To Michael on Your Eighteenth Birthday

Okay, Michael, you've travelled around the sun eighteen times now. Eighteen! It's a milestone because it means you're legally an adult. I must confess to having felt a bit sooky and wondering can I still call you my little boy. What a journey you've had en route to your adulthood. This journey has been akin to a roller coaster ride (in more ways than one for you), and it's a ride in which we have all been sitting in that carriage, waving our arms in the air as we screamed with both terror and hilarity, as we go hurtling down the slope. Like a rollercoaster ride, your life has had its ups and downs - but they're mainly ups. Let's talk about it. . . 

I had an inkling you were in the wings, so I bought a home pregnancy test and I was thrilled to see a blue line appear. I wrapped the test like a present and presented it to your dad when he came home for lunch. You should have seen his face; he looked like he entrance to Luna Park! He made a joyful 'Oh!' sound and he had tears in his eyes. 

I had a textbook pregnancy and birth. You arrived quite quickly after I went into labour and your delighted dad cried out, 'Another little mate!' We agreed that if you were a boy, you'd be Michael Barry. Michael was the only name we could agree on and Barry was your wonderful Poppy (Dad's father) whom we lost the year before you were born. The midwives brought me toast with Vegemite, and like with your brother Aaron three years beforehand, I spilled crumbs on your head. We were so happy when you joined us; our family felt complete.

What a cheerful baby you were, always smiling at everybody. You developed into a cheerful toddler. Remember when a stray dog howled at our front door and adopted us? We named him Brock and he was so protective of you, and he didn't mind when you would steady yourself by hanging onto his lip as you negotiated the back steps or when you would just sprawl against him.

You always such an unassuming and well-behaved child, with the exception of your brother Aaron's first Holy Communion, when you thought he was getting a treat and you were missing out, whereupon you threw a tantrum of such ferocity your father took you outside. When the service was over, you were still protesting the unfairness of it all, so much so, I asked the priest did he feel you might need an exorcism. Hey, I have a ratbag sense of humour at times, and over the years, it's become wonderfully apparent that you do, too. 

I first noticed your innate theatricality in the preschool end of year concert. The second half comprised a nativity play and I saw you ready to take the stage, with a camp pair of fake donkey ears attached to your head. Many would not rate too highly being cast in the role of the ass in the stable, but you made it your moment to shine. You took your position next to the manger, and when the shepherds and Magi made their arrival, you made grand ta-da! gestures at the Little Prince of Peace.

Your sense of humour and personality ensured you had no trouble making friends at school. You also enjoyed listening to music and dancing. How you loved an audience and an impromptu performance. Our shopping trip to Coles, when you were seven, illustrates this. You saw your image on the CCTV camera and performed a moonwalk. Then you dropped your pants and mooned the camera. That ignominious episode aside, we encouraged you to develop your flair for dancing, and you enjoyed hip-hop and musical theatre classes for several years after that. You received an encouragement award from the dance school when you were twelve, and you strutted to the stage as though to the manor born. You received your award with aplomb, and said, 'I'd just like to thank my mum and dad...'. The school's teachers were shrieking laughter. Here you are from your last year at the school. You rock those jazz shoes.

Your dancing earned you some income when you did some busking in the playground and you had a group of women copying your moves at a Queen tribute show we attended when you were thirteen. You are quite the Mr Bojangles. 

You're old enough to know life throws curveballs at times. It threw you one that manifested when you were seven. We thought you were daydreaming because what kid isn't imaginative at times? It was a different rollercoaster this time, and no fun at all. You ran around, crying you were on a rollercoaster (the seizures produced a similar sensation to you).  As parents, it was so scary to watch. Your teachers were frightened, too. We got you into a pediatrician who observed and filmed you. As luck would have it, the man who became your treating pediatric neurologist happened to be in the building that day. He checked you over and asked questions. Your dad's voice sounded like piano wire when he said, 'It's scaring the hell out of us.' He reassured us and prescribed you medication. You also had to undergo a series of tests that were no fun at all. We were so proud of how stoic you were when you were in the huge MRI cylinder or putting up with wires stuck to your head during the EEGs you've suffered through over the years. Dad signed a waiver to allow the footage taken of you to be used for training pediatric neurologists. We wanted to help and we know you'd want to help other families affected by epilepsy.

Sure, you've made us worry, but more than that, you've made us laugh. Your timing and wit are impeccable. I will never forget the time our house flooded in a freak storm in 2014. You would have been nine. Anyway, we were standing with our mouths hanging, water halfway up to our knees, just gazing around in abject shock. In imitation of a contemporary television ad that featured a similar situation, you deadpanned, 'Mum, you're gonna need a bigger boat.' Oh, how your dad and I laughed. You broke the tension beautifully and gave us the belly laugh we badly needed. 

You have developed broad and eclectic tastes in music. Sometimes we will hear you playing Motley Crue, and other times, Frank Sinatra. You deliver zingers and one-liners in the manner of a latter day Dorothy Parker. Your maternal grandmother (my mother) was funny and a music lover, and it is a sorrow to me that she never knew you. 

You've proven to be a great concert companion and I love how we share similar interests and tastes. Now that you're eighteen, you can accompany me to some of the pub gigs that were hitherto unavailable to you. I know you will be sartorial. You've developed your own style and taken up drums in lieu of dance:

It might be incumbent upon you to now act like an adult, but please, NEVER stop acting like the amazing, funny, witty raconteur you are and always have been.

Happy birthday, Michael, from your family, who love you to the moon and back.

Trying To Not Crack over Prac

 Okay, I got the assessments in. How did I go? Don't know, but I will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I've been getting myself ready for upcoming university practicum placement. This involved uploading every competency I have ever earned, or so it seems, as well as gaining a few new ones, such as specific anaphylaxis training (the training including in my first aid certificate apparently doesn't count). I also had to have my Working With Children Check verified by the department. Okay, I thought, but then I had a hassle uploading it. I figured this is because I have uploaded it before for a tutoring role, so I rang to check. My hunch was right, but I had to wait on hold for the equivalent of a geological epoch whilst the clerk checked. The hold music was The Look by Roxette. On a loop. Over and over and over. What I had once considered an innocuous piece of Eighties Europop became pure torture and I was one step from the fetal position, alternatively wailing for it to stop and wailing for my mummy. 

But it got sorted.

So what else is happening? Unless you've been under a rock, you'll be aware the US Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade, thus placing termination laws in the hand of the individual states. There is no nice way I can think of to say this, so I will just be blunt: fuck you people, seriously. I get it, it's an emotive issue for many. But it can be emotive for the person making the decision, too. It's a procedure that is carried out for myriad reasons, none of which are the business of anybody but the person with the uterus. So can all you whackjobs waving your gruesome placards outside clinics just fuck off and go away? For all your blathering about saving an unborn, how much of a shit do you proffer when it is born? I'm guessing somewhere in the vicinity of none. I will go further to suggest that you would describe the mother as a moocher leeching off society. What next? Seizing data on period tracking apps to ascertain whether a skewed cycle is proof of an abortion? Monitoring people of childbearing years who might be travelling out of the state? If nothing else, think about the potential loss of dollars for the tourism industry; I can't imagine many people wanting to go on holiday in Gilead. 

Anyway, even though it seems I have done nothing but uni related work lately, I still have more to do. I am hoping with every fibre of my being this multitudinous paperwork I had to submit is because it is my first prac, and the information will be applicable to the subsequent practicums I undertake, because I must tell you, it is arduous and tedious and lengthy, and made me want to snap nails in half with my teeth. 

Still, I got it uploaded, and it's made me feel oddly proud. What else am I proud of this week? Well, I didn't get into a huge argument with someone about Roe vs Wade who used the trope of 'keep your legs shut and don't destroy life because you've had five minutes of fun'. You might be wondering why I didn't go ballistic; well, I was at this person's house when the view was expressed and I have this thing about being civil to someone in their own house. One thing I am weirdly proud of is, after viewing an instructional video, I figured out how to change the ringtone of my new phone to the opening of Anarchy in the UK. This might seem childish. It could appear unseemly. But what the hey? 

Oh well, study awaits and then I'm going online to purchase clothes for prac. 

Ian Dury & Kanye West in The Same Post!

 I've spent the past few hours thinking about lesson plans for my upcoming university assessment, as well as for my upcoming practicum placement. My ideas are magnificent, or so I like to think, but the hassle is mainly ensuring I have the correct template for my plans, and have I developed a good enough understanding of Piaget and Vygotsky and Bandura to understand how the adolescents will be learning, and have I got a good enough hook for each lesson plan. Getting into the assessment and study has proven difficult because my son's new dog has been whining and whimpering - my son was outside mowing the lawn and she wanted to be with him. I haven't really planned any hook for each lesson yet. Some of the ideas bandied in the collaborations included giving the students a quiz: 'Lyrics from a Song or Words from a Poem?' Lots of fun, I think. The potential for LOLs (pronounced, according to my seventeen-year-old: Lollz) is myriad. How about these little beauties for the young minds I will be hopefully shaping? Hint: they're all song lyrics, not poems. 

1. 'I'm spasticus. I'm spasticus. I'm spasticus autisticus.' (Ian Dury and the Blockheads). 

2. 'I am an antichrist. I am an anarchist.' (Sex Pistols).

3. 'My penis was missing again.' (King Missile).

4. 'She's cool in bed, and she oughta be 'cos Ethyl's dead.' (Alice Cooper)

5. 'Why don't you just fuck off and die?' (Kid Rock).

Or maybe not. 

Speaking of songs, I had the most disheartening experience at a trivia game last Friday night. It was held at my son's high school. Normally, I am pretty good at music trivia. But I was definitely at a disadvantage in the audio round that night. The snippets lasted for about 1.5 seconds at a stretch and were definitely not my era. Well, I'm proud I didn't know one of the answers was Kanye West (frigging tone-deaf and talentless gronk). I was definitely hobbled in that race. Also, the brevity of the snippets might have been to minimise the chances of people cheating by using the Shazam app. Let me just say this, if you're going to cheat at trivia with apps like Google and Shazam, you're low enough to parachute out of a snake's arse with space to freefall. I would rather lose fairly than win by foul means, and like I said, not knowing a song is by Kanye West is by no means a source of shame. Now if they'd only played snipped from (1) to (5) above, my team might have been in with a chance. 

To Aaron, on Your 21st Birthday

 How do I start this? I guess at the beginning. Okay, picture the scene: it was Sydney, 2000, and the entire city was basking in the afterglow of the recently contested Olympic games. There was a general good mood over the city and a rather apprehensive one in the flat in Lane Cove where your dad and I were living; we were sitting side-by-side on our bed waiting for the result to appear on a home pregnancy test. We had undergone so many months of heartbreak trying to achieve a pregnancy, including invasive tests to correct an issue I had, but this month was different. Sounds corny, but I knew. 

Didn't stop me being scared to look at the test in case there was more heartbreak. 

The pink line appeared, growing stronger and more distinct.

'Wow,' your dad whispered. 'I'm going to be a dad!'

Your paternal grandparents were staying with us. We told them the news. Your late Poppy kissed me on the cheek. You don't remember him, but he loved you very much, and you enjoyed playing with him. Your Neena told us how happy she was for us, but she was not as happy as we were. We were going to be a family! 

You arrived two and a half weeks prior to your expected date. Until then, I thought the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was a Himalayan sunrise. You eclipsed that. I had never seen anything so wonderful as the tiny, vernix-coated scrap with black hair growing over his skull in the same pattern as his dad's. The midwife put you against my chest and you looked at me with an expression that was a mix of bewilderment and indignation. You looked like you were thinking: What the hell was THAT about? I felt like a question had been answered (So THAT'S what you look like!). I also felt amazingly protective and welcoming of you. I greeted you by saying 'hello' and gave you a kiss on the head. Your dad was crying, 'Look at him! Look at him!', and when the midwife asked what was your name, your dad tried to say 'Aaron', but instead made incoherent 'Aaaaah' sounds like a Bee Gee. We toasted your arrival with sparkling wine that had gone warm served in unenvironmentally friendly polystyrene cups, but it felt like we were drinking Moet et Chandon in Waterford crystal flutes. The midwives brought me some vegemite on toast, and I spilled crumbs on your head as I ate it. 

You were a pleasant-natured baby who developed into a pleasant-natured little boy. We moved to the Hunter Valley, where you attended school. On your first day of school, you showed me the drinking bubblers and suggested we install some at our house. You did well at school, achieving a host of merit awards for school work and showing good manners. With the exception of one year, you were awarded Academic Achievement at every end-of-year assembly throughout primary school, and were nominated for Dux in your final year. Your dad and I would clear the calendar because we anticipated receiving the invitation from the school! You clearly get your mathematical and engineering skills from your dad, as well as your looks. We both gave you a good grasp of literacy. Once you showed me a cartoon your younger brother had drawn, wherein a character was uttering a misspelled F-word (the 'c' was missing). I asked you whether you had actually done this yourself in an attempt to get your brother into trouble. You rolled your eyes and replied, 'Come on, Mum. I would have spelled that properly!' 

You continued the upward curve into Fine Young Man throughout your high school years. You enjoyed soccer games, and played well and with sportsmanship. You continued to perform well academically, too. You also developed a sardonic wit that would give Paul Keating a run for his money (look him up, my son!). How we enjoy your company and the conversations we have! We have become a formidable force, together with your buddy Drew, at the pub trivia. It's not only the fact we play well and win the occasional bottle of wine, I enjoy the conversation and repartee. You are not only our son, you are our friend.

You have lived twenty-one years, so have had the opportunities to realise life isn't always great. I remember the mixture of sorrow and pride I felt when I saw you carrying your Pop's (my dad) coffin when you were just fourteen, and performing the duty of pallbearer along with your dad, uncles, and cousins. You were stoic and strong, and when Pop's coffin was in the hearse, you wept in your dad's arms. I cried watching you as you experienced grief. A few years later, we said goodbye to our beautiful dog Brock. We sat in the vet's surgery, passing a box of tissues back and forth. You held Brock's paw to let him know you were there for him in those final moments. Again, I felt pride with my grief. You were there for Brock when he needed you. You are there for your dad when he needs you. You are there for Michael when he needs you (you were the person Michael wanted when he experienced bullying in primary school). You were there for me when I needed a support person for some unpleasant business last year. I don't think you realise the strength I drew from your presence on those occasions. I was proud of the dignity you showed when it was required. Your dad was proud of what you did for me. Your pop would have been very proud of you, too. 

Speaking of Pop, remember how proud we all were when he led the Scone Horse Parade in 2013? You will understand what an important honour it was to Pop, but do you know what was his favourite part of the day? It was when you hugged him after the parade and said, 'I'm very proud of you, Pop.' You made his day! 

We are so proud of your intellect, your kindness, and your tinder-dry sense of humour. There is a good reason you are entrusted with creating the team name every week for trivia! 

You are so many things, Aaron. You are our son, Michael's older brother, Neena's grandson, a special person to Jialin, and a mate to that coterie of fine young people you call your friends. You are now the adoptive father of Daisey the Beagle-And-Who-Knows-What-Else-Cross. You're a Star Wars nerd, a fine Lego builder, a collector of anime themed plushies (I think we're going to need to hire a shipping container for your collection soon!), a dog lover, and a 'quiet' raconteur. You are kind to animals, but have a steadfast conviction the sunfish is a useless and ugly creature with no right to exist on our planet. Your humour is a marvelous dry and sardonic blend of Paul Keating and Stephen Fry. You follow politics and have a detestation for injustice. 

The day you were born, your dad filmed me giving you a message. I cannot locate the tape; I daresay it's been destroyed in those floods we had. I recall what I said: 'I'm really looking forward to getting to know you and being your mum'. 

I was right.

From all of us: Happy 21st birthday, Aaron. We love you. 

Fat-Bottomed Girls You Block the View of the Stage

 It's been a while since I last decided to run my fingers over the keyboard. I've been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer, what with uni assessments, handing out how-to-vote cards at polling booths, and attending the Queen tribute show. We have also welcomed a new family member: my son, for this upcoming 21st birthday, wanted to adopt a rescue dog and we now have a bitzer, but mainly bits of beagle, named Daisey - four months old. 

Last Saturday, my younger son and I travelled to a venue some one and a half hours away for the Queen show. We were fortunate enough to score seats at the end of the front row. We were unlucky enough to be seated next to a gaggle of drunken she-gronks who staggered and swayed by, cackling like chooks on nitrous oxide, slopping Moscato from plastic cups and stepping on my son's foot (one almost landing in his lap) as they lurched into their seats. 'Don't mind us,' one shrilled, 'We've been drinking since four o'clock!'. My son, something of a wisecracker, replied, 'So have I.' 

This particular venue has a flat seated area at the front, which is where we were. Being considerate, we stayed seated until specifically directed otherwise by 'Freddie' for Fat-Bottomed Girls. We did not wish to block the view of those behind us, and it's not fair to expect others to stand in order to see just because we might wish to stand (which I don't, anyway). Unfortunately, the Moscato had annihilated any sense of consideration the lushes next to us might have once had, and they decided to stand up and dance. Being on the end of the row, this meant my son and I had to endure what looked like gelatinous satellites squashed into poly-cotton blend swinging and swaying, obliterating our view of the band. An irritated tap on the back of the behemoth nearest me gave them the hint, but it wasn't long before they were on their feet again, miraculous that they could stand given they had consumed enough booze to sink a battle ship. My disgruntled son remarked, 'Freddie sang about fat-bottomed girls, not fat-arsed beached whales!'. We ended up standing next to a speaker near the wall in order to see the show and not block the view of the elderly people behind us. 

Despite that, we had a wonderful night, which included catching up with an old friend of mine who happened to be at the gig. My son navigated for the drive home and we eagerly discussed our next planned trip to see a tribute band, which is going to be an ELO show in about ten days. Serendipitously, Rockaria came on the radio, and we sang along, operatic bridge and all. 

Anyway, that's it for now. Posting again soon and hope you're all doing well. 

Pondering the Most Effed-Up Fictional Characters I've Ever Encountered

 I'm of that generation that devoured novels by VC Andrews throughout our late teens and early twenties. Who else enjoyed with guilt the vicious cruelty of the four Dollanganger/Foxworth children's family in Flowers in the Attic, a novel with themes that only differed from those in Deliverance by the absence of banjos in the background and the presence of teeth in the characters? Some of the works, penned by ghostwriters after Andrews' death, had Byzantine plots and seriously annoying characters. In this instance, I'm thinking of the Casteel family, whose protagonist Heaven Leigh (say it quickly and feel your eyes roll) is one of the most irritating paradigms of piss-elegance ever to grace a page. SPOILER ALERT: she borrows from the Flowers in the Attic series and dresses like her mother to freak out her father, which distracts him while he's - get this - working as a lion tamer in a circus. Disaster ensues. Also, she takes it upon herself to water the plants when she's awaiting an interview for a girl's school. People like this annoy me: they're not your plants; leave them the fuck alone! I once had a flatmate whose girlfriend would water the plants when she dropped by. God, she pissed me off. 

Anyway, I got thinking about Andrews' well-known Southern Gothic masterpiece (if that word applies), My Sweet Audrina. I read this when I was a teenager in the Eighties, and years later, I still think it is jam-packed full with the most fucked up characters in the one book. If you've read it, I would love a comment here on your opinion on who is the villain in this book. Vera is the obvious choice, but I think she's running neck-and-neck with Damien (aka Papa). Anyway, hereunder I submit my reasons for why the characters in this book are assholes and fuck-ups. As before, there are SPOILERS. 

1. Audrina. I know she is a product of her environment, but she's annoying. The way she craps on about the chameleon quality of her hair (and her mother's) is so irritating. Does anybody's hair really change from flaxen to chestnut without a packet of Loreal? 

2. Lucietta (Audrina's mother). She's a flip who went along with screwing up her daughter's mind after she was gangraped on her ninth birthday. She also lies around reading soft-porn romances and stuffing her face with chocolates, having given up a potential career as a pianist. Oh, and has mock weekly afternoon teas with her sister as they communicate through a portrait of another sister, who was apparently cooked and eaten by cannibals when working as a missionary in the jungle. Yeah, I know. The bourbon flows along with the spiteful insults as Lucietta and her sister do their best to antagonise each other. 

3. Elsbeth (Lucietta's sister and Audrina's aunt). She's unpleasant and bitter, but I think she's reacting to the crappy hand life dealt her. Let's face it, being treated like a servant in your ancestral home by the guy you once loved and who decided to dump you when you were pregnant and marry your younger sister must suck somewhat. 

4. Arden (Audrina's childhood friend and eventual husband). He's just a turd who shagged Vera (more about her soon) whilst Audrina was in a coma. And before Audrina was in a coma, for that matter. He was also willing to pull the plug while she was comatose.

5. Vera (Elsbeth's daughter and Audrina's cousin, whom we later learn is - courtesy of Damien's dalliance with Elspbeth - Audrina's half-sister!). She was probably the most interesting character in this book.  She was incremental in what happened to Audrina in the woods, so she's definitely a villain in the piece. She also appropriated Lucietta's dirty books after Lucietta's death (I warned you there were spoilers) and rubbed one out as Audrina was watching. Another great moment was miscarrying on an expensive rug and throwing a clot of dead fetus at her mother's apron. 

6. Damien (Lucietta's husband, Elsbeth's former lover, Audrina's father, and as it turns out, Vera's father. Also Sylvia's father, but more about her soon). Okay, where to begin? He dumped a pregnant woman, married and impregnated her sister, and took over the home like it was his own. He refuses to acknowledge Vera as his daughter, perpetuates patriarchal and sexist ideals, and fetishises virginity and sexuality in females, particularly his daughters. He manipulates every woman within a fifty mile radius. He convinced Audrina sex was evil, so much so, she could never respond to her husband (except when she wanted to win him back from Vera, so maybe this was Audrina's kink? If so, Andrews never explored this in the novel, which is kind of a shame). He subjected Audrina to electric shock therapy. He forces her to practise some kind of trauma memory recovery in a rocking chair. He entrusts Audrina with the care of her younger sister Sylvia who has intellectual disability - Audrina is about eleven at the time, mind you. He tells Audrina when Sylvia is older, if she goes to a special home, 'some boy will take her virginity' (again with the virginity, you creepy fuck?) and if Sylvia falls pregnant, then that child becomes Audrina's responsibility, too. He also banged his son-in-law's mother, who looks like Elizabeth Taylor, were Liz a double amputee above the knees. This book truly has fucked up scenarios and Damien is the type of sleazoid monster who should be yeeted into the sun. 

7. Lamar. Audrina's piano teacher who, when aged about twenty-six, shagged Vera who was about fifteen. Slime. 

8. Billie (Arden's mother). Billie is not an annoying character, per se. She's probably the most sensible one of the lot, and she's had to deal with the amputation of her legs owing to diabetes, after a stellar career as a figure skater. These trials pale in comparison to having her son marry into Audrina's family and her subsequent seduction by the manipulative Damien. 

9. Sylvia (Audrina's younger sister). Lucietta died giving birth to Sylvia, who has severe intellectual disability. She's not as annoying as the other characters, but she does get hold of glass prisms and uses them to dazzle everyone and just might have pushed some characters down the stairs. 

Yes, there is clearly a plethora of fucked up characters in this book. For what it's worth, the writing isn't terrible by any means. But the characters out-fuck-up anything else I've ever read. They make the incestuous brother and sister in Hotel New Hampshire, and the woman who dresses as a bear, seem normal. 

Come to think of it, it's been years since I read Hotel New Hampshire, and John Irving is one of my favourite authors. I guess I know what I will be reading when I next have a holiday.

Office Onanism

 I daresay the Prime Minister will be calling the election soon. Will we see a change in government? More to the point, will the toxic culture of Parliament House be improved? If it is, the cleaning staff will be mightily relieved. Seriously, the building must have dried, semi-dried, gelatinous, or still-in-liquid-stage jizz everywhere, if the allegations regarding the prayer room are correct (and at this stage they are ALLEGATIONS). And it's not just the Prayer Room, remember the staffer who jacked off over a female MP's desk? Seriously, what is wrong with people? There is nothing wrong with rubbing one out, but on a woman's desk? Did this priapic prat have an uncontrollable bout of satyriasis or - and I think this is the most likely scenario - a chronic case of Private-Schoolboy-With-No-Respect-And-Wild-Empowerment-So-Joined-LNP? I will admit I made up the name of the latter medical condition in the previous sentence, but I wouldn't be surprised if, in the future, it crops up in a medical textbook near you. 

These allegations are bugging me for the following reasons:

1. If true, this is in the workplace on taxpayer's dollars. 

2. If true, this occurred in a place of worship, which is the height of disrespect (this is not what they meant when they said you have to kneel down in the prayer room, okay?). 

3. If true, the alleged participants voted on policies in a manner that was detrimental, hurtful, and harmful to the LGBQTI community and these participants, assuming their alleged proclivities are true, could be described as having tendencies that are congruous with members of that community, so where is the sense in voting in a harmful manner? It's like cutting off your nose to spite your face. 

Anyway, let's whip around the hat or set up a Go Fund Me to reward the long-suffering cleaning staff of Parliament House, who have to scrub and clean up after the odious onanists have been spilling seed like a split sack of quinoa.