- Sunday Telegraph editor Neil Breen's decisions and quotes during the whole Pauline Hanson debacle.
I knew on Saturday when I had those photos and I knew that if I published something like that and they're wrong then I'm in huge trouble. (Radio 2UE, Breakfast with Mike Carlton and Sandy Aloisi, 16th March, 2009)
- Particularly when 90% of Australia realised the photos were fake, but Breen kept insisting they were real.
Less than a week later...
...Pauline, I'm sorry. We should never have published them. (from the Sunday Tele)
Well, no, it's usually not an awesome idea to publish incriminating photos coming from a man who can't get the dates of his lies right, and who also claims to have dirty pics of other female politicians and is probably crazy.
Photos from Sunday Telegraph. Photographed in the 70s? Yeah right...
- Tabloid journalism at its lowest: Paula Murray in the UK's Sunday Express condemns teenagers who post drunk photos and rude messages on their social networking profiles. Not just any teenagers, but ones who were killed in a massacre.
...some have them have boasted about alcoholic binges.
Bad idea, Paula. The team at Bloggerheads are outraged, and are getting their revenge by posting classy photos from her own Facebook profile.
And this is why I try not to post too many drunken photos of myself on Facebook.
- A Twitter exchange, in which Demi Moore says something dumb that will cause glee for atheists all around the world.
@Pathofreason: "Prayer: how to do nothing and still feel like you are helping." @mrskutcher: "Everything is energy my friend, that is science." @megsandbacon's reply: "That isn't science actually. That's faith. All great and stuff...but not science."
- When it's painfully obvious that the person leaving hundreds of little messages and "Like" clicks on someone else's Facebook has a crush.
- Especially when the commenter writes "I dreamt about you the other night..."
- And the recipient never replies.
- Ever.
(*Disclaimer: Before anyone replies saying "OMG YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT ME", please note that I have seen this happen on a few different profiles. So this isn't a personal attack)
(Though it is very funny.)
(Sorry, sorry. I'm going to hell.)
(Feel free to make fun of me for Facebook stalking to find out this information.)
Myspace is great for keeping up with bands. That local band that you saw at the pub last week will most likely have a myspace so you can listen to that rockin' tune you danced to, put a name to it, find out when they're gigging next, if they're recording a sweet EP, etc.
Some bands post bulletins every now and again announcing such news.
A local band added me recently. They were pretty good so I added them back.
Unfortunately they are the biggest online whores on the planet. I constantly received comments, messages and bulletins from them.
Saying the same thing.
They're not the only bands who do this. I have deleted a few bands off myspace for doing the same thing, which can't be doing much for their fanbase.
I posted the following rant on myspace (via a bulletin, ironically enough...):
I just deleted a band off my friends list for posting 5 bulletins.
In a row.
Saying the same thing.
This is a real bummer because they're actually a pretty good band but seriously, I do NOT need that many bulletins saying THE SAME FUCKING THING on my page.
Seriously, if you have some cool shit going on, post like one bulletin or something and put the info on your main page. If you have decent fans who have half a brain, they will look at your actual site if they wanna know what's going on. If they don't know how to do this then TOUGH FUCKING BISCUITS, THEY MISS OUT BECAUSE THEY ARE TOO STUPID TO USE THE INTERNET.
Or do the old fashioned thing - posters, word of mouth, street teams, merch stands at your gigs, whatever. If people are interested they will check it out. Getting in people's faces online will drive people away because NOBODY LIKES SPAM.
Conclusion: All bulletins and no music make Ellie a very pissed-off music fan. End rant.
Anyone who’s been following my Twitter or Facebook lately will have seen me express my rage at the word “alcopop”.
For any non-Aussie readers, the Australian government introduced a tax on pre-mixed drinks (eg. Vodka Cruisers, Bundy and Cola, my old favourite Smirnoff Blacks, etc) to reduce binge drinking last year. It was definitely not put into place so the government could get more money and has actually done nothing to reduce binge drinking, but I digress. This week the bill is being reviewed again. Naturally, everybody is talking about it.
It occurred to me as I was reading the news that the word “alcopop” was really bothering me. I think it’s because it’s not a word!
I’m not going to lie; I did partake in drinking activities when I was a young ‘un, and it’s pretty much a given that the underage drinking kiddies enjoy pre-mixed drinks. Who could blame them? The sugar content gets you drunk, there's usually more than one standard drink in one can/bottle which gets you drunk, and knocking down a few that pretty much taste like coke or juice gets you drunk. Did I mention they get you drunk?
But at no point in my early drinking career did I ever use the word “alcopop” and I have never heard any other 15-year-old on the train to a Wynnum house party use it.
Here I am at the tender age of 16, about to stab my friend with a Midori Illusion. Oh, the horrors of underage binge drinking!
So this means I never had this conversation:
Me: I am going to a fully sick party, man. Male friend over 18: That is rad to the max, dudette. Me: Like totally, homie G. Could you do us a favour and pick up a 6 pack of alcopops? Male friend over 18: Fo shizzle, my nizzle.
I think this word was invented by Kevin Rudd, and merely indicates how out of touch with the youth he is. Yes K-Rudd, I know you have a pimped-out myspace but come on, you’re not fooling anyone.
The government are the kings of made-up words. Take for instance, the Cronulla Riots. Awful business that was, and it got about eight thousand times more awful when some clever clogs declared that it was “un-Australian”.
It’s not a word! Plus that word has been bantered about the press so much that I’m not actually sure what it means any more. It seems to be applied to when someone does something naughty. I mean, obviously you’d hope that beating up minorities wasn’t part of the national psyche. But considering it’s applied to matters of general human morality rather than nationalistic values, I don’t think it actually means anything. Probably because it’s not a word!
Luckily, these girls don't have to worry about being called "un-Australian".
Hugh McKay sums the debate up quite nicely in his article in The Age: “So let's not get carried away by hubris: Australians are no better than anyone else when it comes to occupation of the moral high ground”.
Also see Queensland Opposition Leader Lawrence Springborg’s use of "de-necessary" – which is not only grammatically incorrect, but also not a word! Good effort at trying to distract angry unionists from the fact that you’re cutting jobs in an unstable economic climate, Mr S! It didn't really work because they ended up making an entire campaign website about it.
I am also doing a subject called New Media. It is basically about using the internet, which I thought would be cool because I’m geeky. It’s not. I try and be a good student and read my ridiculously overpriced textbook but it’s very hard to when it’s full of many long, obscure words that have obviously been invented by someone who is VERY VERY CLEVER.
Take this sentence, for instance: “Overly optimistic or pessimistic accounts of the impact of new media, or ‘cyberbole’, have been countered by approaches that seek to identify a middle ground between extreme positions.”
I think this is basically about people who either hate or love the internet. I’m not sure because I am obviously not academic and clever enough to understand. But really, ‘cyberbole’? CYBERBOLE?! Oh look, it’s a clever play on words with ‘cyber’ and ‘hyperbole’. In case you didn’t pick it up already and were confused because it’s not a word!
Today in class we also discussed “folksonomy”. I’d never heard of the word until now. I thought it had something to do with folk music, but alas I am wrong.
Apparently it's one of those new buzzwords that has come along with "Web 2.0" (never quite understood that, I don't remember someone saying "Look! I made a new internet!"), "social networking" (when is networking not social in some way?) and "convergence" (which was already a word, but has been whored out in academic circles like a prostitute born with extra genitalia. Made of crack.).
We then had to answer the following questions in the tutorial. Here are my answers:
3. What are the limitations of folksonomy? It’s not a word!!!
4. What are the strengths of folksonomy? Confusing simple-minded journalism students.
I just heard that the "alcopop" tax was voted out. Thank goodness. I'm going to celebrate by knocking back a 6-pack of Midori Illusions, for old times sake.
On Australia Day, I spent the day under a beautiful mango tree with some friends, eating barbecued meat and drinking beer. I wore my Big Day Out shirt from last year (which has a stylised Australian Coat of Arms on the front) and we listened to Triple J's Hottest 100.
Days before, I had an infuriating conversation with a patron at the pub. He demanded to know where I was from,and whether I "loved Australia."
I have this conversation every so often with some deluded old fart who is convinced that I am a dirty, slanty-eyed illegal immigrant who has just walked straight off the boat and taking the jobs of ordinary, hard working Aussie battlers, blah blah blah. To this day I'm unsure as to what they think they'll achieve by having this conversation.
Herro herro dis is Shitty Wok, you want some Shitty Chicken?
Despite the fact that I am an Australian citizen and can speak English just fine (except when inebriated), this old dude just did not get it. Our exchange ended with me mishearing what he said, his triumphant juvenile mockery of my alleged lack of English skills and myself promptly tipping his beer down the sink.
Now for the twist. You'd think this would be an entry whinging about how awful and oppressed I am, being an Asian female, in a land of thong-wearing white Aussie dudes.
Well, even though that exchange with old mate made my blood boil, I must say that racism is on the decrease. Conversations like that happen, but not very often out of the hundreds of people I talk to every week. And when they do, they're from people who couldn't be taken seriously by any intelligent life form. Like my obese, hairy, pokies-addicted friend I mentioned.
Sure, you meet the occasional person who can't get past the fact that you're not white, but I put that down to upbringing. Most people are merely curious and mean no harm, even though most of the time it comes across as offensive anyway. Other than that, 95% of my friends are white Aussies and none of them particularly care that I'm Asian.
Hell, Mr Chicken is a blue singlet-wearing, self-proclaimed "bogan" from Toowoomba whose idea of a rad time is wandering around in the bush, and he still reckons I'm allright.
One could argue that the loopy old bat I talked to was just a product of an old upbringing. Yet a lot of old people nowadays have lived through wars and the immigration boom. Many of the regulars at the pub are old men who are quite friendly to me and totally understand the whole "I'm Asian but I've grown up in Australia, mate" deal. In fact, most people in general understand, or even go the other way and are concerned about racist fuckwits giving me a hard time.
But what of events like the Cronulla Riots? I say that in the grand scheme of this country, it was a small group of people who were widely condemned by any Australian with a brain. Thank god for that. Imagine if the entire nation condoned racial violence.
Basically what I'm trying to say is that racism, in some form or another, is always going to be around. It's human nature to fear or hate something different. But the world - particularly Australia - is a lot better than it used to be, and it can only get better.
Not too long ago, it used to be perfectly okay to say "nigger" in everyday speech. Now the American president is black and an Aboriginal man is Australian of the Year.
It's a small start, but it's a good one.
Many people realise that racism, on a public level, comes from the truly ignorant or hateful. Racist comments, if they're not a joke already, are very rarely taken seriously. I try not to anyway. If I got upset every time an idiot said something insensitive, I wouldn't have time to go to the toilet.
Basically, if someone wrote a very serious letter to The Australian saying something like, "All Koreans are dog-eating communists who should be culled immediately", I hardly think a political leader would put down his morning coffee and call a meeting about it...
"Koreans are a serious problem in Australia." "My god, you are right. They're everywhere, speaking in some crazy language I don't understand, cooking tasty food with lots of chilli, studying quietly in universities, drinking our beer and dating our sexy, sexy Australian men! Plus they're all Communists." "Isn't that just the north?" "Huh? Anyway, I suggest an overhaul of international relations. We must close all tasty Korean restaurants, blow up Kias and Daewoos, outlaw any eating of dogs of any kind..."
...and enact an Anti-Korean Bill of 2009.
All this talk about unnecessary racism reminds me of a certain ranga politician...
So all things considered, I don't mind being an Asian in Australia. Sure, some of our political leaders make my head hurt, the phrase "un-Australian" makes me want to slap somebody and the more nationalist bogan Aussies scare me.
But on the other hand, Australia has some good beer (well, not all of them), Triple J, crazy stoned Queenslanders (which is another blog entry altogether), a majority of fairly decent people and a prevailing sense of humour.
One of my favourite TV shows to ever come out of Australia is Fat Pizza. A thoroughly politically incorrect comedy, Fat Pizza exploits and exaggerates the stereotypes of wogs in gangs, bad Asian drivers (cheers Ahn Do), insane Italians and disgustingly racist white Aussies to make people laugh - ultimately to realise how silly it all is.
I am writing you this letter to say that we should break up, yet remain friends. Acquaintances, maybe.
As what happens with many long term relationships, I have begun to see your flaws. And sadly, some of those flaws are things I cannot live with.
Firstly, you are high maintenance. Your standards of wealth meet at such a high level that spending a night with you empties every cent from my wallet and bank account. And then you insist on staying up til the wee hours of the morning.
Your associates are also really beginning to annoy me. I don’t like your friends who are grown men but insist on wearing fluro, and your screechy female friends with their bums hanging out of their dresses. Either that or sad old seedy men who hang out in the pubs by themselves, waiting to latch themselves onto some poor unfortunate lady. The last time I saw you I was trying to watch The Pretty Boys from the outside of Not Quite 299 but was driven away because a rather annoying man kept obstructing my view and enthusiastically telling me to come inside.
A typical inhabitant of the Valley.
But we had a lot of fun in the early days, dear Valley.
Remember the tequila sunrises at Club 299, when I used to think it was a legitimate alternative venue and before it was “Blink” or “Trash” or whatever?
Remember vomiting in the mall after too many vodkas at Ric’s?
Remember dancing about at the cocaine-caked sausage fest that is the Mustang Bar?
Remember cocktails at the Glass Bar? (actually, that place is still pretty cool and makes the best Long Island Iced Teas ever)
But maturity makes us all move on to bigger and better things. Like a beer under $5. Waiting at the bar and being served within five minutes. Competent bar staff that are not hired for their extensive knockers. Being able to sit down with a beer and talk to someone, rather than being forced to shake your rump to shitty house music on a stinky dancefloor. Being able to walk around and not being hassled by guy who thinks his sexy dance moves will get me in his pants.
But do not fret too much of my absence, my dear, for I shall visit when you choose to host sweet bands and drum ‘n’ bass nights. You still have many good points like the Step Inn, Not Quite 299, The Jubilee and The Tivoli.
Apart from that, I could only really enjoy you if I was two years younger, fashionable in any way and pumped full of pingers. But I’m none of those things.
Just understand that my love for you is over.
Love,
Ellie
PS. Before you ask, no, there is no one else. But I find myself becoming closer and closer to The City these days, and the promise of the Victory and the Brewhouse eventually reopening is something that will possibly lead to a greater commitment.
For the last four days, I have been waking up at stupid o'clock every morning, trudged my arse through morning traffic to QUT and produced various news stories for the uni's radio station.
I would like to vehemently state that I want to be a print or online journalist and want no part in this broadcasting tomfoolery whatsoever. Please feel free to slap me over the head with a novelty-sized giant fish if I ever say, "I think I'll go for a radio job..."
(I'm listening to my own story on the radio at the moment. I'm doing the entertainent wrap-up but I sound like I'm reading a eulogy).
Anyway, enough of my lack of radio prowess and the fact that I don't sound like Sandra Sully. I would like to talk about phone monkeys.
My news stories were written at the very last minute, making deadline (or not) by a hair. A nose hair.
It wasn't because I'm a slow writer (or slow in the brain even). It was because it would take at least two hours to finally get someone on the phone.
Here's how 95% of my interviewing went...
Phone monkey: Hello?
Me: Hello, I'm Ellie from QUT News and 4EB radio. I'm putting together a story on cheese smuggling and was wondering if I could talk to the Minister of Cheese.
Phone monkey: What is this about?
Me: Cheese smuggling
Phone monkey: For who?
Me: QUT News and 4EB radio.
Phone monkey: He's in a meeting.
Me: Oh... do you know when it will be finished?
Phone monkey: No. But I can put you through to our media representative.
Me: Okay, sure.
Ring ring...ring ring...
Media representative: Hello, Captain Twat, media representative of Twat Enterprises, how may I help you?
Me: Hello, I'm Ellie from QUT News, blah blah blah.
Media representative: I'm busy. Can I call you back?
Me: Sure, our phone number is blah blah blah. If you could call back before 11 o'clock (before deadline, you smarmy motherfucker) that would be great.
Media representative: Okay, sure.
Many hours later, ten minutes before the story is going to air and after I've picked a completely new story altogether...
Ring ring... ring ring...
Me: Hello QUT News, Ellie speaking.
Media representative: Hello, it's Captain Twat here. I'm ringing you back to tell you that I don't want to be interviewed.
Me: ... great. Bye.
And this happened even, I shit you not, when I was putting together the entertainment wrap-up. I went through a secretary and two media representatives before I got onto one fellow who said that he was not allowed to be quoted to the media. Considering that all I wanted to ask was what was happening at the museum this weekend, I find it all to be a bit ridiculous.
The only times I got a good interview was when I somehow managed to get a hold of the source's direct line and talked to them first, without the secretaries and PR bastards in the way telling me that everybody I want to talk to is overseas, interstate, in a meeting, or can't talk to the media. Even then, this one woman I talked to was so sour and grumpy (because talking about farmers' markets is a sensitive topic apparently) that I didn't end up using her grab for fear of her voice destroying the souls of anybody who listened to it.
So, fuck you phone monkeys.
Thankyou for making my job harder. Thankyou for telling me I can read what your CEO said on your website, even though I just told you I'm doing a radio news story and need an interview. Thankyou for being an absolute bitch for no reason. I hope you tell your boss about it and he fires you on the spot for not letting him talk on radio. But mainly, thankyou for inspiring me to seek news stories from community groups, activists, and real people in the future rather than go through the bullshit of bureaucracy at a government level.
Ah, facebook. I got one last year because a friend of mine wanted to show me some photos. For some reason I could only view them on facebook. Go figure. And my facebook profile was born.
Facebook is an endless source of amusement. Not because I play Dope Wars or send sheep to people or whatever, but for the social aspect of it all. That news feed tells you everything, from where people went on the weekend to if their relationship is complicated or not. Fascinating.
Here are some things that amuse me about facebook:
1. The hot friend in the profile photos I have most of the girls in my grade added to facebook. There is one particular girl who was rather popular back in the day (and still is I suppose). Pretty and smart, heaps of people wanted to be her friend. So I couldn't help but giggle when I noticed that about five or so girls on facebook had this particular girl in their profile picture. Perhaps they were hoping they would appear pretty and popular by default? Or maybe some random facebook babe would add them? That would be a strange conversation.
"You look beautiful in that photo." "Oh, why thankyou." "You have really cool blonde hair." "Oh, no, that's my friend. I'm the fatter, greasier, pimplier, less attractive one on the left." "...oh."
2. Passive-aggressive status updates I saw one the other day saying something like, "[name] wishes SOMEONE would get off their lazy arse". I have a hunch that the person they were talking about was their housemate. Who is on their friends list and, via the News Feed function, would have seen it.
I now realise that this entire entry (nay, this entire blog really) is pretty passive-aggressive in itself. But that's okay, because I'm a dirty hypocrite.
3. Um, who are you again? I occasionally get a friend request from someone I have never seen in my life. On closer inspection and a bit more stalking, I usually find out that we have a very tenuous link - usually that we went to the same school but weren't in the same year and never once spoke to each other or socially interacted in any way.
Why? I just don't understand. Why would you want to communicate with someone who was two years above you in school? It's bad enough when girls in my grade add me, and they're people who I either didn't talk to or thought I was a freak. Ah, the joys of an angsty youth...
4. Facebook addicts who are obviously new at using the internet. There was a fellow who added me a while back. He was a regular at my work. Anyway, I had to end up deleting him because I had about 200 requests from him to grow plants, send chocolate, take sexy quizzes etc. And then there were all those SuperPokes. Innappropriately dirty ones too, which was a bit worrying. On closer inspection, I realised that he sent the same things to everybody on his friends list.
What's the point? If I had accepted all of his requests, my profile probably would have crashed and the internet would have exploded. It's not cute or fun to do 200 facebook things; it's annoying. I use facebook to send messages, upload photos, play poker and stalk people. That's it. I really cannot be bothered to join a facebook mafia or race cars or grow teddy bears or whatever.
5. Friendship: DELETED You know you've really pissed someone off in this day and age when they delete you from their friends list. OH NO! Now who will I throw Pokemon at?
And I haven't even gotten started on myspace. It's more or less the same really, though you tend to see more passive-aggressive bulletins. And more weird friend requests. Please enjoy viewing this person, who attempted to start a myspace friendship with me.
“I’m looking for a lady in public, but a shameless hussy in private.”
This tender line was written in a 50-year-old man’s RSVP profile. Clearly, he knows the way to a girl’s heart.
My good friend Jasmine and I have a great hobby: combing through profiles on online dating sites and laughing at the terrible ones.We do this because we’re horrible, horrible people.
But really, if you’re a balding goth that craps on about Norse mythology, or you upload a photo of your obese, hairy self wearing only tiny rugby shorts, you really should expect to be laughed at.
I must say, I’m glad that I’m not single and to the point where I’m trawling these online dating sites, otherwise I’d be extremely depressed. The good men are obviously socially interacting in the outside world and the other ones are trying to find a lady on the ‘net.
Anyway, profiles tell a lot about a person. I’ve learnt to read between the lines and see who the real man is behind “a nice guy looking for the girl of his dreams”.
1. On Interests A lot of profiles are quite insistent on “an active lifestyle”. Basically, there seems to be a lot of single jetskiers/rollerbladers/tennis players/etc looking for love. And they’re looking for a lady to do all of that with. Here I was thinking that these guys were looking for a root, but they’re actually really looking for a chick to play badminton with.
Manblading can disturb your perfectly balanced beer, not to mention your libido.
What he’s trying to say: I’m not a fat nerd that sits around on the net all day, even though I’m on a dating site. Reality: NO FAT CHICKS.
On the flip side, a lot of online dating wannabes also mention that they don’t like going out to pubs/clubs and would rather stay at home and watch DVDs. Now I have nothing against that, but its said like us pub-going folk are horrible sleazy people who will be lonely for the rest of their lives, because they like have a schooner or two down at their local. That's not true! Only about a third of pub-goers are sleazy, lonely old men.
What he’s trying to say: I’m a gentleman because I don’t get wasted and grind up on random ladies. I’ll even watch girly movies with you. How sensitive and lovely of me. Reality: I probably can’t handle my liquor.
I find this very depressing because I am not an active lady and I enjoy tequila shots.
2. On being a gentleman or a nice guy Based on personal experience, nearly every guy who says that they’re “gentlemen” or “nice guys” are the complete opposite. Be wary of words like “chivalrous”. Sure, the gentlemen of old did nice things like open doors and pull out chairs, but then again women used to be exchanged for real estate and people used to think the world was flat. So-called "gentlemen" often do not understand concepts like women standing up for themselves, having lives of their own and enjoying themselves without having dinner bought for them. They're about as fun as going out with your Dad. If your Dad was the dude from 10 Things I Hate About You.
“Nice guys” are a different kettle of fish altogether. You know those guys who whinge that “nice guys finish last” and neglect the fact that their wooing techniques are outdated, annoying or just plain creepy? Rather than go on about it, I shall direct you to this incredibly accurate livejournal entry on the topic.
“Romeo! Romeo! GET THE HELL OFF MY BALCONY BEFORE I SLAP A RESTRAINING ORDER ON YOUR ASS!”
Let’s just say that I’ve met my share of “nice guys” and “gentlemen”. They’re all the same. They disguise themselves as super sensitive guys for some reason, because apparently, as a woman, I’m into guys who spend more time crying and styling their hair than I do.
You know what I like? Guys who don’t need to explain how nice they are and just do it naturally. It’s like when people have to explain a joke; if it needs to be explained, it’s probably not funny.
Indeed, why do girls go for the bad boys? Because they’re better in bed.
What they’re trying to say: I’m a gentleman and a nice guy. Reality: Women exist to be girlfriends and make my life complete. I’m going to buy you flowers and if you don’t praise me like a god and let me have sex with you, I’ll stab you in the face. Oh no, where are you going? Please don’t leave me, I love you. FOREVER.
3. On coming across as mentally unstable Online profiles are hard to write. How do you really capture the true essence of your being in a few words?
There’s a golden rule of dating that says: Don’t talk about the ex on the first date. Some guys seem to cancel themselves immediately by talking about the ex and other such heartbreak on their profiles.
Seriously, when I was single, a few prospective internet daters decided preface them asking me out by telling me their girl problems. The bitch that fought with him, the whore that manipulated him, the beautiful woman that rejected him, the “women are awful” rant…followed by “So, wanna go out sometime?” What do they reckon girls would think? “Ooh, he’s a misogynist with emotional baggage. Take me now.”
They’re usually the same sort of guy as the “nice guy” above. Watch out!
What they’re trying to say: I’m a beautiful, wounded soul with a broken heart that only you can heal. Reality: I’ve got issues.
4. On what they’re looking for Obese, crusty old men with neckbeards have no right to specify that they’re only looking for a slim, attractive, possibly Asian woman ten years younger than them, and that bigger girls need not apply. End of story.
Beware the dreaded neckbeard!
What they’re trying to say: I like pretty ladies. Reality: I have unrealistically high standards.
5. On being a wanker I’ve only come across a select few of these profiles but they exist. Basically, they’re indie dudes who pride themselves on not being conventionally masculine and patronising anyone who is. Their favourite movies/music/books reads like somebody compiled a list of alternative pop culture to namedrop in order to sound cool. They effectively patronise people by saying things like, “if you’re the type of girl who ‘lykez having fun wif her friends lol’, don’t talk to me.”
If you’re the type of guy that wears berets and ‘adores post-modern arthouse movies and T.S Eliot’, don’t talk to me.
There was a fellow that Jas and I looked at who rambled on about how his dream girl has to match his level of intelligence. It’s a long story, but basically this fellow was going to ask me out over myspace, despite the fact I’ve never met or talked to him. I seem to attract a lot of unstable men, for some reason. Anyway, said fellow is coincidentally in some of my uni classes (small world again); his “intelligent” contributions to the lectures are so utterly banal that I’m embarrassed for him. Imagine if I had gone out with him! I can't see that relationship lasting beyond a single wanky comment in a lecture, followed by me throwing my laptop at him.
Again, if you have to explain to people that you’re intelligent, you’re probably not.
The irony of this is that no matter how intelligent and cultured and so goddamn different you try and appear to be, you can’t escape the fact that you’re advertising yourself for romance on a commercial dating site.
What they’re trying to say: I’m a very interesting person. Reality: I have a massive ego. Massive. My god, I just do not understand why women don’t flock to me at the thought of my enormous, throbbing…brain.
6. On Being "Open Minded"
What they're trying to say:I am open minded. Reality: I like kinky anal sex.
And I haven’t even gotten started on the women. They’re more or less the same anyway, but without neckbeards. That’s a blog for another day…
And with my powers combined, I am… A BAD DATING PROFILE!
"Why don’t girls like nice boys?” Hi, I’m a nice guy looking for a nice girl. A nice girl is someone who is nicer than my ex-girlfriend, who is a SELFISH BITCH WHORE WHO NEEDS TO DIE.
I’m into paragliding, lacrosse and curling. I’m looking for a girl who likes doing all these things with me. I hate going out to bars, clubs, parties, or any event where people are talking and smiling and whatnot. When I’m not paragliding, playing lacrosse or curling, I like watching DVDs at home.
My favourite movies are anything foreign and anything that David from The Movie Show likes.
As you can see in the picture, I have auburn hair, brown eyes and broad shoulders.
I’m a chivalrous gentleman who is into holding open doors, buying dinner and not letting you vote. Drop me a line ;)
Who I'm looking for: I’m looking for a girl who is petite, has the body of Jennifer Hawkins, around ten years younger than me and can keep up with my witty, intelligent banter.
DISCLAIMER IN CASE YOU MISS THE POINT OF THINGS AND ARE ABOUT TO SEND ME AN ANGRY COMMENT ABOUT HOW HORRIBLY SEXIST I AM: This isn't a rant against ALL men. I quite like most men, and I find I get along with the opposite sex better than other women. Most of them are kind, fun and wear nice cologne. This is an entry mocking men who are obviously trying too hard in the dating game and put ridiculous things on their profiles that drive women away without them realising it. And I think some women are pretty stupid too. Just so you know.
I don't understand how parents could be so selfish. I'm not sure what it's like in New Zealand, but Australian children have a tendency to make fun of everybody's names, especially if they're slightly unusual. Hell, even if they're normal! Why do you think every male in Australia has a ridiculous nickname?
My full name is Eloise. El-oh-weez. A name dating back for centuries, though it is somewhat uncommon. It is constantly misspelt, mispronounced and inspires dippy teachers to trill "Ooh, that's a lovely French name!" which is highly irrelevant, because anyone looking at me would know how French I am. It is a name that I constantly associate with annoyance.
This is the 12th century abbess, Heloise, one of the most well-known women in history with my name. Here she is writing the correct spelling of her name. "No, it's not Louise with an E, you uneducated fuckwit!"
A (not anymore) friend in primary school suddenly realised that the word "wee" was in my name. "Haha!" she screeched. "Hello ELLO-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!" It wasn't hilarious the first time and it certainly wasn't hilarious the next ten thousand times after that. So I forced everybody to call me Ellie. Then I became Ellie Smelly. Goddammit, why couldn't I have been called Kate like everybody else I know?
But that's nothing on how much worse it would be if your name was Midnight Chardonnay. Really, I think their mother must have been sculling the stuff when she came up with that name. Pseudo-sophisticated names are awful and tend to be the product of a bogan who's trying to be classy. Schappelle and Mercedes, anybody?
Schappelle Corby was imprisoned in Indonesia for having a crap name.
I once had a friend who wanted to name her future son Bailey. Which is a nice name, except that she was naming him after the Irish cream variety (most commonly found in Cocksucking Cowboys). I thought it was quite cute at the time, but it's a bit skanky now that I think about it. Imagine going through several hours of labour, looking down at your softly, weeping newborn, and saying, "Oh, she's beautiful. I will name her Fruit Tingle."
"Mummy, where did I come from?" "Well, I took one nip of vodka, and one nip of blue curacao, shook it in a cocktail shaker and poured it over ice with some red cordial and lemonade..."
Though I still think the worst name I have ever heard of was a woman who named her daughter Vagina.
As a student, I was quite interested in this article in the Courier Mail.
I've heard this story a few times before. In fact, I do recall a story on A Current Affair (my favourite news program) a few years back about a girl who had to support herself by being a part-time clown at children's birthday parties while studying. It got to the point where she had to miss classes for work. That's pretty terrible, isn't it? Working to go to uni, but not actually going to uni.
The kid in this story lives off the Student Allowance and had to eat bread and rice for eight months. How horrible! (but at least he was getting a lot of fibre in his diet). At first I was quite sympathetic to the plights of these poor, poor students, but then I thought, "Wait, I'm a poor, poor student, and I'm pretty sure I had a stir fry for dinner last night and polished it off with a block of chocolate."
Before I moved out of home, I was scared that juggling enough work to pay for rent and food as well as pass a journalism degree would not work. But it did. Last semester, I worked, was able to pay rent, phone bills, taekwondo fees, petrol, groceries and the odd drinking adventure. I also passed my subjects and was quite pleased with my marks. My rent isn't exactly cheap either. There's a student in the article who had a 16 hour per week job and ended up having to skip classes. This somehow evokes little sympathy on my part, as I work over 20 hours a week and can easily still attend my classes.
At first I thought, "Maybe it's because I'm doing a bludgy-arse journalism degree while majoring in creative writing." But then I thought of my good friend Jasmine, who is a nursing student. She lives out of home, has a car, works two part-time jobs and mainly gets 6s and 7s for her subjects.
I'd love to know why some of these students have to live off student allowance and can't even get one shift for a part-time job a week, or how some of these students work so much and can't study. I'm not the smartest kid in town, but surely if I and other people can do it, there's no reason why a journalism student should be living off bread and rice. Time and money management go a long way. And it's really not as hard as some students make it out to be.
I know some students pay their own tuition fees and so I think, well, that is pretty sad that they're not earning enough to live. If that is the case of the students in this article, I am judging quite harshly. But if they are Commonwealth-supported, like me and many other students are, then my views still stand.
I’m posting in my blog at 4am to tell all of you out there in blog-land about my worst shift at work ever. As interesting as my workplace is, I don’t like posting about it too much. I’m sure everybody’s sick to death of reading about work rants in blogs as it is anyway. Anyway, I usually have a good time at work. Some day, I plan on writing a book about my misadventures, the history and culture that goes on at the pub I work at because it truly is fascinating. But that won’t be until I have well and truly stopped working there and when I figure out how to publish the most interesting bits without getting sued or arrested.
Anyway. The worst shift at work ever. I figure that posting about this and cracking a few jokes would be much better catharsis than bursting into tears and wailing “I JUST HAD THE WORST NIGHT EVER” to Dan (who is asleep).
My manager, Nathan, mentioned that it was the full moon and people had been a bit weird lately. He wasn’t wrong. The night started off consistently busy – enough to be constantly serving, but not so insanely busy that my head would explode. However, I always take this as a sign that it will just get busier and I’ll end up being completely exhausted quickly.
I was right. It got progressively more insane as the glasses piled up and I bounced back and forth between the bar, the bottleshop and the gambling facilities. Damn understaffed-ness.
At around nine or so, we got a group of drunk men. Fantastic. After they downed some shots of Drambuie – which is a very disappointing way to drink a liquor that should be savoured – they proceeded to piss me off by stealing a beer. I had began to pour the drink then realised the keg needed to be changed. When I came back, Drunk Dude #1 was holding it and saying that he had no idea where it went. I like to think that I have a lot of patience. But who needs patience when you have a security guard? “Can I have rum and coke?” asked Drunk Dude #2. “Hell no, I’m kicking you out,” I said, as I brought the security guard over to them. “I hope you feel proud,” slurred Drunk Dude #3 self-righteously. “I hope you do too!” I replied as he was manhandled out the door.
A co-worker of mine, who wasn’t on shift that night, brought her ex-boyfriend and his friend over for a drink. Said co-worker of mine is lovely. Her ex-boyfriend, however, needs to die a slow and painful death. He whistled to get my attention. After I jokingly told him that he’d mistaken me for a puppy, he said, “Puppies don’t respond when you whistle. But dogs do.” His friend high-fived him. I fantasised about punching them both in the face. I don’t even care if my co-worker reads this. Actually, I hope she does. Dude, he’s a douche and has a bad moustache. Stop hanging around with him. And by “stop hanging around with him”, I mean disembowel him.
Yep, my patience was not only gone, but it had hopped on a spaceship headed straight towards the sun, never to return again.
“Can I have a Jack Daniels and Coke?” asked Burly Dude. “Sure,” said I, and poured it. A millilitre of Jack Daniels splashed out of the glass as I poured it. “Look, you spilt it!” said Burly Dude. “Could you give me a bit more?” “Um, no,” I said. “But you can pay me $6 for that.” When he did this the third time, as though sincerely believing that I would give this extremely rude man more liquor, my response was different: “Shut the fuck up and pay for your goddamn drink.”
The co-worker who was rostered on with me tonight was complaining about a fellow who was very rudely yelling “GIVE ME SHOTS” at her while she was hurriedly serving other people. To relieve her, I went over to give this man his shots. “Hey babe!” he screeched after I handed him his change. “You gave me the wrong change.” “Oh, sorry,” I said, giving him the right money. “By the way, if you call me babe again, I will break your spine.”
It was 1am and everybody was pissed. “Be careful about intoxication,” warned my manager. A group of rowdy men wandered up to the bar and took about 10 minutes to slur that they wanted a beer. “You’re all cut off!” I said diplomatically. “Why?” I actually said the professional thing, which was, “Because you’ve had too much to drink. But you can have a glass of water.” “Oh! Okay,” said one. Apparently, one of the men in the group was quite offended and decided to accost me as I was stacking up chairs at the end of the night. “I’m talking to you!” he snapped at me suddenly. “What?” “I said hello.” “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” “YOU HAVE A FUCKING ATTITUDE PROBLEM! HOW DARE YOU TELL ME TO FUCK OFF WHEN I ASK FOR A FUCKING DRINK!” The irony of this is that out of all the people I swore at tonight, I didn’t actually swear at him. “I didn’t hear you. God!” “I WAS GOING TO GIVE YOU THIS TEN DOLLARS WHICH I WOULD HAVE PAID YOU FOR GIVING ME A DRINK!” He waved a ten dollar note in my face. “BUT YOU HAVE A FUCKING ATTITUDE AND YOU’RE NOT GETTING IT.” Hell, this dude was beyond wasted, and having fun with wasted people is hilarious. “My mighty heart is breaking!” I cried, swooning dramatically. “YEAH… WELL… IT BETTER BE!” He dug into his pocket and retrieved the ten dollar note. “HERE, HAVE THE TEN DOLLARS, BUT YOU HAVE A FUCKING ATTITUDE-“ “Woohoo!” I grabbed the note from his hand and skipped over to the bar, leaving the security guard to deal with him.
I’m not sure what to do with the ten dollars. It is the ten dollar note of pure hatred. I feel like whatever I buy with it will bring me bad luck, or that I only have to buy something diabolically evil with it. All I know is that some drunk guy yelled at me, then gave me money. Amazing.
(Disclaimer: Before you think either, “Wow, she sure KICKED SOME ASS!” or “What a self-righteous bitch!”, I must say that I’m not proud of how I responded to those people tonight. I have a short temper that really should have no place in the hospitality industry and really need to deal with things like that more calmly and in a more mature fashion (ie. Not provoking drunk people).
And it’s not always that bad at work. In fact, I mainly enjoy going to work because I’ve become friendly with the regulars, most people are generally sociable and fun after a few drinks, and I usually get to see cool bands. It's usually a fun place full of love, dancing and giggling over beer. But tonight was different. It was the worst it had ever been. And it was all because of the full moon.
And the main story of the day is leaked photos of swimmer Stephanie Rice (who?) from her facebook. She's shown wearing 80's gear for a party. Apparently there were some "raunchy " shots of her and her boyfriend on there, as well as her dressed up as a sexy cop for a party. And of course, the Telegraph has posted up Stephanie's photos. Because it's not like these sort of photos are readily available on any young woman's social networking site.
Look, I'm not the sort of girl who's going to whine "that's sexist!" because girls who are prettier than me are in the media. But I do wonder what this sort of thing is doing on a newspaper site. It just reeks of blokey magazine. There's nothing wrong with blokey magazines - hey, sometimes I find their articles much more entertaining than the tripe in women's magazines - but I don't think that pictures of Gisele's arse belong next to a story about a grisly murder.
If I wanted to look at boobies and bums, I'd buy a copy of FHM, not the Telegraph.
(On a side note: How is Dita Von Teese starring in porn with ladies really so shocking? She's a burlesque star who's starred in Playboy, talks openly about her promiscuity and was married to Marilyn Manson for god's sakes. I think it would be a much more interesting news story if Dita Von Teese had a secret fondness for knitting socks for orphaned kittens, for example.)
I write this blog entry to you directly from Paradise Prison.
Sure, a week-long vacation to the coast doesn't sound too bad. Sun, surf, shopping, no responsibilities... wonderful. Sadly, it has been raining or overcast, windy, and apart from a charming main strip of shops in Caloundra, everything else is an entire highway away. Did I also mention that I am exiled here with my loud, drunken relatives who insist on associating with me wherever I go?
So I've been sitting in my bedroom with my laptop, surfing the internet and watching Little Britain. Ridiculous.
I did attempt one visit to the beach. Instantly, I was transported back to the Gold Coast holidays of my childhood.
Sure, it was fun at first. All I concentrated on was dragging my lone fluro boogie board through the foamy waves, to a point where I could zoom back out onto the shore. Repeat until the sunburns start hurting.
But at some point, I realised how lonely I really felt. Holidays aren't much fun when you don't have a sibling to play with, or far too shy to ask a friend to stay with you. They'll see my family! What's going to happen if I run out of things to say? Will they get bored?
I was reminded of a thousand things. I can't surf. I can't bodysurf. My favourite thing to do at the beach is to swim out past the breaks to the gently rising walls of water, jumping over or diving under. Here, I was safe. I wouln't feel the sharp crash of waves on me, or be swept off my feet and be dragged to shore. Blowing air out my nose, and being mortified at the contents that would come out at the same time. No one else seems to understand it. That's why I hate going to the beach with friends, who swim out across the rolling waves and don't seem bothered by it. I am. I'm a weak, slow swimmer. Come on, Ellie, hurry up! Let's catch the wave! No, let's not.
When I'd had enough of swimming, I'd sit on the sand and listen to a Punkorama CD on my bright yellow Discman. Why can't my tummy sit flat when I sit down, like all the other girls? My legs are hairy and my thighs are flabby. Everyone can see everything because pretty much all I'm wearing is Lycra underwear. Mum screeching at me to wear a hat or a shirt. I always had some ugly cap that belonged to Dad or a hideous fluro 'rashie' shirt.
Walking a significant distance away from my parents - not only because they were like oh my god, soo embarassing, but because I was afraid that strangers would see the little Asian girl with two Caucasian adults and assume all sorts of things. No, I'm not an exchange student! Dad keeping close to me in the surf, because I wasn't a strong swimmer. Embarrassment and trying the best I could to sneak away from him, becausehe wears Speedos. Why can't you wear board shorts like everyone else, Dad?! Making every effort to make sure the rip didn't make me bump into anybody. Falling down dizzy after a child would boogie board en into my skull.
Wishing so hard that the group of kids near me who looked around my age would just say, "Hi", and we'd be fantastic friends, and go on all sorts of adventures together while I was there. Just like in movies and books.
But nothing in the movies or books actually happens. I never made friends on holiday.
And the sand. The bloody sand that you can still find lodged behind your earlobe a week later after you've come home, in your underpants, or even worse - still in your togs the next time you go on holiday. Getting bitten by sea lice and feeling even more self conscious about my body, which was now covered in scabs. Gross.
Feeling lonely. So, so lonely.
I crave the city at the moment. I don't understand why people want to move to remote, isolated places. It is around other people and surrounded by constant stimulation when I feel the most alive.
Brb, going to slit my wrists while building a sandcastle.
It was 3am. I was lying in a strange park, alone, where my supposed friend had left me to go have sex with a stranger.
"It's 3am. Do you know where Ellie is?" "I told you for the last time, no!"
I wish I was making this up, or it was a scene in an American frathouse comedy, where we all laugh at the girl being left behind in the park as her totally hot and popular friend gets it on with a football player and they find true love.
Since then, I've been feeling hurt, angry and a little lonely. Mainly, I've been completely disgusted with humanity in general. Myself and some other people I know have lost good, potential life-long friends... through sex, and the drama that follows it.
It's usually the "I'm really drunk" or "I'm just really horny" sort of sex. I personally don't understand that sort of thing. The times I've had sex were in relationships. There have been times where I have had the opportunity to have casual sex, but refused. I'm not comfortable enough with my body to show my nudity to many people. I also have a habit of getting a bit too attached when somebody shows interest in me.
Basically, I'd be the sort of girl who would cuddle after sex, ring them the next day and hold their hand in public. Then it would inevitably end in tears, with me sobbing "Why don't you LOVE me? WE MADE LOVE!" and him screaming "STOP CALLING ME, YOU STALKER". Yep, casual sex isn't for me.
Me: The Bunny Boiler.
But that's not really where my disgust lies. We are all human, after all. I could really care less about other people's sex lives.
My disgust lies in the way that casual sex seems to be prioritised above so many things in people's lives. As mentioned before, it has destroyed some good friendships. Nearly everybody has had that one (or two) friends who have pursued their ex, who still has a place in their world; or more seriously, the person who agrees to helping their friend’s significant other cheat. I just don't understand how these things happen.
I was once in a relationship where due to various circumstances (mainly, both of us being completely dysfunctional), I barely saw my friends and my boyfriend was put above everything else. It wasn't healthy and I was extremely lonely. After the ex and I broke up, I methodically went to get my friends back. I was much happier. I learnt my lesson - that friends are far more important than being able to kiss a boy, any day.
And so, I thought, from the nagging I had gotten from my friends when I came back to them, I supposed that everybody else knew this as well. Everyone needs friends. Part of friendship is looking out for each other and, well, not hurting each other.
How is it okay to prioritise getting some cock over considering your friend's feelings and safety?
I'd rather go hang out with my friends than get intimate with a cock.
The aforementioned friend in my horribly ridiculous tale claimed that I spent time with my boyfriend when I should have been spending time with her. Yet, I got in trouble for not entirely supporting her when she went to go have sex with that fellow.
Has humanity really gotten to a stage where a drunken shag is deemed more significant than a healthy, long-term, romantic relationship? Have the single people vomiting upon the sight of a couple finally won out the competition of “What is the status quo”?
I'm beginning to feel like a freak. We’re told to “have fun” because we’re young so we’d better go out, get paralytic-drunk, take lots of drugs and go have sex with everybody. Because we only live once, and live fast die young, etc.
I don't see the appeal in that lifestyle. Moreover, I feel like what I believe in is right, in some vague universal way. But at this moment, in this generation and while I’m at this age, it’s not.
But I’m sure that as ambiguous as moral values are now, it’s still wrong to leave your friend alone, just so you can go be young and have the drunken, sexualised mess that constitutes as “fun”.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I recently quit the newsagency to work at the bar. To celebrate this milestone, I found a retail rant in my old livejournal. I shall repost it here in its slightly edited glory.
HOW TO PISS OFF A SHOP ASSISTANT
1. Meeting and Greeting
- Make sure to ignore all social niceties displayed by shop assistant. It is preferable to make eye contact for long periods of time to give the impression of boring your eyes into their soul. Grunting is a great way of communicating too! If anyone doesn't understand it, they are clearly stupid or foreign.
- How DARE that shop assistant say hello to you when you're looking at something! They usually ask devious things like, "Hello, how are you? Can I help you with anything?" but they really just want to sell things to you. Selling things, in a store! How perfectly horrible. To fend off such barbaric approaches, it's best to screech, "I'm just LOOKING" before they can launch their evil plan.
- Plastic bags are destroying the environment! It makes Greenhouse Effect stronger and the whales explode and Nazis take over the world. If a shop assistant is offering you a plastic bag, you must realise that they are actually offering the destruction of the natural world. Not to mention fascism. This is why a suitable greeting is screaming hysterically upon first sight, "I DON'T WANT A BAG!!!!"
- It's a good idea to pick whatever it is you want to buy when the shop assistant serves you. They really don't mind when you stare straight ahead with your mouth open and say, "Uuuhhhh" for a few minutes while you're thinking.
2. The Transaction
- Throw or thrust your purchases at the shop assistant. After all, you are the Customer. You are being served by an absolute scum of nature. It is advisable to think of the shop assistant as a form of vending machine - cold, mechanical, devoid of human emotions and social contact. They are your bitch. Thrust away.
- Make sure to pay for EVERYTHING separately and sound disgusted at the very thought of all your purchases being efficiently put through as one transaction. Also, after you have made your purchase, randomly find something nearby that you want to buy too. Repeat several times.
- After waiting patiently for the shop assistant to process your transaction, randomly offer the remaining change of your purchase. This apparently makes the shop assistant's job easier, but we all know that all it does it make sure your wallet is a bit lighter.
- If the register decides to freeze randomly and the EFTPOS machine isn't working, you must always remember that it is not because the register computer is old and the EFTPOS machine won't accept your credit card with a bite taken out of it. It is definitely the shop assistant's fault because they are obviously making the machines break down out of pure spite. Accusing glares and impatient sighs are recommended.
- Assume the shop assistant is a mind reader. When they ask, "Is that all for today?" and you have not mentioned that you would also like a pack of ciggies and a $5 Instant Scratchie, they are obviously inept at reading your mind, which is a virtue that shop assistants should not lack. You have every right to be angry that they cannot read your mind, so feel free to be abuse them. A disdainful, "Uh, NO" is most suitable.
- This is a good time as any other to get rid of unwanted change. All those 10c and 5c coins that have been accumlating in your wallet for the last few years should be used to pay for a $10 purchase right here and right now. Even if you have been waiting in line for a long time, do not use this time to actually count the coins. This is where the shop assistant comes in. Dump the coins all over the counter and say, "I THINK it's $10, but count it for me." This works well especially when the shop assistant is the only person at the register and there are 8 other impatient people lined up.
- If the shop assistant so much as hands you 5c less change than what they're supposed to give you, go absolutely ballistic. After all, they are trying to rip you off. What if you were abducted by Communists, tied up and left hanging by a rope over a pit of poison-tipped shards of glass and forced to watch "Norbit" on repeat for the rest of your life, and the only way they would let you go is if you gave them 5c? They are obviously part of a secret communist conspiracy. Ignore any apologies and attempts to ratify the situation. After you have flown into a rage and righted this severe injustice, disgusted sighs should signal your departure. 3. Socialising
- Respond to everything the shop assistant says with your life story. eg. SA (shop assistant): "Would you like a bag for those?" You: "Yes, I have to go to Woolworths later, I completely forgot to buy a leg of ham and I have a dinner party today where my relatives from Melbourne are visiting..." SA: *brains leak out ears*
- Tell the shop assistant hilarious jokes. eg. You: I would like a lotto ticket. SA: Sure, which one? You: The winning one. HA HA HA HA HA HA! *slaps knee* I bet you get that all the time. SA: Trust me, sir, I do.
- Ask the shop assistant if a certain item is in stock. eg. "Do you stock any butt plugs?" If it isn't, describe the item in great patronising detail. "You know, they're plugs, about this big, and you insert them into your rectum?" When the shop assistant says no, keep asking. "But do you have them? DO YOU?!!" All stores also have a tendency to hide any product you actually want in the mystical realm of Out the Back. Make sure you ask them if it's there. Oh yeah, and all shop assistants are lying when they say no. You'd better ask their boss as well. Then compare them to another store to make them feel guilty. "Well they sell them in the Butt Plug store, I just THOUGHT you'd sell them HERE!" Shop assistants care so much about your purchasing habits that this deeply offends them. Teenage part time workers have taken to sobbing into their pillows late at night over things like this. Continue to ask them if they stock the item. Unless your excessive questioning causes the item to magically appear, walk off in a disgruntled huff.
- When your child is throwing itself on the ground, screaming, it is definitely a good time to take them into a shop. Make sure to buy them lollies. Sometimes it's best to buy them a big chocolate icecream or milkshake beforehand. Melted icecream handprints on the displays? Spilt milkshake? Psst, who cares. The shop assistants have to get paid for doing something!
SHOP ASSISTANT WEEPING FOR HUMANITY OR YOUR MONEY BACK!
First port of call: Radio. I do not have a CD player in my car, nor can I be bothered to buy a stereo. So I must listen to the radio. There's nothing wrong with this, really. EXCEPT FOR ONE THING. When I'm on a long drive and I'm doing the flicking between radio stations, I'm looking for some music. It frustrates me that more often than not, there is no music playing on any of the four radio stations I listen to. Instead I am treated to impotence ads where Gary can now go all night long, or the pure comedic genius of the hosts making witty observations like:
- Men and women are different - Sometimes, they have sex. - Paris Hilton/Britney Spears/silly famous blonde woman is pretty dumb.
Men and women are different? Wow! That's so refreshing.
That's nice. Not. I don't listen to the radio to hear people talk, I listen to it so I can dance me some funky tunes. I can't sing along to your voices, can I?
(Note to people who will go, "Omg, you should stop listening to commercial radio": No. Triple J is just as bad in the afternoons. Yes, I think Dools and the like are quite hilarious, but I would still rather listen to the new Hives songs than a bunch of silly jokes and plugging various upcoming music festivals.)
If this wasn't bad enough, this mindless banter has been replaced with one topic and one topic only.
That's right kids: The upcoming federal election! Oh, joy.
And that brings me to my next point.
That was a pretty awesome segue into my next point, yes?
I am getting tired of hearing about the election.
I turned on the radio today to do my radio station flicking exercise while driving to taekwondo. One station was interviewing Julia Gillard. The others were all talking about the election (Oh wait, there was one radio station laughing about impotence or something). Eventually I screamed in rage, turned off the radio and sang loudly to myself instead.
There was an election ad before the movies. Uh, I want to see pretty people sing Beatles songs, thanks, not smug Australians telling me how awesome John Howard is.
I couldn't stand watching the TV the other night because there were at least two election ads for every ad break. God, I'd rather watch tampon ads.
And most of all, I tire of people asking who I'm voting for, then telling me who they're voting for, then telling me that I should vote for whoever they're voting for. It's starting to get to a point where I'm afraid to actually tell people, just so I can avoid a big debate over something I don't actually care about.
But wait! Am I not a journalist student? Should I not have my ears to the ground, following the election coverage with bated breath? Shouldn't I be concerned about the future of this country?
Yeah, I should. But to be honest, I really couldn't give a flying George Bush about politics. Oh yeah, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm much more interested in ordinary people than politicians. I find the entire affair incredibly frustrating.
Let's make my reasoning a bit clearer.
This election is between...
this wanker
and
and this douchebag.
I have this somewhat annoying compulsion of mine to see the good and bad in everything. This isn't very useful when I have to choose one or the other.
Some of the wanker's policies are quite good and work well for certain areas. Some of them don't work so well with some others. Some of the douchebag's promises will benefit some people, but not work so well for others. Neither of the leaders will ever do anything that will realistically benefit every single person in Australia. Oh, and to make things more confusing, both of the main parties are copying policies off each other.
Some unions are good, some unions are bad. Get over it.
Politicians are told by PR to avoid certain questions in interviews. There's a lot of information we're missing. Most of the good things we hear about politicians are from their own mouths. Most of the dodgy things they do are well-publicised. Reading the paper is painful for me. It depresses me that such idiots are in power of this country. And that's not just with one politician; it's all of them.
And of course, they break promises. Who could forget the wanker's promise that there would be no GST and low and behold, there's a GST? And who knows if the douchebag will keep his promises?
You may have figured out by now that I am having a bit of trouble with who to vote for. And no, engaging in lengthy debate with people who proudly proclaim who they're voting for and try to "help me decide" is not helping one little bit.
I have seen heaps of good friends fight nastily due to political preference. This disturbs me. What happened to tolerance and respect of other people's beliefs? Not many people like fundamentalist religious types who proclaim loudly that they are born again Jewish Christian Wiccans Cow Worshippers and anybody who isn't will burn in a tub of sulpheric acid for eternity. This is exactly the same thing.
Either way, whoever's elected will make some things good and some things bad. All it boils down to, really, is who you are in society and whether it will benefit you or not. But there are a lot of different people in this country, and not everybody is going to be happy with everything.
To be honest, I can't see much changing either way. Money will be thrown at things, but I can't see a major upheavel in the system without people getting up in arms over the change in infrastructure and the sacrifices made.
Vote Labour. Vote Liberal. Vote for the Communist Party. Hell, vote for the "I hate Asian girl bloggers with red glasses" party if you want. I don't care. I really, really don't care. Just take notice that when I say "I don't care" in regards to the election, this is not an invitation to engage in lengthy political debate with me. It is the proclaimation of a very confused, exasperated, cynical girl who has to choice between a wanker and a douchebag to lead the country in the next election.
Sorry for the lack of substantial posts lately. I've got uni work leaking out of my ears.
I was sitting in the amphitheatre at uni before doing my uni work on this here laptop. A fellow sat near me with his friends and began eating a sandwich. Nothing wrong with that, really, except it was an egg sandwich. It smelt like raw fart. Whimpering in horror, I packed up my things and moved over near the library.
I am now sitting at a bench. A lady is sitting near me eating a salad.
What kind of salad do you ask?
An EGG salad.
And yes, it smells like a baby's pants after it's been eating curry.
What are the odds of that? I just cannot escape the farty smell of egg wherever I go, it seems.
Whilst browsing Target before Dan finished work yesterday, I have decided that fashion has hit an all time low. Every decade has its major fashion faux pas; the 80's had big shoulder pads, for example. The 90's had high, high pants. This decade? At the moment, there seems to be a horrible 60s/80s revival and it's going pretty downhill.
Here are my pet peeves of current fashion:
Pinafore dresses
There are a few variations on the pinafore dress but the trendy style at the moment is usually sleeveless, cut under the bust - or sometimes not cut at all - and billow out from there.
I have worn these sorts of dresses before... when I was five!
I don't understand why these dresses are so great. The majority of them are so shapeless that they either take far too many years off your age or make you look like you're pregnant. Sure, I suppose they're quite ideal for those not terribly comfortable with showing off too much of their figure. But because these dresses are so trendy, it's hard to find any other style.
I am a fairly curveless woman. Dresses that cinch or are cut at the waist (like NORMAL DRESSES) are most ideal for me. When I tried on a pinafore dress, I looked even younger than I usually do and like I was about to go pretend to be a fairy. UGH.
Bring back the 50s housewife dresses. At least they make you look like you have A BODY.
Stripper Heels I was browsing the shoe section and came across some very hideous looking high heels. They were seemingly normal from the front but at the back... oh god no, the heel was transparent plastic. Kinda like...
stripper shoes! Oh no! The thought of middle aged bogan women tottering around with grimy heels and giggling "hurr hurr, i'm a stripper" frightens me. WTF shoes Katey in Kmart: "These shoes have tentacles!" Although I don't wear them, ballet flat shoes look quite comfortable and easy to wear*. So why add unnecessary ribbon bits/tentacles to wrap up your leg?! They look quite elegant on actual ballet dancers, but otherwise they look like your leg is a piece of meat and its being wrapped up at the butchers.
By now you're probably thinking that I am a big fashion snob. Not to worry, I have some confessions.
- I was admiring some cute black and white dresses and tops at the Red Circle Boutique, relieved that at last I found some readily available, cheap clothes that I actually like. Then I looked at the label. They were clothes from The Veronicas clothing range.
I felt so dirty.
- I bought a pair of high waisted black shorts. Pretty awful in its concept but by god, it's 30 degrees and I'll be fucked if i wear jeans. Plus, they're comfortable. And not to worry, even though they are high waisted, there is no camel toe.
None of this.
- I actually kinda like the hypercolour shirts and skinny jeans look. Wouldn't wear it, but it looks cute. Sue me.
* if you didn't pick up that pokemon reference, you're clearly not nerdy enough.
I don't like driving. Perhaps it's the Asian in me, but sitting behind the wheel of a potential vehicle of DEATH and wedged in between fellow idiots on the road is a surefire way to fill me with murderous urges.
However, it is a necessary evil if I wish to visit my dear boyfriend. Unfortunately, said boyfriend lives in Chermside and I have to cross the Gateway Motorway to get there.
"Gateway Motorway" is synonymous for "pit of hell where everybody turns into a shit driver". Coincedentally, I have an acute case of road rage.
For no other reason except that it has pissed me off immensely, I am going to write a list of The Ultimate Rages. I tend to screech a variation of the following when driving.
- What's wrong, I'm not going fast enough for you? Wanna tailgate me a bit more? Oh wait, I'm not going to go any faster. I'm doing the speed limit and there are speed cameras around here, you idiot. I hope you get cavity searched with a cactus.
- Overtaking me on the left and you give ME the finger? Please don't reproduce.
- What the... are you revving your car at the traffic lights? You want to race a fucking 97 Barina?! I mean, you will win because you've pimped your shitty ride, but it's like racing a kid with a gimpy leg isn't it? I bet your penis is huge.
- Lesson in communication: when I'm waving you over, it means I'm letting you go in front of me. This is, after all, a merging lane and I am very nice. No, seriously, move over, your lane is about to run out. Move. MOVE. Oh fine, i'll just overtakeOH SHIT NOW YOU'RE MOVING. FUCK YOU.
This is what i look like when i'm driving.
- Okay, I've been indicating for the last few minutes and I would like to change lanes. Hey, here's an openingAARGHHH YOU'RE SPEEDING UP. I'm going to end up at Ipswich if you bastards don't let me change lanes because your over-inflated egos won't let me drive in front of you.
- The main reason I drive on the Gateway is because you can drive at 100km/h on it. Nice and speedy. Hmm, hey person in front of me, why are you only driving at 70? Are you behind a huge truck or something? Wait a minute, I can see in front of you... THERE'S NO ONE THERE. YOU'RE DRIVING AT 70 FOR NO REASON. Okay, overtaking you now. Oh great, NOW you speed up. Jesus Christ, go home before you hurt somebody.
- That's my parking space, you son of a bitch. No, mine. MIIIINE.
I do a subject at university called "Narrative in the Creative Industries." It's about looking at how stories are told in literature, film and art. Basically, it's a load of wankery. However, the main lecturer is a man named Gary MacLennan. A crazy, gay Irishman with a passion to teach would always make the lectures somewhat interesting. Sure, I didn't agree with his political views most of the time, but because he offered debatable views on things, I found myself thinking about the contents of the lecture and paying attention to what he was saying more than I would normally.
I, along with other students in the course, received a shocking e-mail the other day.
A few weeks ago, Gary wrote a newspaper article in The Australian (as well as appearing on Triple J's "Hack" program) protesting against a controversial PhD undertaken by a QUT student. You can read it here:
He sent the e-mail telling us that the university has placed a misconduct charge upon him and that he may face possible suspension from teaching.
It made me incredibly angry. Not only will I be losing one of my favourite lecturers (who may very well be replaced by the other lecturer, who is verbally incontinent and ends up ranting about feminism) but there is a serious flaw in QUT's logic here.
Universities are supposed to stand for freedom of speech, ideas and learning - the very ideals of liberalism itself. This is why a PhD student is allowed to make a reality TV show about disabled people.
But if a PhD student can do that, why can't a university lecture write a very eloquent newspaper rticle articulating his opinion on the matter? Why does this PhD student get praised for doing something that, outside of a university setting, would not normally be acceptable and a man gets his career threatened because he does not agree with it?
It's a classic example of liberalism, or modernism, or post-modernism or Generation Y or whatever the hell times we live in now, gone completely mad. Now personally, I agree with many liberal ideals and I wouldn't call myself conservative. But some people just take it too far. I've met people like this. The ones who declare they are open minded because they accept all religions and sexualities, but beat down the opinions of a Christian or a homophobe, for example. That's not open-mindedness at all. Feminists who hate men, even though they're meant to stand for gender equality.
Fighting for peace and fucking for virginity.
They undertake this mass hypocrisy because, like their conservative forefathers, they think they're right. But they think they're the worst kind of right - they use the worst of the other side to justify up their arguments and claim to fight in the name of freedom.
What a beautiful world it would be if everyone just agreed to disagree? Hell, we're not perfect. We're not going to join hands and hug each other and completely accept our fellow man.
Before I heard Gary protesting against the PhD, I had never heard about it. And because this PhD is something that will affect others and a wider community, I think it's good that we're now aware of what's going on. But the university doesn't want Gary to talk, doesn't want the students to know because they know a lot of people disagree with what's happening and agree with Gary. And now he's getting punished for a major ethical blunder on the university's part.
Hello there, welcome to my blog. My name is Ellie. I'm a 20-year-old journalism student in Brisbane, Australia.
I'm a politically-incorrect Korean adoptee who wants to be a writer and can make a mean Long Island Iced Tea. I think about things a lot and the bits that don't stay in my brain go into this blog.
There was a fellow who added me a while back. He was a regular at my work. Anyway, I had to end up deleting him because I had about 200 requests from him to grow plants, send chocolate, take sexy quizzes etc. And then there were all those SuperPokes. Innappropriately dirty ones too, which was a bit worrying. On closer inspection, I realised that he sent the same things to everybody on his friends list.
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