I’m wracking my brain tonight trying to think of something to write about. It’s Friday, and I’m tired. Woe is me. (Cue violins). I was up late last night making bulk amounts of artisan sandwiches for a work morning tea, so GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK, ALRIGHT!

I just used the word ‘artisan’ in jest – it has never been, is not, and will never be okay for anybody to refer to any sort of foodstuff that they’ve prepared/purchased/eaten/seen as artisan… Most food (aside from Kraft Cheesesticks – how fucking gnarly are those things!) is made by hand, so sticking some fancy fucking marketing buzzword in front of it to act as a clarion call to every douchebag from here to the closest General Pants outlaw is fucking redundant. I place ‘artisan’ in the same basket as ‘rustic’ on my list of words forbidden to be utilised in the description of foods. You can just imagine some upper middle-class daddy’s girl talking to her gal pals about a restaurant she’s just been to.

Artisan Bread – It’s just bread.

“Yah, Elliot (of course her boyfriend would have some horseshit trendy name like Elliot) and I went to this looooooovely little place just off Hardware Lane, you know, not the touristy part where all the out-of-towners hang out, the real Malbun (sic: Melbourne) part of town… Annnnnyway, they had all these delightful Spanish dishes on the menu. We drank sangria out of hand-blown glass goblets made by a blind mute leper at the base of the Cantabrian Mountains (considered impressive due to their irregularities and the precious nature with which they rest upon the roughly-hewn wooden table of the establishment) and shared a delightful little rustic Spanish chickpea soup with some artisan breads that they bake on the premises. It was such a lovely evening.”

(Make sure you read the above passage making sure that you imagine someone speaking the words in a subtly nasal, privately-educated feminine voice).

Separately, I was driving home from work this evening listening to the radio (Triple M) with Merrick Watts (from Merrick & Rosso fame) & ‘The Highway Patrol’ (two randoms I have no knowledge of outside of this show). It’s a pretty shitty radio show, but slightly less unbearable than listening to Sophie McNeill stumble her way through another episode of Hack, a show ironically named considering her complete ineptitude in her chosen field.

One of the big things with radio appears to be audience participation – people are always calling up, sharing ‘funny’ stories with the hosts. Today was no different (and equally as unfunny). The topic was, ‘Public places that your child has gone wee wee’, which arose due to a family being fined $2500 in the United States due to a 3 year old boy attempting to relieve himself in his front yard in full view of a police officer.

WHO THE FUCK ACTUALLY RINGS UP TO SHARE A STORY WITH THE LISTENING AUDIENCE? It’s so fucking ridiculous. These fucking drones listening to the radio must stop and think, “I might ring up and tell them my story; everyone will really enjoy that”. I don’t understand the motivation for people to actually make the call in the first place. It’s even worse that half of them can’t even fucking speak properly.

Nobody wants to hear the story about how your kid pissed in a department store, you fuck.

/end communication