUCKING OFFENDED BY EVERY FUCKING THING YOU SEE, AND MAYBE YOU'LL BE A LOT HAPPIER!
Okay?
What's got me arcing up is the stupid story I saw that indicates Quentin Tarantino 'snapped' at a female reporter who asked him why Margot Robbie had not been granted more lines in his new movie Once Upon A Time... in Hollywood. From what I can tell, this movie is about an actor and his body double (played by Leonardo Di Caprio and Brad Pitt respectively) during the late Sixties, and part of the film deals with the Manson family murders. Those in the know will be aware some monstrous cretins slaughtered several people in Hollywood, one such victim being a heavily pregnant Sharon Tate, wife of Roman Polanski. It's an utterly foul, horrifying tragedy. Anyway, Tate is played by Margot Robbie.
The question put to Tarantino was loaded like a Glock pistol pointing at a would-be victim's face. The subtext, as heavy and saturated as a soaking sponge, screamed: YOU PATRIARCHAL ARSEHOLE! WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE MARGOT ROBBIE AT LEAST FIFTY PER CENT OF ALL THE LINES IN THE MOVIE BECAUSE SHE IS A FEMALE AND THEREFORE MUST HAVE EQUAL SCREEN AND DIALOGUE TIME AS HER MALE CO-STARS? YOU SEXIST SHIT-GIBBON THAT IS DRIPPING WITH INTERNALISED MISOGYNY!!! Tarantino picked up on this, and said - yes, 'said'; not 'snapped' - 'Well, I just reject your hypothesis.' And good for him!
The question was a completely asinine load of twaddle. If the film is about the actor and his body double, then the Sharon Tate character is not the film's main focus, and if she is not the film's main focus, she is not going to be given the lion's share of the lines in the script, okay? Faaaaaaaarking Hell, it's hard to put up with people at times. When the artist has a vision, then it's the artist's vision. Art doesn't have to read the room, nor does it have to conform to societal trends. If you have a problem with this, don't watch the movie. And don't forget, Tarantino has brought strong female characters to the screen: Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction and The Bride in Kill Bill, for starters.
So, did anybody happen to catch Mastermind Australia last night (22 May 2019)? I was on it. You'd have picked me - I was the only female, and wowing with my knowledge of the books of Harper Lee. Copped some hard ones in my general knowledge round, but overall, I was happy with how it all went!
Saturday, 18 May 2019
My Take on the Folau Nonsense
There are many things I am sick of. Being a grammar Nazi, that last sentence should probably read: 'There are many things of which I am sick'. Whatever. I'm a bloated mass of corn chips and red wine at the moment, so I might allow a preposition to end a sentence given the narrative voice of my blog.
The thing I am most sick of at the moment is really dumb-fuck politicians. Case in point: Lyle Shelton of the Queensland branch of the Conservatives. Here is his take on the Israel Folau shitfight, wherein his Rugby contract was torn up:
It would appear he is attempting to pin Israel's woes on the results of the same-sex marriage debate, which of course resulted in the legalisation of marriage between same-sex couples. Hey, Lyle, can you please explain to me how same-sex marriage had any influence on Folau's decision to flaunt and defy his contractual obligations with his employer (twice!)? You might want to get on eBay and see if you can buy some rosin in bulk, because you're going to need it for that reeeeeeaaaaaaaaaallly long bow you're drawing.
I might have to type this slowly for Lyle, and other people who don't quite get it, but Israel's strife has nothing to do with free speech. As an aside, Australia does not have a constitutional right to free speech. For what it's worth, I do support - in principle - the man's right to have and express his opinion, but this stink has nothing to do with free speech. What it boils down to is a breach of contractual obligations, and Lyle, this country is governed by rule of law. I make that point also for the goofball who castigated me on the grounds Folau was merely doing God's work. Well, in his own mind, Folau probably IS doing God's work, and whoop-de-bloody-doo for that; let's hang out the bunting and fire up the barbie, and a few packets of primo bunny legs can be thrown on it. But getting back to rule of law, this is a secular notion, and we are not ruled by some omniscient invisible sky-wizard. Contacts are a legal document, hence subject to rule of law, and Folau has breached his by posting material on his social media that can be construed as homophobic, and a defiance of the standards his employer purports to espouse. I will say it again: he has signed a contract, which is a legally binding document, and he has breached it. Ergo, as per the terms of his contact, the employer had the right to sack him. Here's hoping he has wisely invested the absurd payment he received for the privilege of kicking a ball around.
It's a bit like the contract I signed to enable me to compete as a contestant for Mastermind Australia last week (you can watch me on 22 May 2019). I cannot divulge results of what I have seen, or been involved in filming-wise. So stop fucking asking me about it, those people who deride and sneer at this, and expect to be told. I can be a literary snob, a grammar elite, and plain sarcastic, but I will not be a scofflaw!
We are getting closer to a print and release date for the upcoming Howling on a Concrete Moon. I am in discussions over cover art. All very exciting, and I am hoping people will buy it, because my two sons never stop eating (particularly the fourteen-year-old).
The thing I am most sick of at the moment is really dumb-fuck politicians. Case in point: Lyle Shelton of the Queensland branch of the Conservatives. Here is his take on the Israel Folau shitfight, wherein his Rugby contract was torn up:
I might have to type this slowly for Lyle, and other people who don't quite get it, but Israel's strife has nothing to do with free speech. As an aside, Australia does not have a constitutional right to free speech. For what it's worth, I do support - in principle - the man's right to have and express his opinion, but this stink has nothing to do with free speech. What it boils down to is a breach of contractual obligations, and Lyle, this country is governed by rule of law. I make that point also for the goofball who castigated me on the grounds Folau was merely doing God's work. Well, in his own mind, Folau probably IS doing God's work, and whoop-de-bloody-doo for that; let's hang out the bunting and fire up the barbie, and a few packets of primo bunny legs can be thrown on it. But getting back to rule of law, this is a secular notion, and we are not ruled by some omniscient invisible sky-wizard. Contacts are a legal document, hence subject to rule of law, and Folau has breached his by posting material on his social media that can be construed as homophobic, and a defiance of the standards his employer purports to espouse. I will say it again: he has signed a contract, which is a legally binding document, and he has breached it. Ergo, as per the terms of his contact, the employer had the right to sack him. Here's hoping he has wisely invested the absurd payment he received for the privilege of kicking a ball around.
It's a bit like the contract I signed to enable me to compete as a contestant for Mastermind Australia last week (you can watch me on 22 May 2019). I cannot divulge results of what I have seen, or been involved in filming-wise. So stop fucking asking me about it, those people who deride and sneer at this, and expect to be told. I can be a literary snob, a grammar elite, and plain sarcastic, but I will not be a scofflaw!
We are getting closer to a print and release date for the upcoming Howling on a Concrete Moon. I am in discussions over cover art. All very exciting, and I am hoping people will buy it, because my two sons never stop eating (particularly the fourteen-year-old).
Thursday, 16 May 2019
My Mental Meanderings
Strange things go through my mind at times. Strange things possess me to do strange things, like check the Billboard 100 for the year 1979. I don't know why I did it, either. If you're wondering what the WORST offerings on that list are, wonder no more, because here they are:
1. 'D'Ya Think I'm Sexy' by Rod Stewart. This, I must admit, is a very guilty pleasure of mine, but it's one thousand shades of just plain bloody WRONG! Ladies, if you were in a bar and a thirty-something man with a shaggy mullet, and a nose like the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and wearing tight spandex approached you and asked this very question, would the answer be 'yes'?
2. 'Sharing the Night Together' by Dr Hook. Kind of evokes similar shuddery reactions as the song above. Dennis Lecorriere has a very nice voice, but honestly, I don't think this band ever sang a song that didn't make the enamel peel from my teeth in strips.
3. 'I Was Made For Dancin'' by Leif Garrett. It's just so, so CHEESY. Cheesy enough to clog up your arteries and constipate you. Teen idols of questionable talent recording songs is not necessarily a good thing. But don't worry, I have a confession. When aged twelve, I bought an album that was a compilation of songs recorded by him; covers like 'Runaround Sue' (it was better when Dion did it because there's something obnoxious about a sixteen-year-old singing lyrics suggesting he's a lothario), and 'Surfin' USA' (again, much better in the hands of the Beach Boys), and 'Put Your Head on My Shoulder' (can't remember who did original, but Potsie Webber did it really well on 'Happy Days').
Anyway, enough of my mental meanderings at the moment. Got some stuff to think about - nothing too taxing, it mainly involves bringing in my sheets from the clothesline.
RIP, Bob Hawke. Thanks for the Medicare, and making it illegal to discriminate on the basis of gender. Probably the most relatable and ballsy prime minister I can remember in my lifetime. Oh, Keating was ballsy, too, but I don't know if he was relatable. That being said, I kind of liked Keating and think we need another one. At least Paul Keating's insults were so clever, it was almost an honour to be insulted by him. It's like a television show or movie being satirised by MAD Magazine - a movie or television show is not considered a hit until it has been satirised by MAD.
1. 'D'Ya Think I'm Sexy' by Rod Stewart. This, I must admit, is a very guilty pleasure of mine, but it's one thousand shades of just plain bloody WRONG! Ladies, if you were in a bar and a thirty-something man with a shaggy mullet, and a nose like the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and wearing tight spandex approached you and asked this very question, would the answer be 'yes'?
2. 'Sharing the Night Together' by Dr Hook. Kind of evokes similar shuddery reactions as the song above. Dennis Lecorriere has a very nice voice, but honestly, I don't think this band ever sang a song that didn't make the enamel peel from my teeth in strips.
3. 'I Was Made For Dancin'' by Leif Garrett. It's just so, so CHEESY. Cheesy enough to clog up your arteries and constipate you. Teen idols of questionable talent recording songs is not necessarily a good thing. But don't worry, I have a confession. When aged twelve, I bought an album that was a compilation of songs recorded by him; covers like 'Runaround Sue' (it was better when Dion did it because there's something obnoxious about a sixteen-year-old singing lyrics suggesting he's a lothario), and 'Surfin' USA' (again, much better in the hands of the Beach Boys), and 'Put Your Head on My Shoulder' (can't remember who did original, but Potsie Webber did it really well on 'Happy Days').
Anyway, enough of my mental meanderings at the moment. Got some stuff to think about - nothing too taxing, it mainly involves bringing in my sheets from the clothesline.
RIP, Bob Hawke. Thanks for the Medicare, and making it illegal to discriminate on the basis of gender. Probably the most relatable and ballsy prime minister I can remember in my lifetime. Oh, Keating was ballsy, too, but I don't know if he was relatable. That being said, I kind of liked Keating and think we need another one. At least Paul Keating's insults were so clever, it was almost an honour to be insulted by him. It's like a television show or movie being satirised by MAD Magazine - a movie or television show is not considered a hit until it has been satirised by MAD.
Sunday, 12 May 2019
Mastermind, and Mastering My Mind
Everyone is undoubtedly over with, done with, and fed up with to the point of sticking one's head in one's gas oven when it comes to the Federal election. How long have we got now? At the time of typing this post, there is one week to go. One of the best things about it is we will no longer be subjected to the awful ads, like those put out by the United Australia Party. Just today, as I was driving around, I heard the odious 'Australian's ain't gonna cop it' jingle, and almost mounted the kerb and sprained my wrist in my eagerness to turn off the radio. How in hell can Palmer still be spruiking those shit rip-offs of Twisted Sister? Has he paid the royalties? I understand there are steps being taken, or some process being devised, for the payment of money owed to the victims of Queensland Nickel. Palmer, just pay up and go away, you toxic, purulent, bloated blimp.
I also look forward to no more vile pieces from the Murdoch press, unless they're unhappy with whatever party is elected. Seriously, you shit-gibbons, what was the meaning behind the hatchet job on Bill Shorten regarding his late mother? You lot might want to get out the tweezers to extract the splinters from beneath your fingernails from where you've been scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Well, I had a very interesting week last week. If you've been following my blog, you will know I had a very sad week last week, what with attending the memorial service of my former - and very much admired - employer. I did something else last week - I took part in the taping of an episode of Mastermind Australia. The episode goes to air on 22 May 2019. I cannot divulge the result of any filming prior to screening, and I am not sure if I can tell you what my specialty topic was, so I will just remain shtum on that, too. I was so, so nervous! I stayed with some cousins on Thursday and Friday evenings - my cousin drove me to SBS studios on Friday, where I met my sister. Sis and I had lunch, and then we reported to the producers. I was unsure if she would be able to stay for the entire filming of my episode (she only saw my specialty subject round being filmed, but told me I looked relaxed - interesting given I was trying to not wet my pants). Friends and family were taken to another room to watch via a feed, and the contestants were given a briefing about what to expect. There were two episodes to be filmed in the block where I had been appointed, and I was in the first lot. As I said, I cannot give out any information regarding the filming, but I got through it. I returned to the green room, where the other contestants had been watching (also via a feed), to collect my handbag. One of the people in there told me, 'Your hair looked so pretty on the screen.' Good to know.
But as I walked to St Leonard's Station to get the train to Hornsby (where I was staying), I felt a weight lift. Yeah, I know how corny that sounds, but I really did feel lighter and more relaxed. My planned appearance had been stressing me severely, but that afternoon I realised: I. Had. DONE it! You're probably wondering why I would apply to go on a television show if I was just going to tie myself into a knot of anxiety in the lead-up to it, which is a fair question, but I will try and answer it as best I can. Firstly, I did have bouts of anxiety last year, and I do feel my life has been in the control of a sadistic puppeteer who is jerking the strings but not resolving the legal issues with which I am dealing. I also had to deal with other crap, and it would not be prudent to go into much detail, but if any of you people are watching, then here's to you: (I'm typing with one hand whilst using the other to flip the bird to the screen of my computer). My appearance is a way of saying Fuck You to all the people and scenarios that caused me to spiral into despair last year. It's a way of taking back my life and feeling in control. Also - and I must be honest - when it comes to general knowledge and trivia, I have a king-sized ego that loves to be stroked. Aaaah, anxiety and egotism, the yin and yang that combine to create one mega weirdo of a human being, right?
But it was over. I could relax. And relax I did, as my cousin's wife opened the nice smooth red I had brought along as the Gift of the Guest. We enjoyed a few drinks, and then kicked up our heels to a Spotify playlist. I have concerns her children are scarred by a vision of me, being an older relative, doing some drongo-ish style of boot-scooting to the Creedence version of Jambalaya (I love Fogerty's vocals on this - along with every other song he sings). I feel guilty because I know how this can affect children. I still shudder when I remember the time when I was about eleven, and was subjected to the ghastly sight of my aunt trying to dance the hornpipe after a few Rieslings. But what are families for otherwise?
Speaking of families, today is Mother's Day. My cherubs <sarcasm> are preparing me seafood risotto tonight. I didn't get breakfast in bed, because I had to start work early this morning. I no longer have my mother, but she was witty, theatrical, warm, musical, and had a singing voice like Judith Durham. Her greatest piece of advice to me was, 'Don't wash your bum, and then wash your face.' This is a great metaphor for life.
I also look forward to no more vile pieces from the Murdoch press, unless they're unhappy with whatever party is elected. Seriously, you shit-gibbons, what was the meaning behind the hatchet job on Bill Shorten regarding his late mother? You lot might want to get out the tweezers to extract the splinters from beneath your fingernails from where you've been scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Well, I had a very interesting week last week. If you've been following my blog, you will know I had a very sad week last week, what with attending the memorial service of my former - and very much admired - employer. I did something else last week - I took part in the taping of an episode of Mastermind Australia. The episode goes to air on 22 May 2019. I cannot divulge the result of any filming prior to screening, and I am not sure if I can tell you what my specialty topic was, so I will just remain shtum on that, too. I was so, so nervous! I stayed with some cousins on Thursday and Friday evenings - my cousin drove me to SBS studios on Friday, where I met my sister. Sis and I had lunch, and then we reported to the producers. I was unsure if she would be able to stay for the entire filming of my episode (she only saw my specialty subject round being filmed, but told me I looked relaxed - interesting given I was trying to not wet my pants). Friends and family were taken to another room to watch via a feed, and the contestants were given a briefing about what to expect. There were two episodes to be filmed in the block where I had been appointed, and I was in the first lot. As I said, I cannot give out any information regarding the filming, but I got through it. I returned to the green room, where the other contestants had been watching (also via a feed), to collect my handbag. One of the people in there told me, 'Your hair looked so pretty on the screen.' Good to know.
But as I walked to St Leonard's Station to get the train to Hornsby (where I was staying), I felt a weight lift. Yeah, I know how corny that sounds, but I really did feel lighter and more relaxed. My planned appearance had been stressing me severely, but that afternoon I realised: I. Had. DONE it! You're probably wondering why I would apply to go on a television show if I was just going to tie myself into a knot of anxiety in the lead-up to it, which is a fair question, but I will try and answer it as best I can. Firstly, I did have bouts of anxiety last year, and I do feel my life has been in the control of a sadistic puppeteer who is jerking the strings but not resolving the legal issues with which I am dealing. I also had to deal with other crap, and it would not be prudent to go into much detail, but if any of you people are watching, then here's to you: (I'm typing with one hand whilst using the other to flip the bird to the screen of my computer). My appearance is a way of saying Fuck You to all the people and scenarios that caused me to spiral into despair last year. It's a way of taking back my life and feeling in control. Also - and I must be honest - when it comes to general knowledge and trivia, I have a king-sized ego that loves to be stroked. Aaaah, anxiety and egotism, the yin and yang that combine to create one mega weirdo of a human being, right?
But it was over. I could relax. And relax I did, as my cousin's wife opened the nice smooth red I had brought along as the Gift of the Guest. We enjoyed a few drinks, and then kicked up our heels to a Spotify playlist. I have concerns her children are scarred by a vision of me, being an older relative, doing some drongo-ish style of boot-scooting to the Creedence version of Jambalaya (I love Fogerty's vocals on this - along with every other song he sings). I feel guilty because I know how this can affect children. I still shudder when I remember the time when I was about eleven, and was subjected to the ghastly sight of my aunt trying to dance the hornpipe after a few Rieslings. But what are families for otherwise?
Speaking of families, today is Mother's Day. My cherubs <sarcasm> are preparing me seafood risotto tonight. I didn't get breakfast in bed, because I had to start work early this morning. I no longer have my mother, but she was witty, theatrical, warm, musical, and had a singing voice like Judith Durham. Her greatest piece of advice to me was, 'Don't wash your bum, and then wash your face.' This is a great metaphor for life.
Wednesday, 8 May 2019
My Take on Egg-Girl
Got something to say? Then, say it! Don't know how to say it? Try some of these options:
1. Stand on an upturned box in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon (do people still do Politics in the Park? I haven't lived in Sydney for years, so I haven't been to Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon in years).
2. Start a Facebook page dedicated to your cause.
3. Start a blog (hey, it worked for me).
4. Try an open letter to the newspaper.
5. Use your socials (look how hip and youthful I am, everyone; I said 'socials' instead of Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and You Tube. I am so au fait and in with the contemporary badinage bandied about by young folk today).
6. Contact your local Member of Parliament.
7. Lobby like fuck to get a law changed.
For the love of Crimony, don't do this: chuck an egg at someone. I am not only addressing the gronk known in Hashtag-Land as #EggGirl, but I'm addressing everybody under the age of, say, twenty-seven, who thinks they can best make their political disgruntlement known by throwing an egg at, or smashing an egg on, the head of whatever politico has pissed them off. I've specified under the age of twenty-seven, but if anybody older than twenty-seven is thinking of hoiking a googy at someone, don't you do it, either. Not only is this childish to say the least, it is an ASSAULT, and the aftermath of the scuffle can have some unpleasant consequences, such as that poor old lady who took a spill in the melee after the actions of that she-gronk Egg Girl yesterday.
Do we blame the media beat-up in the wake of Egg Boy for this? After all, he was kind of hailed as a hero in the press by many people. I didn't think he was a hero; I thought he was a twerp.
Egg Girl (I'm not saying your name because I can't be bothered checking for it, and I don't know about any legal ramifications of addressing you by your name), have you ever heard the saying, 'The pen is mightier than the sword?' Probably not; you're too busy trawling through social media to see what can offend you today, and help you establish your status as a seriously woke individual. Well, maybe if you have a look at the options I've set out above, you might notice a current theme: they require words. Did your mother ever say, 'Use your words' when you were griping for something as a toddler? I told my kids to use their words, and I know other mums have done the same. But even as an adult, you should 'use your words'. A well-put argument holds so much more weight and leverage than a petulant, childish act that results in someone being splattered with what boils down to chook menstruation. Oh, and your throw was really pretty piss-weak; the shell didn't even crack! It's mean of me to make fun of someone else's bowling, given I was always the last kid picked for the sporting teams, but your lousy bowl really just lends an air of extra mediocrity to your entire infantile dummy-spit.
Yep, you're a gronk. It must be Gronk Week. I saw another one today. She was riding a bicycle, so is this like a Gronk-on-Wheels? Anyway, the lights went green, so I started to drive. She started to ride into the traffic from the kerb, notwithstanding the little man would have been RED! I had to hit my brake quick-smart. If you're reading this, you imbecile, please consider the good of future generations and have yourself sterilised.
Well, that's me done. I'm off for a few days. Ciao for now.
1. Stand on an upturned box in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon (do people still do Politics in the Park? I haven't lived in Sydney for years, so I haven't been to Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon in years).
2. Start a Facebook page dedicated to your cause.
3. Start a blog (hey, it worked for me).
4. Try an open letter to the newspaper.
5. Use your socials (look how hip and youthful I am, everyone; I said 'socials' instead of Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and You Tube. I am so au fait and in with the contemporary badinage bandied about by young folk today).
6. Contact your local Member of Parliament.
7. Lobby like fuck to get a law changed.
For the love of Crimony, don't do this: chuck an egg at someone. I am not only addressing the gronk known in Hashtag-Land as #EggGirl, but I'm addressing everybody under the age of, say, twenty-seven, who thinks they can best make their political disgruntlement known by throwing an egg at, or smashing an egg on, the head of whatever politico has pissed them off. I've specified under the age of twenty-seven, but if anybody older than twenty-seven is thinking of hoiking a googy at someone, don't you do it, either. Not only is this childish to say the least, it is an ASSAULT, and the aftermath of the scuffle can have some unpleasant consequences, such as that poor old lady who took a spill in the melee after the actions of that she-gronk Egg Girl yesterday.
Do we blame the media beat-up in the wake of Egg Boy for this? After all, he was kind of hailed as a hero in the press by many people. I didn't think he was a hero; I thought he was a twerp.
Egg Girl (I'm not saying your name because I can't be bothered checking for it, and I don't know about any legal ramifications of addressing you by your name), have you ever heard the saying, 'The pen is mightier than the sword?' Probably not; you're too busy trawling through social media to see what can offend you today, and help you establish your status as a seriously woke individual. Well, maybe if you have a look at the options I've set out above, you might notice a current theme: they require words. Did your mother ever say, 'Use your words' when you were griping for something as a toddler? I told my kids to use their words, and I know other mums have done the same. But even as an adult, you should 'use your words'. A well-put argument holds so much more weight and leverage than a petulant, childish act that results in someone being splattered with what boils down to chook menstruation. Oh, and your throw was really pretty piss-weak; the shell didn't even crack! It's mean of me to make fun of someone else's bowling, given I was always the last kid picked for the sporting teams, but your lousy bowl really just lends an air of extra mediocrity to your entire infantile dummy-spit.
Yep, you're a gronk. It must be Gronk Week. I saw another one today. She was riding a bicycle, so is this like a Gronk-on-Wheels? Anyway, the lights went green, so I started to drive. She started to ride into the traffic from the kerb, notwithstanding the little man would have been RED! I had to hit my brake quick-smart. If you're reading this, you imbecile, please consider the good of future generations and have yourself sterilised.
Well, that's me done. I'm off for a few days. Ciao for now.
Monday, 6 May 2019
Cancer, F**k Off & Die in a Hole
I've been a bit lax on the blogging side of things this week, because once again I have been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer. I'm trying to be happy, but it's difficult because I'm grieving the loss of a much-admired person, and no, it's not Peter Mayhew (the freakishly tall man who was Chewbacca in the Star Wars movies), although I DID feel sad when I read the news. That guy had a difficult job to do; bringing to life that imaginary 'walking carpet'. It can't have been much fun in the first cluster of filming, what with wearing a costume comprising stitched up yak hair (which quite likely was still matted with burrs and yak dags). But Mayhew did a great job: who didn't feel the anguish when he gave that gut-wrenching howl as Han Solo was frozen in carbonite to repay those debts to Jabba the Hutt?
No, the admired person whom I lost was a former employer. This guy was a brilliant lawyer, and a really, really nice guy. As I wrote in the online remembrance book, he really was the best boss a person could wish for. I left his employ only because I was relocating. On my final day, he presented me with a beautiful giftpack of Dolce & Gabbana fragrances, together with a heartfelt letter to me. I cried when I read it. We both cried when we hugged before I left the office for the final time on that Friday afternoon.
I cried when I received the telephone call last week. Cancer, fuck off and die in a hole.
Yesterday, another former employee and I travelled to Sydney for the public memorial service. It sounds contrived, cliched, and trite to say this, but it really was a beautiful service. His three children did him more than proud. I didn't cry as much as I thought I would, but I did leak a little around the eyes during the eulogies, which were presented by the children and a barrister friend. After a gorgeous photographic slideshow, the microphone was passed around for memories to be shared, and I shared mine about what a wonderful person I thought he was, and the pride with which I - and other employees - would tell people where we worked.
Really enjoyed catching up with my old friends there, but it's such a bastard of a reason to catch up! I got home exhausted and emotionally drained, and am still having trouble grasping the concept he's gone. I loved you, John; RIP.
I will just have focus on the good things. I have written the blurb for Howling on a Concrete Moon, and seen some suggested cover art, and I'm inclined to think we will run with this cover art. People, get ready to dig deep and buy a book soon! (Well, you won't have to dig THAT deep, I'm sure!)
No, the admired person whom I lost was a former employer. This guy was a brilliant lawyer, and a really, really nice guy. As I wrote in the online remembrance book, he really was the best boss a person could wish for. I left his employ only because I was relocating. On my final day, he presented me with a beautiful giftpack of Dolce & Gabbana fragrances, together with a heartfelt letter to me. I cried when I read it. We both cried when we hugged before I left the office for the final time on that Friday afternoon.
I cried when I received the telephone call last week. Cancer, fuck off and die in a hole.
Yesterday, another former employee and I travelled to Sydney for the public memorial service. It sounds contrived, cliched, and trite to say this, but it really was a beautiful service. His three children did him more than proud. I didn't cry as much as I thought I would, but I did leak a little around the eyes during the eulogies, which were presented by the children and a barrister friend. After a gorgeous photographic slideshow, the microphone was passed around for memories to be shared, and I shared mine about what a wonderful person I thought he was, and the pride with which I - and other employees - would tell people where we worked.
Really enjoyed catching up with my old friends there, but it's such a bastard of a reason to catch up! I got home exhausted and emotionally drained, and am still having trouble grasping the concept he's gone. I loved you, John; RIP.
I will just have focus on the good things. I have written the blurb for Howling on a Concrete Moon, and seen some suggested cover art, and I'm inclined to think we will run with this cover art. People, get ready to dig deep and buy a book soon! (Well, you won't have to dig THAT deep, I'm sure!)
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