Who remembers the Joan Armatrading song 'I Love It When You Call Me Names'? I've been called a few interesting things over the years. Last night I copped a beauty. Bear with me, I'll get to it soon. It left me somewhat be-mused and a-mused, and had me rolling my eyes so much they looked like the cherries jackpot on a poker machine. The moniker is nothing like anything I've ever been called before. I tried to think of any occasion in my almost half-century that I've ever copped a noun or adjective to match, and have come up with zilch. Nada. Bugger-all. But here are some of the things I've been called over the years:
1. 'You bloody turd' (my older sister). She possibly had a point. I am the youngest of my siblings, and I am therefore likely to be genetically hard-wired to be a pain in the arse for the older ones.
2. 'You little turd' (my older brother). See above for explanation.
3. 'Useless' (my Year 5 teacher). I am hoping I have proven the child-loving, avuncular old Santa Claus (ahem!) wrong, yet I really don't care that much. I'm not going to wish the misery guts develop cancer of the sac, but I'm hoping at some stage in his teaching career someone told him there is a better way to speak to children.
4. 'Clever' (a former boss). I'd devised a way to get our mitts on some records from a bottle shop our client had been accused of robbing without the need to issue a subpoena. In case you didn't know, my background is criminal law.
5. 'Pretty' (a barrister I know). This was at a Christmas party, and maybe his judgement was clouded by all the champagne that was circulating. I'm hoping not.
6. 'My little meerkat of love' (my husband). My husband is El Supremo when it comes to terms of endearment.
7. 'Hot ranga' (some half-pissed young bloke at the local Workies Club).
8. 'Tit' (some feral on a Facebook thread last night). At being dubbed after a mammary organ, I replied to the name-caller she might wish to go off and enjoy her passionfruit flavoured UDL.
Number 8 above is a natural segue into the jaw-droppingly bizarre name I got called last night, as it was on the same Facebook thread. By way of background, I was stating my opinion on an article about Wicked Campers, a company that hires out cheap vans to backpackers, such vans being emblazoned with some very out there (and some would call offensive) slogans. I personally think most of the slogans are kind of funny in an inappropriate un-PC way. Some can be construed as just maybe not for public viewing, but unlike some of the commenters on the forum, I have no desire to send a business to bankruptcy because of their material. I don't happen to think it's offensive to everyone with the ovaries-uterus-vagina-vulva combo, but accept there are some who won't like it. There are some who won't like what I've written here, but I checked the cupboard where I keep my fucks and it's bare, so therefore I have none to give. Sadly, there is nowhere I can find on my keyboard to write a comment in 'sarcastic' font, so many of my comments are lost on the cranky people who comment on these forums, but I was pretty clear in my intention that I truly find some of these slogans amusing, and people are just looking for things to be outraged over.
Well, the CEO of Wicked Campers issued a very tongue-in-cheek apology, which I admit to finding rather funny and I enjoyed the irreverent 'Eff-You' to the detractors. My comment was seen by someone who had up to then been a Facebook friend. This guy and I have participated in a cyber-friendship for about almost a year, I think. He was the one who 'added' me, as we have mutual friends, I should say. We've agreed on most things in our virtual friendship, but not all things. Most friends don't agree on everything. But what I wrote on this thread upset the poor possum to the point where he was using SHOUTY CAPITALS. Before I type what he called me, I would suggest you go and do a wee, if you're feeling the bladder nudging. If you're wearing socks, remove them, because what I am about to type will knock them clean off, and they will be lost as surely as a sock becomes lost on washing day. Anybody who knows me well (or only marginally), is going to realise this is the biggest misnomer in the history of name-calling. Are you ready for this? Are you seated comfortably? Okay, here goes. This put-upon crab referred to me as: 'A right-wing rape apologist'.
Yeah, I know. I cannot see how not getting huffy over some irreverent slogans and not trying to drive a business to insolvency, thus adding to unemployment levels, qualifies me as a 'rape apologist' either. But I cannot help it if I thought the van with a picture of ET and Michael Jackson together with the epithet 'Alien vs Predator' was rather amusing, can I? And as my friends, and anyone who reads my blog would realise, you're really going out on a limb to describe me in any way as 'right wing'. You're so far out on that limb, you're at the very narrow end with a few twigs, and it's bending under your weight, and it's either going to snap, or recoil and send you flying like Wile E Coyote. I'm not sure what puzzles me more, being called a rape apologist, or being called right-wing. I can't say I'm offended, because I'm too bloody busy being puzzled by it.
Whether this person, who has decided to block me, is reading this, I don't know. I'll just refer to the now empty Fuck Storage Cupboard. But a 'right wing rape apologist', me? Not many know this, but now you will: I am a paid-up member of the Australian Sex Party political organisation. How could a member of the ASP be a 'right wing rape apologist'? This just makes no sense. It also makes no sense because that assertion by my now ex-friend is a great pile of monstrous untruth. I am not a rape apologist. I'm tempted to issue an invitation to the person who insulted me thus to go eat a dick, but it's all just so stupid, I'm not sure I can be bothered caring.
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