Alright, here it is. I’ve purposely held out on macarons, but now, with only a few days left until the end of this endeavour, it’s time to let loose with both barrels on what I consider to be one of the worst anchors on the collective Australian boat of progress.

If ever there was a sure sign that we, as Australians, live in a society unnecessarily financially comfortable enough for members of the community to incessantly fawn over utterly banal confectionery with the sort of fervour usually reserved for evangelical religious ceremonies, look no further than the cult of the macaron. Created in France several centuries ago, Australian audiences were introduced to these ‘sweet treats’ by patissier Adriano Zumbo through one of my least favourite Australian TV shows, Masterchef. Since then, there’s been no turning back for the new darling of the Australian pastry scene.

Nowadays, it’s very difficult to get through a working week without some cunt putting up a photo of a macaron on Instagram or Facebook; generally, they’re wrapped in natty little boxes with bows on them as if all food is packaged this way. Generally, the comments section will be peppered with comments about how ‘cute’ or ‘delish’ they look, as if people actually talk like this in real life. It honestly makes me want to go fucking Postal. Several months ago, on the weekend, I walked past a what appeared to be a shop completely dedicated to the creation/sale of macarons in Hardware Lane in Melbourne and there were people LINING UP OUT THE FUCKING DOOR!

Pointless Confectionery.

Pointless Confectionery.

I stared for a moment in disbelief through the artfully decorated shopfront window as the shop attendant (dressed as if she was out of a 1950’s American cigarette commercial) daintily placed individual macarons in colour-coordinated boxes and handed them to eagerly expectant store patrons as if she was handing newborn orphaned children to barren mid-30s couples.

I really don’t understand the attraction in any case; for mine, macarons are largely a tasteless, air-filled, sugar-laden joke that looks like a vagina tilted on its side. (Please think of this analogy next time you’re tongue-deep in one…)

Finally, stop referring to them as ‘macaroons’ for fucks sake; in Australia a macaroon is a coconut-based ‘treat’ (I fucking hate using the word treat too, it’s such a middle-upper-class horseshit word  that people throw around as if their entire lives weren’t already a never-ending cavalcade of first-world decadence), and is wholly different to the meringue-based macaron. If you’re going to insist on pretending you’re cultured by scoffing down tasteless throwbacks to French cuisine, at least pronounce & spell their fucking name correctly, you useless cunts.

Separately – no Australian gives a single fuck about Keith Urban.

/end communication

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