Why am I listening?

Leave a comment

They were people that you knew in high school. They might not have been your friends, but they seemed pretty normal, and you didn’t really think much more about them. Fast-forward to 2012 and these same people have now got access to social media, and any concept you had of their normality has been completely blown out the window due to their inability to understand that their dirty laundry need not be aired on social media.

“Can’t believe she’s already shackin’ up wiv someone else so early. I’m still cut up bout us and ya can’t keep ya legs closed, ya slut. Settin’ a good example 4 da kids, aren’t ya?”

Additionally, they feel the need to give advice on life to their captive audience as if they’re some sort of omnipresent being in spite of the fact that they’re 3 kids deep to 2 different partners (men or women) & are perpetually stuck in the town that you couldn’t wait to get out of (when you were fucking 18…)

“I’ve got great friends, great family, a great job, a beautiful girlfriend/boyfriend (my best friend), and a beautiful little baby. For all of you out there working yourselves to the bone, I’ve got news for you. You’ve got it all wrong. Focus on the things that matter, then you’ll understand what life is all about…”

You see, the above passage isn’t really accurate, because there isn’t a litany of spelling and grammar errors strewn throughout the comment, as is tradition for these types. It’s ironic that they think they’ve got life all figured out and haven’t yet grasped the intricacies of the English language. What a bunch of cunts. Here’s a bit of free advice; how about you get your own life in order before dishing out pearls of wisdom to your extended ‘friendship’ group? (Why do I still have these people on Facebook?)

Also, could people please cease and desist referring to their partners as ‘my best friend’? “Today I married my best friend and I couldn’t be happier… I can’t wait to start our life together.”

(VOMIT)

It’s so fucking depressing to read shit like this. It’s only a truly fucking depressing individual who has no friends that makes these comments.  You don’t marry your fucking best friend; you go and watch the latest Bond movie or drink copious amounts of alcohol with them (I don’t know what girl best friends do… watch Sex & the City? Scissor each other into oblivion? It’d be something glorious, surely…)

Anyway, I’m really pissed, but what I’m trying to say is… I don’t know what I’m trying to say. What?

Oh, hang on a second, what I’m trying to say is that people should stop trying to flex their egos on social media. It’s ugly when it’s warranted, it’s downright embarrassing when it’s not…

/end communication

Advertisements

The Weatherman.

Leave a comment

The weather today hit about 38 degrees Celsius. I swear to fucking God it was the only thing I heard about all day from anyone. It’s amazing how variable weather, good or bad, can completely dominate conversation when it rears its head. I spent the majority of the day suffering through pearlers like the one liners listed below. My ideal responses are bracketed…

“Aww, how hot is it today?!”
(Yes, it’s fucking hot. Thanks, Captain Obvious. For your next big revelation, perhaps tell me what colour the grass or sky is, you cunt.)

“Wow, it’s so warm, I can’t believe how warm it is!”

(I’m unsure how it’s possible for you to not believe that it’s hot today, considering you’ve just stated that it is hot. If you feel hot, you are hot, your sweat isn’t some strange abstract construct that your sub-conscious has subtly dreamt up to confuse you, you cunt).

 

“Bad suit weather today, hey!”

(Yes, yes it fucking is. It’s a shame we work in an industry where wearing a suit is compulsory. Take your jacket off and roll your sleeves up, you cunt.)

 

I mean, sure, I understand the fascination with downright ludicrously hot weather, and I’m really just being a cunt with the commentary above, but hot days aren’t that exciting, they’re just kind of fucking annoying. There are those who merely comment on the heat, and to be honest, they’re fine, but the worst types are those that complain about it being too hot in summer, but then complain about it being too cold in winter. MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND ALREADY! Seriously, is there no time of the year where these people pause for a moment and proclaim, “You know what? This is really appropriate weather and I am enjoying it immensely! Thanks, Earth!”

Then there are the bastions of people who say, “Geez I wish it was this hot all year ‘round, it’d be great!”

NO IT WOULDN’T BE FUCKING GREAT, YOU FUCKING RETARD.

I was out in the Yarra Valley this afternoon and there were these baby sheep (lambs, right?) that were seriously battling in the heat. Their baas were more screams of pain than friendly greeting. You can’t have little lambies getting cooked just because you like having an after-work beer in a Bintang Beer singlet with your feet in a kiddie pool now full of ice-water, can we?

To be honest, give me about 25 degrees with a nice off-shore coastal sea breeze and I’m right. Anything above that and I turn into a bit of a cunt (see above).

/end communication

Glossys.

Leave a comment

Sigh…

Don’t buy a copy of New Idea or NW and use the line “I know it’s bad, it’s just my weekly guilty pleasure, you know?” to justify your fucking purchase, alright! Realistically, you need to take a moment from instantly gratifying your petty human desires & remove yourself from the situation for just one moment. Contemplate the ramifications of supporting an industry that places tip-rats like Kim Kardashian, Lindsay Lohan & Paris Hilton on a pedestal (and on the front page every other fucking week) with headlines as ludicrous as, “Kim’s new bikini body…”

I really don’t understand the fascination with publications that spout literally made-up shit about people that nobody should by-rights give a shit about. It blows my mind that somewhere out there, some greasy paparazzi fucktard is getting paid $50,000 a photo for snaps of Paris Hilton walking a dog dressed in an Yves Saint Laurent onesie somewhere in Hollywood. It’s mind-boggling…. And no, I don’t give A SINGLE SOLITARY FUCK what Kim Kardashian is wearing this summer; it could be a fucking crotchless hot-dog costume for all I fucking care. I also don’t give a fuck who she’s fucking, what she’s doing ‘in the business world’ (note: nothing Kim Kardashian has done in the business world is even worth talking about, apart from the $5m QuickTrim class action currently underway against the company, and her).

By purchasing a New Idea, an NW, a Women’s Day, Women’s Weekly, etc. etc., you’re inadvertently and inexplicably funding an industry that thrives on creating celebrity gossip out of thin air (“A source close to the actress said…), praying on people’s insecurities about their own bodies or lives, creating false idols who’ve achieved nothing other than accidentally (read: deliberately) having sex-tapes released in order to place them in the public eye and generally lowering the standard of societal discourse today, tomorrow & into the future.

If you think that we’re headed in the wrong direction now, contemplate what life will be like if we fast-forward another 40 years.

Another 40 years of social media saturation to make you think that any of this matters…

Another 40 years of people talking about how ‘real’ they are…

Another 40 years of hyper-sexualised kids taking their cues from busted, talentless whores like Kim Kardashian. “Mum, I wanna be famous like Kim.” Ugh.

Another 40 years of artificial stories written about artificial people in an artificial reality created in order for others to escape their own existences, whatever the cost…  

My creed? Just don’t buy them. Let these cunts die a slow & painful death, like a gut-shot prison escapee bleeding out in a field somewhere.

The only person that was ever allowed to buy New Idea was my nan.

She bought it for the crosswords…

/end communication

Hair.

Leave a comment

Getting a haircut is one of those things that can either go incredibly well or incredibly poorly. I’ve never pulled a hairdresser up mid-cut for doing a shitty job either, it’s just too fucking awkward. The end result of not saying something is willingly paying someone money (often a significant amount of your money) to make you look like an out-patient from a mental institute. I mean, the amount that guys have to shell out for haircuts is getting pretty crazy, but it’s downright criminal for girls. It’s not unusual for a cut-and-colour (or whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days) to cost upwards of $200. Mental.

I remember when I was growing up, I had the bright idea of getting my mousey brunette hair dyed blonde (not just blonde tips either, I’m talking roots & all). I had the notion that I’d end up looking like some sort of bronzed surf-God and would walk down the street with the swagger of a young Robert Redford, full of piss & vinegar, giving people the pistols as I went. However, all the dye job did was make me look like a six foot four baby (I was in grade 9 or 10 at the time, I think, so the baby look wasn’t really en-vogue). I ended up shaving my head completely a few days later and looked like a ghostly Dennis Rodman for a few more weeks until the dye grew out completely and I shaved the fucker again.

I think I’d paid someone $60 for the privilege of looking like a retard. Great.

I got a haircut today. I fucking hate the whole haircut process, which generally means I end up looking like a shaggy dog before I finally drag myself back in to get another chop. It was one of those awkward ‘first-off’ haircuts where you go to a new hairdresser for the first time and you make excuses about why you haven’t been there before. The hairdresser is especially on-edge, as they know that their actions at that first meeting could either net them a new client or blow their chances of future business completely. Because of this, they’re generally on their best behaviour.

It didn’t start well; the seat for the wash basin that they massage your hair in wasn’t low enough for my ridiculous torso, so I ended up doubled over in some sort of weird reverse brace position for five excruciating minutes in order to get my head shampooed in the wash-bowl (by the way, nothing feels more strange than having your hair washed while the rest of you stays dry – it’s unnatural).

Of course, the hairdresser then latched onto my height as a topic of conversation for the remainder of the haircut, with pearlers like,

“So what’s it like being that tall?”

How the fuck do you even answer that? It’s not as if I can compare it to when I was a midget, can I?

Good haircut though… and only $30. Fuck yeah!

/end communication

Procrastination Destination.

Leave a comment

Procrastination – it’s what drives me to wait until 11.30pm at night (every night) to write these things. I’m, unsure if it’s the added challenge of trying to cram the required work into as short a timeframe as possible or the avoidance of the familiar sense of dread associated with banging one of these bad boys out, but I seem to find myself waiting until the death-knell most nights.

I used to do it so much during Uni too. You could always tell if I had a test on or an assignment due by having a quick look at the cleanliness of my room & the lack of dirty washing, or by how clean my golf clubs were. Once, I even cut & polished my car to avoid doing study. Got a 52% on the test, and I could see my reflection in my bonnet of the faithful Honda. Result!

I guess the big reason for delaying the inevitable back then was that I really didn’t find Uni work that enjoyable or engaging… most of it was horseshit, to be truthfully honest, and I use about 2% of it in my actual job. I’m sure this is the same for most people. Plus, you have to deal with academia when you’re at University, which often consists of talking to a bunch of people who’ve never done anything in the real world, ever, fervently discussing the finer points of something as droll as Keynesian economics while furiously jacking each other off in a study room somewhere. What absolute fuckwits.

I remember attending an ‘Introduction to Logic’ (essentially an introduction to philosophy) class when I first started at University (I was studying Law & Information Systems at the time and this class was considered to give an insight into the logic of programming languages) and losing my mind at some of the downright fucking retards in attendance, trying to throw in  completely out-of-context quips about Plato & Nietzsche as if the whole class was a personal exercise in intellectual dick-measuring that they had to win. Of course, the individuals involved in these discussions had the oratorical & interpersonal skills of one of the monkeys that the Russians blasted into space, but do you think that stopped them?

Rhetorical question…  

Call me a jaded bastard, but I think it’s safe to bet that the great philosophers of the 21st century won’t have their origins in a philosophy classroom at the University of Tasmania.  

/end communication

D.R.S. Rehearsal.

Leave a comment

Over the weekend I’ve taken great pleasure in watching the Australian cricket team do a bit of a hatchet job of their South African opponents at the currently under-renovation Adelaide Oval. It would now appear that a historically benign Adelaide wicket will yield a rare day 5 result, a result made all the better by the fact that it’s most likely to fall in favour of the hosts.

One thing that I can’t help but notice in this most recent Test series is the incredible pervasiveness of the D.R.S. (Decision Referral System) utilized by each team when a contentious call is given (a close L.B.W. decision or an edge to the keeper, for example). This, coupled with the incessant no-ball checking, run-out assessing horseshit pervading cricket has got me madder than Mark Taylor when he has to say ‘Fujitsu’ in a Fujitsu advertisement.

What’s the point of even having the umpires out there anymore? They don’t ever make any real decisions these days; they’re just puppets in outfits holding the bowlers’ sunglasses, hat &/or jumper while they roll the arm over. The I.C.C. would be far better served rolling out purpose-built umpiring robots to hold down each end for Test matches from now on; it’d save them a significant amount of money in the long run and the robots would be less ‘rapey’ around school-children than their limp-wristed predecessors. (see: Steve Randell)

It’s even impacting the celebrations that bowlers give when they take a wicket; nobody wants to celebrate too ostentatiously when there is a very real chance that the D.R.S. or no-ball procedure will lead to the wicket they’ve just taken being overturned, making them look like uppity fuckwits. There was a classic example in this test when Imran Tahir (who has been comprehensively spanked by the Australian batsman this series) thought that he’d finally taken a wicket. He put his hand up to his ear, likely referring to the silence from the Australian crowd at the dismissal. The no-ball checker uncovered that his foot was over the line and the decision was overturned.

He looked a right fuckwit.

In my opinion, cricket umpires although not infallible are a part of the game. For decades upon decades their decisions have been final and their judgement relied upon. Sure, there’s an element of luck involved for some and injustice for others under the old system, but I can’t help but think that this simply added to the unique, old-world charm of the game in years gone by.

The problem that cricket is faced with now is that there’s no going back from this system. The viewing public is still going to demand to see ‘Hawkeye’ footage of L.B.W. decisions, all-angles views of no-balls, run-outs, contentious catches etc., so the powers-that-be have to use this information to make the ‘right’ decisions to avoid public outcry…

…and all the fucking bleating on social media.

/end communication

Professional Indemnity.

Leave a comment

Nothing impresses me less than a professional in a small town crowing about how important they are while simultaneously passing judgement on other members of the community and generally acting like a cunt. Hell, I could move to a regional Tasmanian town and work as a financial planner (couldn’t think of anything worse, by the way, a retarded monkey could work as a financial planner, just buy him a suit and give him a questionable set of morals) but I’d much prefer to work in a region where people are actually in a position to compete with others in their field and aren’t judged solely on the occupation they hold (or the car that they drive).

Let’s set the record straight; just because you’re a lawyer/doctor/accountant/financial planner/whatever in a town clearly devoid of any sort of competition doesn’t give you the right to pass comment on anyone else in your community, regardless of whatever inflated sense of purpose you might harbour for yourself. In fact, some would say (I would fucking say!) that your decision to return to the town you grew up in to practice your trade is akin to taking the easy way out career-wise. Personally, I think it’s fucking pathetic – you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

You see, it’s not difficult to be a big fish in a small pond. Sure, you can go home, big note yourself, perhaps buy a few local properties & think you’re a big shot, but in the scheme of things, you’re nothing but a ratty little blip on the radar of the industry you purportedly work in. People won’t speak about you when you’re dead and gone. In fact, the only reason anyone even speaks about you while you’re alive is because they all hate you and your ludicrous rhetoric enough to spout your stupid fucking name.

We’ve all been exposed to these types of people; generally, they’re the types that end up on local councils, giving wet-kiss back-room handshake deals to equally rank local characters in order to solidify their own monopoly on local trade in the face of any kind of progress that might present itself. New commercial building developments? Forget it! Extended trading hours? You’ve got to be fucking kidding! These types will happily do anything to keep themselves at the top of a very small pile in a town finding itself increasingly up against the wall due to the consistent blocking of any type of change, for better or worse.

I’ll never go home. Ever.

/end communication

Older Entries