Thursday, December 29, 2011

The Girl Whisperer, The Tart and the Shoe


Fairy tales have been a beloved part of every child’s upbringing since before Jesus was playing dodge ball with the dinosaurs (thus concluding my knowledge of The Bible). The Princess and the Pea, Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, Sleeping Beauty, Goldie Locks and the Three Bears and Jersey Shore to name a few. But there is one that has captured the hearts and minds of young girls everywhere more than any other. It’s got it all: the bitchy mother/sisters, the dashing prince, the fairy godmother, and the slutty outfits. I speak of course, of Cinderella. Now, boys and girls, trans-genders and furries, I have a modernised version for you. A delightful tale that will dazzle your senses, amuse the bouche and fondle the child inside you.

My dear friends, I present to you…



There is something to be said for people who go out to town in search of that special lad/lady. I mean… when I say special, I suppose what I’m actually saying is “The special lad/lady who happens to stand still long enough for you to do the casual “Woops, it’s really crowded in here” arse-grope or the “Oh, clumsy me” brushing up against some stranger’s breasts.” Or, failing those techniques the “Orright, love?” mating-ritual stare. (Staring into the recipient’s eyes is completely optional; penis and/or breasts are equally suitable staring points). I’ve never really understood, or been capable of pulling off these maneuvers, especially in a place as public as a club. Talking to me is incredibly hit or miss, sometimes words are formed, and pleasantries are exchanged. Other times whomever I’m talking to ends up staring awkwardly at their shoes or their drink, wondering just how many wrong turns they’ve taken in their life to wind up in this god-awful situation. It goes without saying that the club scene has never really been my style.

Around two years ago, some friends of mine were having what could be called a “guy’s night out + girls”. I say it like this because all of the girls that were out with us would only talk to one guy in our group. This particular friend of ours, who I’ve known since the start of high school has always had a certain way with women. They adore him. None of us could ever figure out how he does it. It’s just one of those natural talents; he’s a Girl Whisperer. So while the Girl Whisperer drank with literally around eight women surrounding him, my friends and I stood a few metres down the bar, looking on in amazement.

It was beginning to get late, the small hours had started to creep on and the drinks kept disappearing. Things were getting blurry, the music was loud and the floor was coated with a thick sugary film from all of the dropped drinks. My shoes made a disgusting squelch noise every time I lifted a foot. It’s hot, sweaty and salty in this place, hard to breathe.

Suddenly there’s a couple of taps on my shoulder. They’re soft and delicate. I think it’s one of my friends mucking around, so turning around I said something like “Oi, real funny dickhe-”

There stood a girl. She was a small, with long brown hair and dark brown eyes that she was looking at me with up through some seriously long eyelashes. She was cute, properly cute. My mates had all stopped talking and were now looking square at me and this girl. Excellent subtlety, fellows.


“Alright,” I thought to myself, “This night has been an enormous bore so far, perhaps this girl could actually make things more interesting!”

“Duh…” (is what I actually said)

“Hi!” she said in a bright voice, “Haaaave you seen…” (she stopped to do one of those “look me up and down” things) “…my…”

“…yes?” (At this point I’m convinced she’s flirting with me. She must be, my desperate brain tells me.)

“…my other shoe?” She lifts up her hand; in it is a black ballet flat.

So, as the guys roared with laughter after seeing my obvious desperation to please this cute brunette, I crawled around on the club floor looking for her other shoe.

Which I never found.

And that is my Cinderella, my princess story. My one and only interaction with a girl in town.


- Tom

Monday, November 21, 2011

"Hermione" and the Stoner Brigade


I’m going to leave any particular views on drug use over to the Internet trolls and the lovely people who “sell things” down the side alleys near my work, if you like drugs you go right ahead and drug it up. “Fuck it! You only live once”, as famous children’s role model (a certain Purple Dinosaur) once said. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my… extremely limited exposure to drugs is some of the best and worst ideas ever in the whole of creation are conjured up in these altered states. But by far my favourite inventions are the culinary creations that surface, particularly at around 2AM when everyone has gone past the 50:50 drug to vital fluids ratio.

Several years ago I was at a party with a particular Ex-Missus and if you’re a regular reader of the Scroll, you’ll know that 103% of parties I go to, I know:

1)    The person that invited me.

2)    ?????

3)    Profit.

This particular party was no exception. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t consider myself to be particularly shy or anything but the night basically consisted of my now Ex-Missus fraternising her way around the room in a breezy, gliding sort of fashion, as she so often did while I took up most of a corner with a premixed vodka + lime concoction in a can, trying to force-drink away my awkwardness. I was always required to drink those god-awful things while I was with this particular Ex-Missus, as she was not yet of the legal drinking age and I was often stuck buying these sugary Lollywater cans for her. #Whipped. So, as I slowly got drunk/diabetes in the corner from said sugary Lollywaters, some of the “cool” kids had turned to the use of the marijuanas. Now, I’ll say again that I have nothing against the use of the MJ, but that particular night I didn’t feel like it, or something. So instead I resigned to watching and laughing my arse off whenever someone did something particularly worthy of a Fuckwit title.

Use of this MJ is totally fine

The party’s Stoner Brigade which included my extremely petite and therefore drug susceptible Ex-Missus had moved onto some seriously Geinious* antics. The Brigade’s leader/dealer (let’s name him Hermione for anonymity) had taken it upon himself to test every component within the kitchen as to whether or not it would taste good deep-fried. This certainly seems to be a successful tactic for McDonalds/KFC, but it seemed slightly less prosperous here. Hermione’s first effort was a lemon wedge that someone had in their drink. After four Brigade members received burns on their arms from the oil spitting everywhere, Hermione was still not fazed. He then turned to something slightly less edible; greasy paper towels. The paper towels crisped up rather nicely until they sort of resembled a poor-man’s poppadum, and according to Ex-Missus, they were rather tasty. 

Hermione, having pleased his Brigade’s appetite somewhat, turned to creating his main course. With a flurry and a flash he flew around the kitchen, gathering up ingredients with amazing precision. At this point I had to leave the room, half due to nature calling and half due to laughing so hard I thought my bladder would explode, killing me and those I loved in a hellish firestorm of urine and denim shrapnel.

When I returned, everything was silent. That is, except for the rather loud chewing sounds coming from the little Brigade, with Hermione at the centre. Their backs were turned to me and they were crowded around the stovetop. There were no sizzling sounds, just the scrapes of metal on metal. As I walked toward them I could see that each person had a spoon in one hand and was repeatedly sticking it into the pan, scraping something up, sucking on the spoon briefly, and then would dive in for another serve. I came and stood behind Ex-Missus, who had the largest measuring spoon in the kit buried in her mouth and then looked down into the pan. What I saw was not a mixture of all of the ingredients Hermione had gathered up before I had left the room, nor was it anything even remotely similar.

In the pan was a pool of lukewarm cooking oil and melted peppermint lollies, which Hermione, Ex-Missus and the rest of the Brigade were snarfing down like deranged zombies.

These lil' fuckers here


Perhaps drugs aren’t the best idea, after all.


- Tom


*  Misspelled for comic effect

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Fruity Lexia makes you __________


In recent times of recent I have acquired a new job.

History time.

Ever since I was about fourteen I’ve been a waiter of one description or another, my first job I worked in a Chinese restaurant the size of a tea-cosy for $25 a night. Now, if I was still working there today I probably would’ve called social services or something for violating minimum wage laws, but getting paid in cash under the counter wasn’t exactly “legal” either.

My new job, which stemmed from waiting on tables at a much nicer, much more wage earning restaurant involves one of my most favouritist of substances; wine. As I’m sure some of the more loyal readers of this site have noticed, many of my stories revolve around alcohol or alcohol-related incidences that usually end up with me on the floor (a.k.a. “cosy makeshift bed”). Admittedly, I am most definitely an alcoholic, but not one of those sad alcoholics that people feel obligated to act piteous towards. No, I’m much more of a jolly alcoholic, causing merriment and joy wherever I stumble (your experiences may differ).
Since I’ve been drinking since I was around fifteen eighteen, my tastes have changed somewhat.

The first night I ever had alcohol was a friend’s sixteenth twenty-first at a sports and social club. From what I remember of that night I was given some sickly rum and soft drink combo in a can that was quite similar to paint stripper mixed with magic acid (this is a real thing, FSO3HSbF5) from a so-called “friend”. Having never had alcohol before it went to my head almost immediately and then like the gentleman I pride myself so highly on being, I proceeded to tell at least eight different girls at the party that I thought they were attractive. Needless to say, I went home solo.

Many years later, alcohol is now my line of work and there’s something I’ve noticed about it. Marketing guys are paid several jillion dollars a year to come up with catchy names and slogans for things that deep down we know we’re not supposed to buy, like alcohol. Cigarettes are a brilliant example of this; we all know that they’re going to rot you in a horrifically slow fashion from the inside out leaving you look like a prune with fin rot and hepatitic-diabetes by your twenty-third birthday, but people still smoke. Why? Because they’re convinced they look cool doing it and whom do we have to thank for that? Suave marketing guys, that’s who.


I guess this explains Marlboro’s new slogan:

“These tar riddled dry leaf sticks will give you sixteen types of heart disease, but holy shit you look amazing right now.”

The exact same phenomenon applies to wine, but wine has a slight advantage over cigarettes, as it actually does appear genuinely classy to most people. Go to a party and see a guy in a sharply cut suit with a wine glass in his hand? Forget your loving boyfriend of three years; you’re going home with Wine-Suit guy. Show up to the shindig and there’s a girl in a little black dress drinking a fruity lexia?  Target acquired. Why? Cos fruity lexia makes you sexier. Fact. Wikipedia that shit if you don’t believe me. But here is where they drop the ball. Wines are like bands, they have to have catchy, memorable names that’ll stick in your mind and they can’t be the same as one another, so they get increasingly stupid (hence bands named “:wumpscut:”, “Wow, Owls!” and my personal favourite:Test Icicles”. No joke.)

So, there are some incredibly tasty wines out there that I am by no means inclined to go near ever, because like these dickhead bands they have thoroughly repulsive names. “Bloody Stump”, “Lamb to a Slaughter” and “Black Tar” are some fine examples. To honour these lovely labels I’ve devised by own.



A votre sante!

- Tom

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Post Sexy-Rumpus Hair Syndrome


Once again I find myself sitting in front of the computer with two Word documents open: My Shakespeare assignment and this random collection of twenty-one words, now twenty-three, twenty-five. We could do this all day, in fact it’s quite tempting, given how little appeal my Shakespeare assignment holds. (Sorry Bill)

I think today I’m going to talk about that all inspiring part of life: hair.

Hair, to me, is a bit like eyes, gateway into the soul, or certainly a gateway into how someone views themself. I think that little scrap of hair leftover from evolution (or because God couldn’t think of what else to put on our heads, whichever your personal opinion is) has an enormous hold on all of our lives. I mean, think about it, how much do you spend on haircuts, hair dyes and hair products a month?


I think the answer to that question can only be either $127,000,

 
or $0; 

Otherwise you’re just not going to fit into my target demographic.

Sorry.

I think that hair commands way too much influence on our lives. How often do you hear that guy with arms like tree-trunks with the collar popped on his XS t-shirt from American Apparel going on about how he only dates blondes? Or how about that nerdy kid who has red hair and therefore cannot possibly be the proud owner of a soul that constantly gets picked on? I even think that the automotive industry has a stake in this. I like to invent little formulas to explain the little foibles in life, for example, my theory on headaches. I believe that there are a finite number of headaches in the world, which are collectively shared amongst the human race. So, therefore, when you get a headache, it means that somewhere else in the world someone has just been rid of theirs, and vice-versa. I think hair is exactly the same. In my mind, the hair/sexiness equation is:

Now we all know that X is equal to the volume of someone’s hair, but I have NO idea what Y is, and I’d be happy to recommend anyone for the Nobel Prize if they can figure that one out. What were we talking about? Oh yes! The automotive industry! My point is relatively simple: How often do you see a girl driving a convertible car and you automatically assume that they are:

a)    Gorgeous

b)   A trophy girlfriend/wife

c)    Several leagues above yours (if not, all of the leagues above yours)

And

d)   Really, really bloody gorgeous

And I don’t believe that this is due to the fact that they are driving a great car. I mean, 99 times out of 100 any convertible that you see is a total piece of crap, (see Ford Capri)


Besides, not everyone has an interest in cars; in fact I think most people have no interest in cars whatsoever. But if it’s not a gorgeous car then what is sexy about it? Well, the answer by now should be obvious: It’s the hair!  I think that some part of the primitive human psyche links giant hair to everyone’s favourite pastime: sexy rumpus. Because when do people most often have a giant mass of gravity defying hair? That’s right: Post Sexy-Rumpus (which for convenience will now be known as PSR).

Which is why this,


and this,


are both equally sexy to me.


I think this is one of the biggest scientific breakthroughs of the last 400 years. (Sorry Penicillin guy)

I’ll take my Nobel Prize money in cash, thanks.

- Tom

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The History of Book Writing; A Memoir


Holy flippin’ Jesus I need to apologise for not writing anything for the best part of a month. The truthful factitude is that I’ve actually been focusing on writing a book, instead of, you know, focusing on University work or anything else that’s probably significantly more important, including this site, of course.

Holy Red Sea-Partin’ Moses that’s a lot of comma splicing back there; comma splicing is one of those sexy little terms that is actually rather misleading. It’s a case something being described in a sexy/interesting way when in actuality it is catastrophically boring. Take, for example, my aforementioned attempts at writing a book. Book writing is, for the most part, confusing and annoying as all hell. It starts off innocently enough, though. There you are, sitting minding your own business, picking your nose or waxing your cat, when it hits you. That little scenario, or a couple of character outlines fall into your brain from some seemingly unknown source and you think to yourself, “Hey, that’s a pretty neato idea. I should write this down.”

So you fetch out your quill and parchment/laptop and jot down your tiny, half-boiled idea. As you sit back and look down upon it, perhaps taking a few puffs from your corncob pipe and bask in your own glorious wit. Why haven’t you thought of this before? These are the twelve most excellent, wonderful sentences that anyone had ever written before, ever. E-V-E-R. You’re going to make millions. Move over, J.K. and that vampire hussy, you’re the new kid on the block.

Maybe a few days/weeks roll by, you steadily add a few paragraphs each day. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even crank out a whole chapter if you’re lucky. Your little project begins to snowball. You can’t possibly write an entire book with only two characters, so you add more. Names are hard to come up with, and you find yourself Google-ing the ones you invent only to discover that they’re some politician in Prussia or some god-forsaken place, so you can’t possibly use those. And then the characters you do come up with need complicated back-stories to make them believable, otherwise you find yourself with a bunch of half-cooked characters standing against a white background with their hands in their pockets.

The central theme of your brilliant piece of literature needs to be decided upon. 

“Hmm…I’ve got it! Eureka! I’m going to write… about a school for wizards! Wait, fuck. No… How about… vampires! Christ on a bicycle, no!”

“Little dwarf-like people who go on an epic quest to destroy a piece of jewelry! DAMN IT!”

 Seven months later…

“A big-arse wooden horse full of little soldiers? What? Who wrote that? Since when? No, you idiot, Homer’s a character on The Simpsons… What?”

“Ok, ok, I’ve got it! A nudist garden/animal sanctuary where couples go to relax! What? Who'd honestly believe that?”

You might, however, get lucky with an original idea the words flowing thick and fast from your meaty little fingers, and the pages start stacking up. “Fantastic!” you think to yourself, “I’ll be done in no time! 2000 words in only a few days! Awesome! Wait, how many are in Harry Potter? 1,084,170?! Sweet Jesus, fuck. I’m a failure.”

And that is how you end up becoming an Internet blogger.

- Tom 

Monday, August 15, 2011

Social Network vs Pornography


Web-track millions of users and you're bound to find out what they're into. Very recently, Bill Tancer, a self described data-geek has been analyzing people's interests and emotions based on some form of data-geekery relating to web searches and traffic. Among other things, he discovered that bellybutton lint, elbows and ceiling fans are of more concern to society than social intimacy and rejection.


More interestingly and less trivial, he discovered that social network traffic has essentially overtaken pornography in terms of popularity on the internet. Supported by the fact that pornography searches have literally halved over the last ten years, this is kind of amazing, but should come as no surprise.

Many of us are guilty of pouring hours into social networks instead of actually going out and developing a real social network in the real world, but is this really a bad thing if it's already more popular than pornography? Probably, but I would prefer to spend hours staring at the social news feed than staring at silicon-filled porn stars that look like they have the entire hepatitis alphabet.

- Aaron.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Tell-Tale Chicken


Whether you’re a grown-up, a youngster, or one of those weird half-baked pimply faced, squeaky voiced disasters you’ve probably owned a pet at one stage or another. Pets can be seventeen dozen kinds of awesome; they’re great companions, they usually love you unconditionally (read “They think you’re the coolest fucking thing on the planet and would gladly follow you into glorious battle should some type of Zombocalyptic war scenario emerge”), and they can transcend the ‘pet zone’ to become members of the family, not just needy bottomless food pits (see “Babies”). Then there is the slightly less exciting part of pet-ownership I’m sure that we’re all familiar with; the Pet Responsibility Talk:

“Now Jeff,” (your name is now Jeff, just roll with it) “you must understand that this cat/dog/hamster/fish/chicken/horse/camel/mouse/Alot/squid is going to be your responsibility, and no one else’s. That means you’ll have to feed it, walk it, make sure it has a comfortable place to sleep, clean up its festering turds and make sure that it will have enough munitions to fend off the unholy zombie hoards.”

Of course, you eagerly agree to their terms unconditionally, after all, this is your first/third/twelfth pet and by golly gosh, you’re going to look after it much better than you did with your last cat/dog/gerbil/flea/muskrat/salmon/zebra/hedgehog/amoeba/hermit crab/elephant. You’ll prove it to your parents; you’ll show everyone just how responsible you can be! The first few weeks are usually no problem whatsoever; you’re happy to take it for a walk every afternoon. It took a world-class dump on the carpet? No worries! You’re more than happy to clean up its stinking piles of crap without a moment’s hesitation.

Then, as is with all relationships, the honeymoon period wears off. The capacity for tolerance wears thin. Maybe the first dozen or so times when your pet scratches its genitals on the sofa it’s kind of cute, you give your pet a stern but gentle reinforcement that reminds it that sort of behaviour isn’t permitted. Your pet gives you a look of regret and it might be genuinely sorry that it has let you down. But there’s a reason that humans are the dominant species, we have something that it seems many domesticated animals lack: long-term memory. This catastrophic shortcoming of my own house pets led to one such fateful afternoon that would leave us all changed, forever. This one specific instance I personally had to cover up for my Dog to such an extreme measure that even the Courts may judge me as an Accessory to Murder:

My dog is a Jack Russell, which, if any of you dear Readers have owned one before, would know that “Jack Russell” roughly translates to “Mischievous Rat-Bastard Whose Goal in Life is to Fuck Shit Up”. Now, on this particular sunny afternoon I was sitting out in the backyard enjoying a cool beverage and chatting to a couple of family members. My dog, which shall be henceforth known as Bronson, was inside the house probably sniffing his own arse or rolling around on the carpet for no obvious reason. Then, a peculiar thing happened: A chicken appeared in our back yard. Not just any chicken, mind you, no, this chicken was obviously very highly prized. She was enormous; her owners clearly fed her gourmet dinners, she was well groomed, her snow white feathers glistened in the sunlight. This was no ordinary egg laying feather factory like most pet chickens. She was a house pet; regarded as highly as any other ‘allowed-inside-of-the-house pet’ and the neighbours quite obviously showered her with love and devotion. She strutted around the backyard like she owned the damn place. How she made it over our high fencing, I don’t know, but there she was, nonetheless.  She pecked at the ground and made quiet and content clucks every now and then. I walked over to her and picked her up, she was definitely held by people regularly, as she nestled into my arms to find the most comfortable position. I lifted her over my head and dropped her softly back over the fence on the neighbours’ side.

I had walked maybe two or three metres back towards the house, when I heard the flap of wings. I turned back around and there she was again, on our side of the fence.

BANG! Bronson flew through the dog door like a black and white cruise missile. He bolted across the backyard at a speed that would leave the fastest cheetahs bowing their heads in shame. Before I could even react he pounced on the chicken. She gave out one single “BA-KIRK!” as Bronson literally tore her limb-from-limb. Pieces of mutilated chicken were flying all over the lawn as Bronson happily shook her mangled corpse back and forth across the grass. Bronson’s white fur was now crimson red with the blood of his Victim. We all stood perfectly still for about 30 seconds, too stunned and petrified to react. My Dad was first to move; grabbing Bronson roughly by the collar he dragged Bronson away, locking him into the laundry. You could hear Bronson’s howls and barks from inside the house, he had been ripped away from his prized catch before he was done toying with it and he wasn’t the least bit happy.

What was left behind looked like a scene from a slasher film: blood, bones, feathers and organs were strewn across the lawn. There was nothing left to even resemble what used to be our neighbours’ beloved pet chicken. We were all in panic mode; it was like that scene out of Pulp Fiction when Vincent Vega shoots Marvin in the face:


“Oh my God, what the fuck do we do, man?!”

“Calm the fucking Christ down! Everything’s going to be all right, you hear?! Just shut the fuck up and do what I say! Go and get the shovel from the shed while I clean all of this blood up. We’ve gotta bury the evidence, you understand?”

“Fuck, man, I’m not going back to prison! I can’t go back!”

“JUST FUCKING DO IT!”


I was literally covered, head to foot, in chicken blood. We scooped up all of the itty little pieces of meat and bone and buried it in a shallow grave up the back of our yard, behind the storage shed. We were too pumped up on adrenaline to even think about the ramifications of our actions. We just had to cover our own asses without a second thought. Once the mayhem of it all settled down, the full weight of what we had done began to plague our consciences. That night I stood in the shower until the hot water ran out, memories of the mangled chicken playing over and over in my head.

The worst part of it all happened around three days later. We were sitting inside; Bronson was happily playing with a toy in the lounge room, blissfully unaware of any grotesque wrongdoings he had committed not 72 hours before. We had all been rather quiet over those few days following the death of the Chicken, all of us too disgusted and ashamed to say anything further, when there was a knock at the door:

“Hi, sorry to bother you, but we’re from next door. We don’t suppose you’ve seen our chicken, have you?”


- Tom

Facebook: The Sucker of Souls


Holy shit guys! Guess what?! You just saw a friend of a friend, make out with their best friends ex...So what chu gonna do with all that junk...all that junk inside...never mind.

 
You’re going to post it on Facebook. You know you are. Don’t even try to deny it, cause admit it girlfran, this will be even more of a hit then that time you made ‘the most awesome ham and cheese toasty ever’ and let’s just say...that post got you wicked ‘likes’...


Ladies and gentlemen, there is no use locking up your children, because this new syndrome is sweeping your homes! And let’s face it, you have a computer in every other room of the god damn house?! Facebook is harmless right?! Right?! WRONG. FACEBOOK IS CONTROLLING YOUR CHILDREN’S LIFE. Even sadder still it’s probably controlling your wish wash, boring old minds, with such excruciatingly fascinating things as ‘Farmville’ or ‘Mafia Wars.’

What’s this new syndrome called you ask? Why I thought you never would.

INTENSLYUSELESSNEWSFEEDUPDATESYNDROME: the symptoms are as follows;

1.     You find yourself needing to check facebook every five seconds...juusstt in case you have an update, in more extreme cases this can even invade once intimate occasions e.g. dinner with friends, maybe even banging that hot chick next door...

2.     You post about completely useless things, which no one in their right mind would have any god damn interest in unless they themselves are suffering from the syndrome...this might include posts about the general health of your toenail, or maybe, if we’re lucky...about the boyfriend stealing ho, we mentioned right at the start of this little foray.

3.     Facebook rules your life...including your events calendar....if there was an event, and it wasn’t posted on facebook, you don’t know about it...even if the invitation was sent in a bright red envelope, stamped with an ‘urgent the world will end if you don’t read this letter’ which is lost among many other letters warning you of your impending doom, your electricity bill and your eviction notice. Because why could you possibly need to communicate outside of your facebook inbox?

4.     And FINALLY, posting on Twitter and sharing it into your facebook, because let’s face it, if you’re going to have a social-networking mistress on the side, you at least want them to interact.

To conclude this rant I’d just like to say....you’re a bunch of mindless facebook stalking zombies...and I absolutely HAVE to make a status about this....’Like’ it yeah?


- Kayla

Monday, July 11, 2011

Gentlemen vs. Shorts

Gentlemen, here’s the situation:

Someone sits you down and says “Here’s several hundred thousand dollars and two large handfuls of commercial deals which mean you will appear on television quite a lot.  All we require of you is to work during the winter.  Oh yeah, and the work? It’s not work at all.  All you have to do is run around making sexual passes at other well-built men in tight shorts, but we’ll only pay you if you can manage to savagely beat at least 12 of the countless 15-year-old schoolgirls that will be latched onto your biceps during the year. Oh and if you have the time, throw a couple of rapes in for good measure. Any publicity is good publicity, and to be honest we could always use more.”

You’d be crazy not to accept the offer, right?

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re partly right, but this blatant disgust toward AFL players hasn’t entirely spawned from my own inability to kick a football. The reality is much simpler. Everyone knows a football player, so everyone knows they’re towering abominations of substance addiction with the intelligence of a four year old and the minimum amount of brain cells required for running. Even they know this. Consequently, if any football players are reading this (however unlikely), perhaps they’ll learn a thing or two if they can chisel themselves away from beating/raping their trophy wives/girlfriends. (Also unlikely, as many of them can’t read …or use a chisel).



So what causes a young man to aspire to be a part of the AFL?  Perhaps it’s because his body is developing, he’s curious, and the only acceptance he feels is in the locker room showers, fighting off playful advances from his team-mates with a towel. Or perhaps it’s because he has dropped out of school at fifteen, become a deadbeat, knocked up four different girls, has no money and is generally a waste of precious natural resources. Who knows?

Firstly I’m here to tell you that the AFL, a revolting homo-erotic rapist school is neither worth aspiring to, nor is it worth being proud of if you’re already a part of it. More importantly, this is because the embedded, unspoken sub-culture saturating Australian Rules Football is quite possibly the most destructive and degrading aspect of Australian sport. This wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t simultaneously on display as role models for children.

I don’t have anything against people who follow the football. They clearly have more spare time than me, and I’ve come to terms with this. They’re not really to blame, although their continued support of these chauvinist pigs they lovingly call ‘heroes’ obviously isn’t improving the situation.

But these ‘legends’, these blunt instruments of an industry desperate for media attention are paid exorbitant amounts of money to play sport. This is what it all boils down to, and it’s especially bad if you consider groping other men’s genitalia a sport. It just makes me sad. And doesn’t it make you wonder? Could you start up a gay-mud-fantasy sport with disgraceful beatings and rapes in the proverbial back room? Would the Australian public reject it? Or would they welcome it with open arms? Oh wait, they’ve already done that. It’s called the AFL.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Out of Context Ramble #3: The Little Drug-Riddled Narcissist


This, my dear Reader, is the unconstructed dream space. This, unfortunately, is something that cannot be controlled, bought, persuaded, or bargained for. This is what happens when you’re sitting down blissfully and totally unaware of your surroundings. Whether it is on the bus, in your classroom, church, whatever, the location isn’t the important part. We’ve all done it, haven’t we? We’ve been stuck somewhere astronomically boring, listening to Professor Caterpillars-For-Eyebrows give his biannual lecture on the chemical composition of dirt and then, it happens. There’s that little moment. That click. That fizz. That pop. When all of a sudden we’re not really there any more. We’re somewhere else entirely. Why listen to a lecture on dirt when you can be a flying penguin with laser turrets for arms or wonder what would happen if you ate an entire loaf of bread in one go.

Just on a little side note, Microsoft Word did this to my article:



Now why is it that the two outlying sentence fragments have copped it but “That fizz” has gone completely without punishment? Like one sentence fragment would have been totally fine but three? “Oh, Tom, you must be completely mad to DARE to try and use three sentence fragments.”

I don’t understand you sometimes, Microsoft Word…

As you can probably already tell, keeping the mind on the same track is something that is exceedingly difficult for someone like myself. For me, the mind is like The Little Engine That Could, except that the Little Engine is more like The Little Engine Piloted by The Little Drug-Riddled Narcissist. There’s no hope for the Engine, really. It’s going to accelerate, de-rail, and crash into a Little Gorge where hundreds of Little Passengers won’t be going home to their Little Husbands/Wives/Littlest Children. There’ll be a trial held within the hallowed halls of the Little Courtroom and The Little Drug-Riddled Train Conductor will be posthumously sentenced to hang. They’ll send their best group of Little Mountaineers down into the gorge to collect his body parts where an expert team of Little Surgeons will piece him back together. Then they’ll hang him. All at great expense to the Little Taxpayers, of course.

Now, if you’re still reading, congratulations. You survived whatever the Hell you could possibly call that jumble, up there. Those previous Ramblings were dangerously close to become too Ramblesome. (Yes, Language Police, you’ve caught me; “ramblesome” is not actually a real word. I’m sorry, ok?) It’s a fine line, believe it or not. Treading the delicate waters between Too Sensible and Mind-Numbingly Confusing. Right now I fear that I’m leaning slightly towards the Confusing side of the river (that’s right, now there’s a metaphorical river involved. Try to keep up, will you?)

Also, the other night as I was leaving work I was in a bit of a hurry so I wrote my shifts for next week on my wrist, like so:

The Prophet Sayeth
 
Then on my way home I stopped into a fast food place to get something to eat. All fairly legitimate so far, right? When I ordered my food the girl behind the counter obviously saw my pen written shifts on my wrist and then said at a rate of about 13 words a second: “Wow-I-really-like-your-tattoo-I-hate-it-when-people-get-the-same-crappy-tattoos-that-everyone-else-has-I’d-really-like-to-get-a-tattoo-but-I-don’t-know-what-I’d-like-to-get-because-I’d-like-it-to-be-meaningful-you-know-I-don’t-want-it-to-be-something-boring-like-what-everyone-else-has-yours-is-cool-what-does-it-mean?” Now, I don’t consider myself to be an unkind person, usually I tend to have a very long fuse, but I was tired and feeling a bit off-centre, so instead of saying something polite and gentle to correct her, the little devil on my shoulder won out and then this happened:

Me: “Oh, it’s like an ancient Aztec ritual thing. You know, like the whole 2012 calendar thing, but with Aztecs not Mayans.”

Dumbzilla: “Wow! I’ve never heard of that one. So what does it mean?”

Me: “Basically the same as the Mayan one, except that the Aztecs believed that it was the date that aliens will finally come to Earth, instead of the apocalypse.”

Dumbzilla: “Oh, really? That’s pretty scary. Are they meant to be friendly aliens?”

Me: “Oh yeah, totally. They’ll be cool. Sort of like snakes, you know, the whole more scared of us than we are of them thing…”


In hindsight I feel like I may have been too imaginative with what I told the girl, surely she wouldn’t actually believe that for a second. But then on the other hand maybe I just made her life genuinely interesting for the first time ever. Maybe she went home that night and told her friends and family about the Man with the Prophetic Tattoo on his Wrist, like I was the patron saint of that particular fast food chain or something. Maybe in a thousand years there will be statues in city squares of a giant disembodied wrist with half a dozen letters and numbers printed on it.

Maybe I could get some kind of t-shirt sponsorship deal, who knows?

The moral of the story is:

The world is full of possibilities. And don’t work at fast food chains, because the customers won't respect you and will definitely mind-fuck you for shits and giggles.


- Tom