I've not been writing as much this week, owing to work commitments and having had a brief sojourn in Port Stephens with a dear cousin. Today I'm thinking I might need to get a new hat. I like hats, particularly broad-brimmed ones, given I am blessed (or cursed) with Irish colouring. I have a very elegant one, handmade by a really-and-truly milliner years ago. I have an Akubra. I have a nice felt winter hat. But I might have to get a new one. The beauty of it all is I don't even have to spend a lot of money because I have the materials in my kitchen: a roll of aluminium foil and a pair of scissors. I'm going to make me my very own foil hat, because I suspect I'm becoming the type of whackadoodle who would wear one. Here's why:
I think the owner of Channel 7 has a vested interested in plastic bags, you know: the ones you used to get at Coles. Since the government instigated the ban on them, Sunrise has had, on an almost daily basis, a negatively-spun story on the banning of the bag. They really went out on a limb with one of the headlines today, making a nebulous connection between the bag ban and a fatality. No, I did not type that wrong. Briefly, some women checked the boot of the car to see whether they had packed shopping bags, and the car rolled back, killing one of them. The headline to the article went something like: Tragic Twist in Bag Ban. No, I am not making that up.
Now, to whomsoever is charged with stocking the first aid box at Channel 7, are there any sets of tweezers? You're going to need them to extract the splinters lodged beneath the fingernails of those who decided on this tripe, thus scraping the bottom of the barrel. A woman lost her life, and you write a shitty headline trying to correlate the bag ban with the death? Fuck all of you! What lowlifes you must all be. This just transcends poor taste, and is a textbook example of what's wrong with the media. It also shows why we need the ABC.
A brief time ago, I decided to have another look at the article and see whether anybody else has given you all a well-deserved pasting over it. It's not there. Gone. Vanished. Vaporised into the ether. I highly doubt you lot saw the error of your ways, but more likely succumbed to the pressure from just about everybody who commented. I am not Robinson Crusoe in my utter loathing and contempt for what you guys did.
Look, just sit down, and read this slowly: The government has banned single-use plastic bags in supermarkets, so get the fuck over it. Take your bags with you. Or else buy them there; they're only 0.15c per bag!
I haven't been watching much television lately, and I don't think the choices have improved. Today I heard about a Judge Judy type show to be aired, and it's called Trial by Kyle. Kyle Sandilands will arbitrate over disputes, and results are supposedly legally binding. Given Vile Kyle is not a judge, and the studio is not a court room, I'm guessing the legality stems from contractual law because the dunderheads willing to participate in this televised effluvium would have signed an agreement regarding the show's rules. As shrill as a harridan she is, at least Judge Judy is a judge. You know, with a law degree and everything. I'm pretty sure Sandilands is not a judge. I'm pretty sure he's a toxic, talentless windbag.
Just lately there is more bullshit produced on television than there is in a field stocked with diarrhoetic cattle. Once again, Mars is looking good.
Before I head off (tutoring this arvo), I went to the cinema with my almost-14-year-old the other day. We watched Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again. You know something? I really enjoyed it. I liked the plot premise better than the one proposed in the original movie, and of course the fact Pierce Brosnan didn't do much singing only made this experience better. Without giving too much away, you're probably aware there is a young woman who has a biological dad, and two other surrogate dads. The Cher characters states it takes three great men to make a woman as wonderful as the young woman referred to. That's nice. That's poignant. Interpreting this as meaning the greater number of wonderful men then the more terrific the resultant child, my son leaned over and hissed, 'So how many men did you shag to get me, Mum?' I sat there with my jaw hanging and swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and seriously contemplated stuffing the popcorn box over my son's head.
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