Walk On.

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Well, it’s September 30th and I’m officially past the half-way point of my 6 month paid odyssey into the self-gratifying world of blog writing. It’s been a real slugfest to get to this point, so any notion of it being ‘easy money’ is well and truly out the window (and was out the window by about day 6). By the time I finish this exercise, I’ll have accumulated about 2 thesis’s worth of depressingly cynical social commentary. I actually thought that this process would be cathartic and would allow me to expel all of my vitriol in a constructive manner; however the opposite is actually true. The process is having a real negative impact on my state-of-mind. I’m going to be verging on suicidal by the time December rolls around.

Sydney Road in Brunswick was closed off to traffic today for more than an hour as approximately 20,000 people marched the streets in support of Jill Meagher, the 29 year-old Irish National who was abducted from the same road and killed last week on her way home from a regular night out with work colleagues.

Melbourne residents out in force for Jill Meagher.

It’s one of those awful things that could have happened to anyone, and potentially that’s why it has had such a huge impact on the local and also the wider community. The absolutely random nature of the attack is what makes it even scarier for people to try and digest; indeed, it would have been far more palatable for the general public if it were a crime of passion perpetrated by her clearly distraught husband (as was incorrectly alluded to by a number of people when the story initially broke). It’d allow us to rationalise it far more easily. That it was allegedly some 41 year-old random creep from a neighbouring suburb with no motive other than that of opportunism is far more difficult for the public to digest.

I was speaking to one of my ex-housemates (a chick) the other night about the incident and we both agreed that it was one of the more fucked things that has ever happened and a bit unsettling considering we both live a stone’s throw away from the scene of the abduction. It’s made me realise that I’m more than a little bit ignorant to the thought processes that women are faced with on a daily/nightly basis in regards to their own personal safety insomuch as I don’t think twice about walking down a dark alleyway in the middle of the night or early in the morning on my way home. Indeed, it’s generally other people that are crossing the road to get away from the large silhouette stumbling drunkenly down the laneway.

Women shouldn’t feel that they have to justify their right to walk home late at night without this sort of horror occurring. It shouldn’t even be a topic for discussion in the first place, it should just be accepted. That said, there are some truly fucked-up people in this world and it’s important to recognise this, regardless of how safe a situation may appear on the surface.

While I’m the last person you would’ve seen marching on Sydney Road this afternoon, I understand why others did.

/end communication

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Stinger.

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I’ve got a mind to bust out the next 400 words in record time. This is one of the days that having to write this fucking thing is a real drain on my life. It’s actually preventing me from going 800 metres down the road to my mates’ place and getting copious amounts of froffies into my gullet. Disheartening…

One of my housemates went down the road this morning to fetch a few coffees and a couple of bacon & egg muffins in my car. He was laughing his arse off when he walked back in the door and I had absolutely no idea why. I asked what he was giggling like a 10 year-old schoolgirl at a Jonas Brothers concert for…

“I didn’t realise that you were part of the CFMEU Casey?”

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, at which stage he suggested that I go and have a look at the rear window on my car.

I couldn’t fucking believe my eyes…

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

Someone had put a massive CFMEU sticker with the tagline, ‘We Built This City’ and a fucking disgusting Southern Cross in the bottom right-hand corner on my car. Yes, CFMEU, the same bunch of fuckwits that created havoc in the Melbourne CBD earlier this month with their ludicrous stop-work action (because Grocon actually wanted to run their business and turn a profit instead of being bent over the barrel and sodomised by union heavies – aka fuckwits such as John Setka.)

I have absolutely no idea how long the sticker has been on there for either, which means that I potentially have been driving around with it on my car for the last week (it definitely wasn’t there when I cleaned it last week but I haven’t checked since). This means that people have most likely been pulling up to my car and shaking their heads with disappointment. I’ve got Tassie plates too, so I’d imagine the reaction of a stranger to be the following…

“Look at this fucking joker from Tassie – he’s part of the CFMEU – clearly an idiotic hick, lets fucking tailgate him.”

I love their tagline, ‘We Built This City’.

Woopee fucking do, you get paid to build shit. You don’t provide the finance, the planning permits, the raw materials or anything else. All you and your cuntish mates do is hammer a few nails in and we’re meant to be perpetually indebted to you? Give me a fucking break.

Doctors don’t drive around with union stickers on their cars that say,

“I saved your grandpa”.

Fuck off.

/end communication

Footy

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Melbourne has really turned on the weather for the 2012 AFL Grand Final tomorrow… NOT. Apparently it’s going to be raining cats & dogs for the duration of the game, which frustrates the hell out of me because it’s likely to interfere with my one-handed half-time game of ‘Starlight’ (remember that from school?) on a busy city street with a bunch of other pissed blokes (the other hands will be kept busy holding an abundance of frosty beers wrapped in a variety of kitsch stubbie holders) as cars drive past, their annoyed drivers dodging drunken pedestrians, their fists furiously punching their horns as they traverse the chaos trying desperately to extricate themselves in one piece without clipping a pissed bloke on their way through. In my opinion, nothing signifies Grand Final day like bleeding, shredded knees full of sharp little pieces of jagged bitumen as drunken fools attempt to take ‘hangers’ on each other with no regard for their own personal safety and even less regard for the safety of the other pissed blokes around them.

 

There’s nothing better than getting together with a bunch of like-minded individuals and collectively gathering around a ridiculously large flat-screen television and all drinking as much as you possibly can in one sitting while 44 blokes go toe to toe in the presence of 100,000 spectators & millions more at the other end of a TV set at the best modern representation of the ancient Roman Colosseum that I can think of (off the top of my head), the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The addition of novel elements to an AFL Grand Final Day party such as sweepstakes, the assignment of players and drinks for the good/bad shit that these players do during the course of the game (I pity the bloke who gets Ryan Schoenmakers!) to each person at the party and the fact that beer is about 100 times cheaper from a bottleshop than it is at the ground make the GF day party a close substitute to the real thing (I assume, I’ve never actually been to a Grand Final, and being a Richmond supporter, may have some years to wait yet).

In continuing my allegiance to the underdog (as a Tigers supporter and former Fitzroy Lions supporter), I hope the Sydney Swans beat Hawthorn in a close one; I’ve got far too many self-satisfied, smug mates who barrack for the Hawks & have been clogging up my Facebook newsfeed with endless amounts of shit and I’d greatly enjoy watching them cry (and a few of them legitimately would cry, the pussies) in the event that Sydney get up.

I also hope that Josh Kennedy wins the Norm Smith and celebrates by punching Jeff Kennett in the face.

 /end communication

The focal point – not you.

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I was in my hometown of Devonport in early April this year, watching on miserably from the old wooden grandstands on the wing on a bleak, rainy day at the Devonport Oval as the Devonport Magpies (the first footy club I played at) took on The Burnie Dockers, losing comprehensively as the rain came in sideways as a thunderstorm descended onto the picturesque ground (situated only several hundred metres from the coast). Two of the light towers on the far wing were knocked out temporarily by the heavy thunderstorms, meaning that the game was played in darkness on that side of the ground for quite some time. Would have been a great time to get some cheap shots in…

I was trying incredibly hard to imagine myself sitting on a warm beach in Bora Bora, or somewhere else similarly tropical, when I overheard a man several metres away from me speaking glowingly about his son to the gentleman next to him. Evidently his son was on the ground (although I’m surprised that the man could tell with the rain coming in as hard as it was) and I thought, “Oh that’s nice that he’s come out to watch his son play, even in these conditions.”

I kept eavesdropping to try and ascertain which of the half-drowned rats fumbling for the waterlogged ball his son could possibly be, and then I heard the following comment and my world was irrevocably rocked.

“You swore Darren, and I know it wasn’t at me, but FIFFFFFFFTYYYYYYYYYYYYY METRES!”

“Yeah, he has had a great game, he’s made some great calls and he’s really controlling the game well.”

What the fuck? His son was the fucking umpire?

I couldn’t believe it. This man had dragged himself down to a football ground on a cold Tasmanian winter’s day to watch his son officiate a game of Statewide League football?  Not only was he watching on intently, he was beaming with pride at his son’s efforts. I wanted to stuff a lukewarm Four & Twenty’s pie down this twat’s throat with such ferocity that the tips of my fingers touched his oesophagus.

I mean, seriously, does anyone grow up wanting to be an umpire? They’re all such pussies, aren’t they? You never see an AFL umpire say anything with any sense of authority, they all have effeminate voices and prance daintily around like gazelles bounding through the high grasses of an African savannah.

I tell you one thing. If I ever have a child and that child happens to be a boy and then happens to grow up to be an Australian Rules umpire, I will do the following;

1)      Eject him from my household

2)      Disown him

3)      Frame him for the murder of someone that I don’t particularly like

4)      Visit him in prison (I’m not a total monster)

/end communication

Aidsburger.

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God damn it. I’ve been in the Melbourne CBD (I don’t know if anyone over here calls it that) for all of this week on a training course instead of journeying out to the suburban paradise of Box Hill. (As a side note, I find it pretty much impossible to keep my eyes open in a classroom environment these days, which has made it somewhat awkward between the facilitator and I around 3pm when I start dozing off).

Having absolutely no idea where I am in the middle of the city, my lunch breaks so far this week have consisted of me traversing a completely random selection of streets until I stumble across a place for lunch that doesn’t make me recoil in horror. That said, I had a copious amount of froffies on Monday night while I watched the Brownlow medal count (well done to J Watson) and was seeking something outright rank and suitably fried to try and sate the vicious hangover looming over me like an expectant paedophile at the back of the presbytery, altar boy in hand…

I stumbled across ‘Lord of the Fries’, which appeared to be a place that sold fries & hamburgers. Indeed, it looked suitably busted and the exact sort of thing that was going to get me out of my midweek hangover rut. I ordered some chips and a ‘Big Mark’ burger, listed as having ‘LOTF patty, cheese, pickles, onion, lettuce & Lord’s sauce’.

Fake hamburgers – blasphemous.

I took it back to the office and ate it. Everything was going fine until one of the other guys on the training course advised me that Lord of the Fries is a vegetarian restaurant.

“There’s no way”, I said, “I just ate a hamburger from there…”

One of the women on the training course confirmed the initial report. I’d just accidentally purchased and eaten a vegetarian hamburger.

What. The. Fuck!

I honestly felt that I’d been raped. (I love the thought of Germaine Greer reading that sentence. “How dare you compare accidentally eating a vegie burger to a man sexually assaulting a woman, you chauvinist pig.”)

Of course, my dismay was so obvious that the rest of the training group started roaring with laughter. I was seriously quite shaken up by the whole thing. One of the other girls looked up Lord of the Fries on the Internet and read the following excerpt.

‘Our patties have the look, taste, and texture of beef or chicken with virtually no fat. The patties are made from textured vegetable protein.’

You sneaky motherfuckers! What the fuck is ‘textured vegetable protein’ anyway? Sounds vaguely menacing to me…

I had to buy some super low-grade Angus beef burgers at Coles that evening and cook them on the BBQ in order to restore balance to the Universe (and my soul).

Vegetarians are the first to cry about it when they’ve accidentally eaten meat without giving their consent, but what about the poor carnivores being covertly fed weird meat substitutes disguised as hamburgers? Where’s our justice?

Fucking double standards…

/end communication

“I’ll just put it into my iPhone”.

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Fucking Jesus. I was doing some disengaged channel-hopping on Foxtel (I still call it Austar, it’s a Tasmanian thing) while slovenly lounging on the couch this evening and ended up watching a bit of Channel V’s ‘The Rock Show’ for a few agonising, unfortunately irretrievable minutes. Their definition of rock is somewhat loose, to say the least. I was exposed to a band by the name of ‘Hot Chelle Rae’ on the show tonight, their apparently hit single, ‘Whatever’ being the selected fare for the evening. By the way, off course their song is named ‘Whatever’, what a bunch of straight-laced, greens-eating, God-fearing fuckwits.) It’s as if they weren’t convinced that their collective statuses of being known as, ‘The Whitest Motherfuckers on the Planet’ were in jeopardy and decided to get on the front foot and solidify their reputations.

The song was the sort of generic, pandering, formulaic tripe that gets aimed directly at the young teen market. Why? Because all a teen needs is a good looking lead singer (male or female) and they’ll then happily max out their parents’ credit cards out buying every single song ever written by that artist or group while subtly grinding their genitalia on the nearest couch cover. I honestly think that there should be an age restriction to purchasing music; you should have to be 18 years old and have passed a suitable entrance exam.

All I can say is, I fear for the kids 10 years younger than me growing up listening to this shit; what sorts of petulant fucking assholes are they going to turn into if they’re listening to this utter bollocks day in, day out? I listened to The Presidents of the United States of America smashing out tracks like Lump & Volcano and they listen to this?

I feel like it’s inevitable that the whole World is eventually going to implode under the untenable weight of sexting teenagers as their technology gets more and more sophisticated (and they get less and less intelligent). You know how sometimes now when someone asks you to go somewhere, the first instinctive action is to reach for the nearest smartphone and type in the street address, ensuring that you’ll never actually know where you are or where you’re going ever again, instead turning into a drone at the mercy of your maps program.

Now imagine that that feeling for absolutely everything, because that’s where we’re headed.

May God have mercy on their souls…

/end communication

Nectar.

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You know you’re part of a much larger, societally ingrained problem when you’re sitting in your lounge room on a Monday night drinking copious amounts of longnecks of (ye-olde faithful) Carlton Draught, watching the iconic 1990s Australian skit show Frontline for no reason other than you can. Fuck it, that excuse will do.

My housemates and I got to talking about what the house needed and the conversation somehow turned into a frantic, frenzied eBay search for a signed life-size poster of retired Australian Basketball legend Andrew Gaze. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a poster, but there is a signed basketball on a stand on eBay going for about $120. We holstered our pistols. You can wait Andrew, you can wait… How did we end up here? Just three bone-idle blokes with a little too much disposable income and nothing else to spend it on, I guess…

While I’m on the topic of beer drinking, can someone please tell me why it is that bogans and other undesirable types love to profess how hard they are (by driving quickly depreciating automobiles irresponsibly in crowded public streets on Friday and Saturday nights and picking fights with strangers (me) outside nightclubs knowing full-well that their mates are waiting around the next corner waiting to pounce with chains and bats, amongst other things) yet they find the thought of drinking beer abhorrent.

What a bunch of fucking pussies.

I don’t understand it – not only is drinking pre-mixed cans of Woodstock Bourbon and Cola far less enjoyable than tucking into a good ol’ fashioned carton of the working mans’ beer, Victoria Bitter, it’s also a damn site more expensive.

Quick price check.

Victoria Bitter carton – $40

Woodstock Bourbon and Cola carton – $70

You would think that, amongst these types, the entire purchasing decision would hinge solely on the following question.

“What is the highest alcohol percentage drink for the lowest price that I can legally obtain on the Australian market?”

Instead, there are a bunch of ‘hard’ bogans mincing up to the counters of bottle shops all around Australia, paying through the teeth for pre-mixed spirits, “because they like the taste’.

Booooooooooooooooooooooo.

You’re not a real man until you’ve thrown the last of the freshly-shorn sheep through the chute in the fucking shearing shed in regional Australia, dabbed your brow with the flannelette you’ve been hanging out of the back pocket of your boot cut jeans since for fucking forever, and cooled that brow with the ice-cold goodness of a stubbie of Victoria Bitter.

Admittedly, I’ve done none of those things, but it sounds fucking good, doesn’t it?

/end communication

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