The Joyless Division

 If I were on a twenty-plus hour flight, I know I would be comfortably dressed. I would probably exit the aircraft in trackie daks and a t-shirt. Our prime minister did this the other day. I have no issue with that. Nor do I have issue with the t-shirt he wore, one emblazoned with the name of a post-punk band whose style could be described as some kind of new wave gothic rock. A band who were led by a singer with a predilection for lyrics as deep as his his baritone voice, and one who would occasionally take epileptic seizures on stage. Maybe his condition influenced his bizarre dance moves. Or maybe not; my younger son has epilepsy and is a fantastic dancer. Sadly, this singer was also a very tortured young man who took his life at just twenty-three. RIP, Ian Curtis. 

But I digress.

This band, if you've been under a rock, was named Joy Division (later known as New Order). And yes, that is the band t-shirt worn by Prime Minister Albanese. You are doubtlessly aware, thanks to the shrieking and chest-beating and pearl-clutching by a bunch of malcontents (many of whom seem to be employed by the Murdoch media), that he is wearing a t-shirt with reference to the book House of the Dolls, which describes the practice of Nazis using Jewish women as sex slaves as 'joy division.'

The loudest of the bleaters appears to be opposition leader Sussan Ley, who adopted a second 's' into her given name for whatever reason, and is bliSSfully unaware that she has unwittingly incorporated the initials of Hitler's paramilitary Schultzstaffel into her name. Some would say she is a complete aSS. She is that and so much more. On the off-chance you're reading this, Sussan: what's it like to be a total fucking git?

And Sky News (news? bahbahahahahahahahahahahahaha!) journalist (journalist? Again, I say: bahbahahahahahahahahahahahaha) Sharri Markson has made reference to it being Day 3 of 't-shirt gate' (yeah, you read that right), with Albo yet to apologise. 

Um, apologise for what? Wearing a BAND T-SHIRT? Do you clowns truly think he is espousing antisemitic and sexual abuse? Seriously, what ails people?

That resounding TWAAAANNNNNNNNGGGGGG we will soon hear is the breaking point in the tension of the twine on the long bow being drawn by clowns like SuSSan.

Albo wore a t-shirt supporting a band with a conflagratory name. That is all. Nothing to see here, folks. Gee, anyone would think he did something lousy like fuck off to Hawaii while the country was burning (hey, SuSSan, wasn't that your party's former leader?).

Back at the keyboard

 The last time I posted, I mentioned I was finalising my Bachelor of Education. Well, I have not long completed an internship. It was a ten-weeker, too. For the main part, I enjoyed it and learned a lot. The worst part was the mismanagement of the Commonwealth government's scholarship funds (students undertaking internships in teaching, nursing, midwifery, and social work are eligible in this scheme). I qualified and was advised I would receive my funds within the first two weeks of the internship. I didn't see a single penny until I was six weeks into my placement. Whoever is in charge of this scheme couldn't organise a game of marbles or a root in a brothel. 

Because I was so engrossed in my placement, I have not been writing. Planning to change all that soon. But what a crazy few months it's been. I've competed in Mastermind Australia, where I advanced to the Grand Final, and scored equal second. I'm in Series 7, Episodes 49, 50, 83, and 85. I spent so much time studying and have now forgotten just about everything about Mata Hari (my semifinal specialty subject). 

Things have not changed much in the hiatus I have had. People still behave like a pack of gossipy old biddies, hair tightly rolled into spiky hair curlers, yapping over the back fence. Every time I looked at my newsfeed, it was clogged with images of that couple who were sprung on the camera at the Coldplay concert. Everyone had a problem because the couple were engaged in an extramarital affair. This might be an unpopular opinion, but who cares (oh, yeah: everyone on the Internet)? For all the sniping and snarking and calls for a big scarlet "A" to be pinned to the clothing of all involved, did anyone stop to think about the fallout on the couple's families? And another thing: they're consenting adults. Why they want to go to a Coldplay concert is beyond me, but hey, different strokes for different folks.

People are similarly dissecting the marriage breakdown of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban. According to some cockamamie theories, Nicole got too exhausted faking orgasms in one of her movies and this put a strain on the marriage because it would hard for Keith to watch this and everyone knows this and he's back on the gear and blahblahblah. First of all, Nicole is an actress and this is part of her job. Second of all, nobody knows what's happened except for the parties involved, and the parties are really Not. That. Interesting. They are just ...not. To speak - or write - frankly: they're as boring as shit.

Ages ago, I wrote my annoyance about a trans woman who claimed to have experienced discrimination because she was denied a Brazilian wax. This person has male genitalia and targeted a beautician from a culture that is not comfortable handling male genitalia. Also, there is a skill in waxing a scrotum, and if handled improperly, can cause damage. Not every beautician is trained in this area, so it's advisable to consult a specialist if you want a bald ball-bag. ANYWAY, this person is at it again. I'm not going to state her name because she clearly wants attention. She is complaining she is being discriminated against because she was denied an examination by a gynaecologist. Is it possible that the gyno has not studied care of transwomen, assuming this person is post-operative? Or there is the other possibility: this person has male genitalia, and the gynaecologist is not going to risk prosecution after sticking a speculum into a person's urethral meatus? 

You figure it out. 

Pickleball Pickle

 Just having a quiet one tonight. Sipping wine, thinking about listening to some music, and watching the series Sherlock, an updated version of Sherlock Holmes (starring Benedict Cumberbatch in the titular role and with Martin Freeman as Dr John Watson). I have gotten into this because I am tutoring a Year 11 student whose class has been studying it as a text for the English concept of intertextuality. And you know what? I've really been enjoying it. I'm not one of those women who goes gaga over Cumberbatch's looks at all, but I do think he's a fantastic actor. And I will concede he's an interesting looking man. 

Speaking of high school students, I've been doing some casual teacher aide work to assist me in the finalisation of my degree. My plan to teach English entails assisting in other subjects, and most alarmingly, one of those subjects is sport. I do not have happy memories of school sport. My clumsiness and lack of coordination resulted in me always being the last kid picked for the team. My standing plummeted the day I somehow bounced a medicine ball from the ground during a game of tunnel ball, almost neutering the kid behind me. I was once the determining factor of a relay loss because I had to keep stopping to pull up my underpants, having chosen the pair with bung elastic that morning. In high school, I misjudged a leap from the springboard and landed in an ungainly bellyflop on the vaulting horse, thus winding myself dreadfully. It is not an unreasonable assumption that I do not enjoy sport. 

Therefore, it was with trepidation that I found myself in a game of pickleball with the Year Sevens yesterday morning. I informed the teacher and students that I have the athletic prowess of a tranquilised slug. Nonetheless, I bravely brandished the pickleball paddle, and surprised myself by hitting the ball occasionally. I managed to play for almost the full lesson, but ensured I did some yoga stretches when I got home to stave off any aches. 

I appear to have avoided any resultant aches from my cavorting around with the pickleball paddle. This is good. I don't need further aggravation at the moment; I'm babysitting my fur-grandkid, a rambunctious beagle-crossed-with-a-staffy-and-a-tornado named Daisey. She's not whimpering for my son too much, which is unlike her. She grizzles if she misses him. He's gone to Melbourne for a few days. It's an adventure for him. The last time he flew on an aeroplane (ironically, also to Melbourne) was when he was in utero - I had flown to Melbourne to compete on Sale of the Century. That experience gave me a taste for blood, so much so, I took part in the filming of this current season of Mastermind Australia. I'm in Series 7, Episodes 49 and 50. Catch 'em on SBS on Demand. I am not at liberty to divulge the airing date for the semifinal yet, but I will get around to it. 

Anyway, might watch a bit more Sherlock now. I mentioned trepidation about taking part in a pickleball game yesterday. I'm feeling a bit of trepidation about this so-called military parade scheduled in the US this weekend. It's being touted as a military parade, but it's a MAGA circle-jerk at the very least, and reminiscent of the fascist grotesquerie of the parades in North Korea. It's beyond cringe. 

Danger in the Drawers

 The theme to this post will be things that don't make a lot of sense to me lately. Let's get into it.

1. Some Neil Diamond material. Before the die-hard fans come roaring into my street like a horde of infuriated Visigoths, all clutching copies of Hot August Night with a view to swatting me into submission with said album, I will preface this by pointing out I enjoy listening to Diamond. But to anybody I've offended, please bung on your copy of Hot August Night and have an honest listen to I Am ... I Said and THEN try to tell me I don't have a point. Yes, the narrative does demonstrate disenfranchisement and loneliness, but tell me you cannot listen to him moaning some quasi-Sartre lyric ('I am...') that nobody heard, 'not even the chair', without wanting to roll around the floor, clutching your sides. I have this image of an anguished person wailing, "I am!" to a room devoid of other sentient beings, and then reproachfully demanding: "Well, what about you, Chair? Why aren't you saying anything? Don't you even care?" 

I feel guilty for wanting to laugh because Diamond is such a prolific songwriter and I do enjoy his stuff (except for that whiny shite You Don't Bring Me Flowers and the nauseating Turn on Your Heart Light), but I can't help laughing when I hear that lyric. 

2. Donald Trump Junior. The semen-demon of #47 has commented upon the recent cancer diagnosis of his father's predecessor, Joe Biden. Trump Junior tweeted the question as to how Biden's wife Jill, a doctor, failed to diagnose a Stage 5 cancer. This is beyond spiteful. This is also deeply flawed. Do you know why, Trump Junior? It is because Jill Biden holds a doctorate not in medicine, but in EDUCATION. You would know this if you pulled your head out of your arse and did some research. Honestly, he appears to have removed his head from its poised position over a line of booger sugar only to stuff it straight up his bum. And the fact that someone can post something so malicious makes no sense.

3. The dormant danger of getting a clean pair of Reg Grundies out of your drawer. It's true. Yesterday, I cleaned my bathroom sink and mopped the bathroom floor with no problem. I then attended to my ironing - no problem. I decided to have a shower before going grocery shopping. I was at my drawer choosing from the freshly laundered Under-Chunders, moved slightly, and OHWHATTHEACTUALFUCKINGFUCKHAPPENEDJUSTTHEN? 

Anyway, I'm having some rest with a diet of ibuprofen to quell the small spot fire that spontaneously ignited in the small of my back.  Feeling a lot better, just taking it easy and taking no chances. But how can one perform a task that requires a certain level of manual handling with no drama, yet sustain injury choosing a pair of underpants? Maybe one day the Universe will yield an answer, but in the meantime, I will take great care in choosing my undergarments.

Influence = Affluence

 Many people commence diatribes with the hackneyed phrase "it doesn't take a lot to get me angry". I thought about commencing this post in that style, but it would be a lie. It would appear that these days my patience is eroding and deteriorating like a latex band left on the road. I am cultivating some serious Old Man Yells At Cloud energy lately. Or in my case, Old Woman might be a more apt sobriquet. 

If you're rolling your eyes and wondering what is currently making your humble blogger's blood boil, well, I'm sure it's something that has infuriated just about everybody who has a modicum of empathy and common sense. It's the female muttonhead from the US who describes herself as a biologist and who was filmed picking up a terrified wombat joey, separating it from its mother. The footage is sickening: she scoops up the poor thing and runs (yeah, you read that right) with it, holding it in such a manner that it's unsupported body is swinging about (yeah, you also read that right). She's filmed by an Aussie bloke who's laughing like a lobotomised troll, so much so, that I suspect that's what he is. 

This culture of the influencer is cringeworthy beyond words, but this cretin, who goes by the name Sam Jones (as in the bloke who played Flash Gordon in the schlocky Eighties movie with song by Queen) is beyond the pale. If you're reading this, Sam (aka samstrays_somewhere), what the actual fuck is wrong with you? So, you've always wanted to hold a baby wombat? Well, so fucking what? There are women who want to hold Hugh Jackman, but they don't, because they don't have the right to do this! Would you like some big weirdo to snatch up your infant and run around with it for shits and giggles? That being said, the thought of you breeding makes me shudder. 

Honestly, woman, how old are you? I ask because I suspect you've defined medical science by living so long minus a functioning cortex. Your Instagram, now set to private, apparently has photographs of you with animals you've slaughtered for fun. I guess you're IG is now private because your stunt has bitten you on the arse and what a shame the mother wombat didn't do the same. Speaking of the mother wombat, I really hope she did not reject her baby because she no longer recognised its scent after it was permeated with the stink of Stupid Entitled Seppo Twat. 

To the parents of this arsehat: Why didn't you get yourselves sterilised the day you met each other? 

To the dickwad filming: Shame on you; as an Australian, you should know better than to allow for our wildlife to be treated this way. Get in the bin, and take your stupid sniggering with you. 

I hope so much this stupid person is penalised by the appropriate authority for this revolting act. I'm sure even other influencers are ashamed of her. 

Effluent Pools and Affluent So-Called Celebs

 I'm trying to get healthier. I'm in reasonable shape, but I'm trying to improve. Today, in resolute virtue, I attended the local swimming pool with a view to getting in thirty minutes worth of laps. I swim in the indoor heated pool because I am first and foremost a massive sook and can't bear the thought of getting cold in the outdoor pool. Secondly, I have the complexion of my Irish forebears and the thought of the sun (despite my slavish and heavy-handed application of sunscreen) causes me to combust and disintegrate like a vampire who has also had the misfortune to cop some ultra violet rays. Anyway, I was enjoying my swim but my planned session was truncated by an attendant who ordered everybody out because someone had blown chunks in the pool. Fair enough. It's gross enough swimming by a floating used band-aid, but the thought of swimming into a pod of regurgitated carrot cubes, all afloat on the watery surface, is too ghastly to contemplate. 

Also ghastly is the stunt pulled by Kanye West and his wife - well, I think she's he's wife, but she might also be a remote-controlled anthromorphic plaything of the kind not readily available at K-Mart (it's the withdrawn catatonic expression that makes me wonder). The story has clogged up my newsfeed like a turd that won't flush. All I see is pictures of Bianca Censori wearing a vacant expression, but the expression she wears is still more substantial than the practically invisible garment she has on. You can't call it diaphanous - seriously, it makes diaphanous looks like a suit of armor. 

Honestly, what the actual fuck is wrong with these people? Is it a desperate need for attention to compensate for an abysmal lack of talent (come on, you heard West slaughtering Bohemian Rhapsody at Glastonbury 2015, didn't you?)? I will say I am a tad concerned for Bianca's mental health and wonder about the dynamic in the West/Censori household. 

But to show up, by all accounts uninvited, and pull a stunt like this, stinks to high Heaven of eau-de-desperation. Maybe it's a kink. But nobody consented to the display and I would happily never hear from these shit-gibbons again. 

With reference to my day, I really think risking a swim in chlorinated effluence is preferable to being bombarded with news about these vacuous nobodies.