It’s times like this, at 6pm on a Friday, when writing this fucking thing takes the biggest toll. I’m stuck at work, ‘blogging away’ purely because I’m going out for dinner with some mates in the city and I don’t want to have to cut my evening short because I’m worried about missing my 12 midnight deadline. I’m like Cinderella, except instead of my carriage turning into a pumpkin at midnight, I lose $1120 and the ability to callously parade my achievement in my detractors collective faces. Now I know what Regurgitator was talking about when they sung about being, “A slave to the wage”. Fuck.

One thing I don’t understand with some people my age is their need to act like they’re already 40-something years old by hosting a roster of alternating-venue dinner parties with their like-minded ‘couple’ friends at each of their residences whilst an anaemic recording artist like Norah Jones has her entirely forgettable back-catalogue played unobtrusively in the background for ‘ambient noise’ on a faux wood-grain iPod dock (wood-grain so as not to disturb the delicate Feng Shui of the room, silly!)

Generally the fare on offer from the host will be specifically engineered to house something completely out of left-field (like Duck A L’Orange). This move is strategic; it allows the presentation their well-honed culinary skills to the group so that his or her guests can furiously compliment the chefs’ cooking, providing them with a sense of validation by cooing incessantly as they slowly pare apart the meat of the duck, rubbing their bellies and smiling forcedly as if puppets in some vaguely sinister pantomime.

“Have you heard about the escalating situation in outer Mongolia? Those poor villagers… so remote, so helpless…”

The décor of these peoples’ houses is generally styled specifically on the prevailing trends of that year, as if the individuals responsible for its design have wholeheartedly ingested all of the advertising masquerading as entertainment preached indiscriminately to the masses on fucking horrendous ‘DIY’ and reality television shows such as The Block, My Kitchen Roles, Better Homes & Gardens etc. and vomited it back up into their homes into a thoroughly uninspiring middle-class take on ‘urban chic’. It’s a new-millennium take on ‘keeping up with the Jones’s’ where nobody wins except Fantastic Furniture & Bunnings.

All of the guests will be well-dressed as if going out for a night on the town (but not to go ‘out out’ to a nightclub, those places are for hooligans and the great unwashed, not us, for we are dinner-party invitees!). I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do when I get home from a week at work pretending that I have a normal level of maturity for a guy my age to clients & co-workers is to get dressed up and pretend I’m refined in a room full of people that you’d assume would be my friends. Indeed, most of my friends would undoubtedly echo the same sentiment. I’ve got a rule that has held me in good stead so far, and I’m not about to change it now…

Rule # 182 – Be refined when you’ve got to be refined. Do it well.  Make people believe that you’re like this all the time. Dazzle them with your sparkling repartee and your intimate and varied knowledge of current affairs. When you aren’t required to be refined (for example, when they’ve vacated your general vicinity), put some fucking trackpants on and get comfy…

This applies to me in a work context only. There’s no fucking way I’m hanging out with people that I’ve got to be like this around on a weekend. They’d be utter cunts, wouldn’t they!

/end communication

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