Cinderella Loves Her Fella

I overheard a portion of banter going on between a couple I live with, and their also coupled pals. One sentence has been on my mind, albeit  briefly. ‘She gets up early to make my lunch‘.

Hold the fuck up.

Your lunch? YOUR LUNCH?! Make your own goddamn lunch, you pig. Seriously, it’s the noughties – and we’re nearing its end, at that. This kind of shit should not be happening, even if the uber bimbo is gleefully willing to drag her ass out of bed for the sole purpose of sandwich making. Having to endure a heterosexual couple as housemates has opened my eyes to an entire new world: where the man still controls the barbeque, and the woman scours the shower floor.

A typical, sexy housewife being sexy.

It’s not the simple act of playing 21st century Cinderella that irks me about this girl; rather the very firm belief that had she asked her boyfriend to ’swap jobs’ (she toss burgers and he get on his knees like a house wench), would have resulted in the boyfriend going totally catatonic.

‘What is this EZY OFF BAM you speak of, babe? And how…does….I butter bread??’

It’s always man before woman on invitations. Always the main dish being male and the side dish – female. The only time woman came before man was on the Titanic, and that was purely so those designer gowns could be refunded for water damage. We can fool ourselves into a false sense of equality, but this could not further from the truth. The truth, at it stands; no matter how many bras are burnt, or how many feminazis join together in protest – males will always dominate you in some way or another.

Why this is, I do not know for sure. Possibly deep down in the core of every Eve is a yearning for that unobtainable Knight in Shining Armour to rescue them from a life of uncertainty… and every Adam would like his socks hand washed. These two yearnings go together like soggy chalk and cheese to create a bond that is downright unsavoury and eye rolling for those who are alone and miserable, or alone and wisened to such contrived behaviours.

The latter is totally me. Not even shitting.

Monotony: The Bored Game

We are born. We breathe our first breath. We flail, then crawl, and will cautiously walk. We cry, we babble and with time we learn to speak the language enforced upon us.

Kindergarten, primary, middle and high school are all on the agenda – and must be followed through with. After that? Well, you would think the rest is up to you. Your life is what YOU choose to make of it, after all. So why are the lives we ‘choose’ to lead so similar in so many ways. You must work. You must study hard to create a successful career pathway. You must find a mate, marry and procreate until you are successfully with child, and so on. Everything must have a reason, and a goal.

Newsflash: you are squandering your fucking lives. It may have escaped your narrow thinking, but you only have one god damn life, you know. The idea that so many individuals in this society who knowingly join the daily grind, whatever that may be, is so utterly depressing. For those who go against the social grain and willingly opt out of a higher education, steady job, or pursuing someone of the opposite sex, they are destined to become  serial disappointments.

There is no real moral or conclusion to this rant, it’s just something that has really irked me as of late. I find myself rolling my eyes at almost everything. Everything is so dull, repetitive, monotonous and unbearably ordinary. I shaved my head yesterday; an experiment of sorts. I wanted to see how people who knew me reacted to such a drastic change in physical appearance. Why did you do it? Was question of the day. Forgive me for answering a question with a question, but why the fuck does everything need a reason?

TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-ZING!

I had no legitimate or logical reasoning for my actions, and this seemed to agitate some people. Society is much too focused on ‘getting to the bottom of things’ – thus creating a collective, neurotic nightmare.

Hold the fuck up – don’t be so hasty to shove your albums filled to the brim with holiday happy snaps in my face. You travelled to China, and what did you do? You visited every historical Chinese location possible. Well, you are doing it all wrong. You are still colouring in the lines. You went to a travel agency, and they held your hand through every point on your itinerary. An itinerary that is undoubtedly eerily similar for many tourists of China.

Granted, I have never been to China and it is highly unlikely that I will – what with eating cute puppies and all. I can safely assume however, there is more to China than a huge statue of a fat monk for you to stand next to so you can stick it on Facebook or show it to someone who is green with envy at your once in a lifetime holiday experience. Vacation with a clear mind and a clear plan of actions; if you go somewhere you are not meant to and your itinerary becomes a ten-year stint as a high-class hooker in Hong Kong…

….well it’s all an experience, no?

To expand upon the taking of pictures issue. Yeah, stop doing that so much. Social networking has made it easier to share memories online for your e-buddies to fawn over, but how ’bout putting down the Pentax and enjoying the moment instead of going crazed paparazzi on the evenings events just to get more ‘likes‘ than your last image abusing update.

Looking Glass

I sit at the bus stop.

Just sit, singing a song or two. People in cars no doubt perplexed at my strange and uncivilised behaviour. The rain comes towards me harder, and with more ferocity. At least, I think it does. I could not be certain of this, or of my recollection of the Friday afternoon traffic, trying in vain to get home for the weekend.

Oh yes, the weekend. A time of pleasantries, social trivialities and alcohol themed celebrations. Then we do it all again I suppose. But for now, I shall sit and wait for the predictably tardy bus to take me to a place that is of little significance to this story, or in the grand scheme of things.

I feel as if I am simply an unwilling observer in the art gallery of the World. I move from painting, to perfectly crafted sculpture and then to a tapestry of Shetlands. All the while nodding my head like the aficionados sometimes do at those gallery shows, through their Dior lenses.

They see the beauty and potential in every piece. I can barely muster a feigned enthusiasm; as though I am being watched intensely by an invisible crowd. I continue on and find myself staring back at my own reflection. Strange. I am so different now; reduced to a shell as cold and as pale as the marble floor I stand upon. I suddenly wished to be -if only for a moment- one of them.

To be one of them would be to break through the cracks in this looking-glass, to meet this ghostly image of mine face to face. I would hold him carefully like my Mother always did for me before bedtime, and whisper in his ear something pleasant and hopeful.

The bus has arrived, at last. I step on, smile, and request a ticket. I put the ticket in the machine and I sit on a seat suitable for only one person. I watch the angry traffic pass by. Why can I no longer see the point in any of it? I feel as if I see with perfect vision for the first time, yet the World just beyond me is as murky and lacking as ever. Now would be the perfect time to disembark from the bus.

The bell will not press, and the driver will not respond.

So I sit, defeated. An unwilling observer, and an unwilling participant.

Meet Me at the Alter

Ever wanted to just, be someone else? Wouldn’t it be grand to just wake up one morning as a completely different person? Unfortunately, unless you really, really need a change and can afford the gruelling chain of operations required to do so – generally you’re stuck with what you have.

That’s what your alter ego is for. A fun, on the side persona you can pull out every once in a while, dust off and place your tired, overworked shell in its place. Alter egos can make for extremely humorous entertainment and can bring out the wild side in normally subdued people. Alcohol and drugs can provide you with a temporary personality change, but the outcome is usually not of the most desirable standard.

I’d like to be a character of the animated world. Not one of the annoying, overly-toonlike characters – perhaps one of royal descent who is poised and gracious and can break into a perfectly pitched song without a moments hesitation. Surely a fool’s dream – but dreams are not always of the impossible.

Try, for a day, to change the way you approach the world. Embrace your inner eccentric, bring yourself to life with an expression or two you have yet to experience. Say something silly and nonsensical to another, and take pleasure in their bedazzled reaction. To say the world has become a cesspool of despair, drama and dereliction would be the understatement of the decade.

The world is nothing more than a very worn piece of canvas. When shit gets bad, society pulls out the tired paintbrush of life and with it a new tin of brightly coloured paint in the hope another coat will make everything seem shiny and new once more. It takes more than suppression to hope for a better tomorrow;  you need to embrace the animated self you no doubt wanted to expose at some point but fear of rejection or ridicule quashed that beautiful, soul warming piece of that spectaular inner you.

Don’t let the fuckers of the world threaten what you could be – what you would be if society wasn’t such a huge pile of shit. I’m in no way saying you should turn to Jesus (luuuul) and start adopting African children… just be a little bit cute, or a little bit kooky or a little bit innocently wild and don’t allow your TRUE personality to forget you. And you, it.

Hello world, this is me.

The Fame Monster

It has recently come to light that the Father of the son who was supposedly trapped inside the family’s homemade hot air balloon that went bye-byes in sky-skys (only to be ‘found’ hours later in the damn house, hiding like the piece of shit kid he is) had choreographed the entire ‘ordeal’ in the hopes he could get a piece of that warm, sugery nirvana that is FAME.

First of all, if you’re going to pull off a believable hoax, it’s best to inform the authorities BEFORE approaching the media.  And frankly, if the Father was really that hungry for fifteen minutes, he would have IRL stuck his son in that balloon – perhaps equipped with a mini-mic and handicam to blog the entire process for his newly founded website BALLOONBOYBLUES.COM.

The moral of the story being, don’t fucking half-ass attempts at gaining celebrity, even if you expect to get nothing more than an interview with NBC and possibly your own reality show or a starring role in one already established – such as My Super Sweet Sixteen or Pimp My Balloon with out of work rapper XZibitBiscuit.

The Celebrity has manifested itself to the stage where it has found itself a new home to spread its shameless famewhoring seed; the everyday, runofthemill member of society. With access to new technologies such as cellphones, the Internet and…homemade balloons becoming increasingly easy to come by, even the most intellectually lacking members of society have a shot a becoming a bigshot. You only need to look at YouTube sensation failure Chris Crocker, AKA Tranny Mess – his self proclaimed ‘honest’ vlog about his borderline homicidal adoration for pop princess Britney Spears catapulted into the headlines of every media outlet imaginable.

Crocker is IRL batshit insane

This year has the been the year of famewhoring families, wherein it isn’t only one pathetic loser lusting for attention, it’s now becoming a family affair. First it was the Jolie lookalike and her multiple babies; for a while there her lackluster parenting skills and general failing at life garnered her some sweet, sweet paparazzo attention that she clearly needed like a maniacal cokehead did not want.

Then it was Mr. and Mrs. Jon and Kate Gosselin…(plus eight) and their turn to prove they deserved the fame more because they had more children. Granted, they at least received a reality show and John is still being raped hard by the bug of celebrity, but at the end of the day – irrelevancy is lapping at your breeding toes.

Jon thought Kate was refillable, like at Hungry Jacks

There seems to be a certain ‘grade’ in the celebrity food chain and once it is reached, be it a fallen A-lister or an average Joe, the resulting shenanigans by any and all can leave the rest of us feeling apathetic and/or extremely bemused by the individual trying desperately to cling  to that last icy rung on the fame ladder.

If you are a fledgling public figure or just….another Tara Reid, here are some tried and true ways in which you can keep your foot in the door:

1. Sex tape: Paris did it, now look where she is. Nearly thirty and still passing herself off as nineteen. She does movies too, you know. Did you know Mini-Me has a porno? Dude, I so want to see that shit.
2. Twitter: Get yourself a Twitter, get your dwindling followers to follow it and tweet your tits off. Even if you’re out of work, pretend you’re more successful than ever. When that next blockbuster starring YOU never eventuate, blame it on ’scheduling conflicts’ or just say ‘the Director drugged me and raped me anally’.
3. Reality Show: Most celebrity based reality shows will accept anyone with at least a D minus level of The Celebrity. Even ex governors are giving the world of reality television a crack. Also, try and be naked as much as possible during filming.
4. If all else fails, just stand in the street outside your girlfriend’s house and accuse her of cheating. Also, it helps if you look like you’re on crack.

Remember, always ALWAYS tip off the media before pulling a publicity stunt. Or you could follow Britney Spears around if you’re really desperate for attention. Or you could kidnap Britney Spears, stick her (and yourself) in your home made air balloon, and rape her until she has more children than Jon and Kate.

TRIPLE. THREAT. BABAY.

In Engrish, Prease

I’m not going to lie to you and say I am completely anti- racist, because that could not be further from the truth.

I, and anyone else who is willing to admit it, have an issue with any person with skin that differs from my own. Yes – this includes tan abusers, cholos and Carrot Top. Although my new found passion of helping the elderly has brought me nothing but positives, I have had a somewhat… unpleasant experience with a few of my co-workers.

Fuck I hate Carrot Top

You see, the aged care industry (like taxicab organisations, petrol stations and shoddy shopping mall massage parlors) seems to attract – in alarming numbers – persons of a non-caucasion persuasion. For every white carer and nurse at my facility, there are five or so Asians, Indians and Africans – the majority of which have extremely underdeveloped English language skills.

This language barrier has become an increasing issue for myself, as communication on the job is vital. And when you’re dealing with the frail, vulnerable and elderly, having a confused looking Filipino woman as a partner for the morning rounds can be a challenge within itself.

For me, it has become a literal game of charades with many of the foreign workers. This has led to me becoming extremely intolerant of a select few who consistently fuck shit up and I am continuously left wondering what ass backwards institution handed these stupid foreign fucks their certificates.

Having worked in such close proximity with people of differing origins has forced me to be more accepting of other cultures and people. Yet, many of them flatly refuse to adopt or at least accept the Australian English way of communication and interaction.

If you decide to move to another country, one far different in almost every way from the one you are leaving – prepare to embrace new ideals, personalities and ways of thinking. AND for fuck sakes, do not get offended at every little bit of advice or criticism given to you as it is given to make things easier for every individual involved. ESPECIALLY in a working environment and ESPECIALLY ESPECIALLY when the line of work involves caring for others.

If you want to bitch, moan and play the race card, pack up your chickens and get a job driving around drunks or pumping petrol. Otherwise, welcome to our country, my name is Ashley! No.. I said Ashley. Not Asslee.

FUCKING INASIANIPINO ASSHOLE LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH DID YOU LEAVE YOUR ‘H’ PRONOUNCING ABILITY BACK IN UZBAKIBAKISTAN WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Ahem.

Mayan the Black Hole!

Before I begin, Mayan is pronounced ‘MY-AN‘, for you illiterate boobs out there that probably failed to comprehend my awesomely witty header.

2012.

End of the world? Or will it be just another same ol’ year, in which I turn twenty four and start developing man jugs and taking Viagra. Oh the woes of old age. Anyway, back to the end of the world, it’s totally something I’d love to see happen. I hear you whispering and pointing at me, fuckers. You’re thinking, ‘Isn’t it a little, I don’t know, emo and also slighty insane to think that a new ice age would be a good thing, right?’

The answer would be yes – after the borderline insulting ‘Dawn of the Dinosaurs‘, Ice Age has well and truly run itself into extinction. A legitimate, non Dreamworks funded ice age however, would be welcomed with open arms by not just myself, but The History Channel also.

Like the dinosaurs, the Mayans are also extinct. But not before making an epic calender of epic mysteries that is said to end on or around the 21st of December, 2o12. Although there is no evidence of the Mayans ever prophesying an EEEEND OF DAAAAYS at the conclusion of their stupid ass calender of epic mysteries, the media have made damn sure that they run this date, slathered with helpings of fear mongering, into the hearts and minds of the easily manipulated citizens of the world.Each and every one ready to throw some ca$$$h at a t-shirt or two emblazoned with slogans such as ‘I survived 2012 and all I got was this lousy shirt… and also everyone is dead including my dog and what’s up with that ’cause in I Am Legend Will Smith’s dog was totally by his side and kicked zombie ass and all my dog did was hump a dead guy on the footpath instead of following me and a stray meteor fell on him and now I’m alone with nothing but a half eaten turkey leg and this t-shirt’ or ‘I’M WITH CHILD’  which will hopefully send a message to any survivors using the procreation excuse as a way to gang rape your lily white ass.

Tinkerbell can hold her own against any apocalypse

Hysterics and hystericals aside, 2012 is srsbsns. Not only is the expiry date of THE ENTIRE EXISTENCE OF EVERYTHING right after my birthday and right before Christmas, but it is also during Summer. I don’t know about you but if I wake up December 21st, bottle of coconut oil in hand, and step outside to skin cancer my way back to a killer tan to find my backyard has become a yeti swingers party, I will definately consider popping a bitch. Or Kevin Rudd. I’m not fussy.

If the Mayans, America and The History Channel are correct in their prediction of an end of days – then can you honestly think of a better way to go than riding a tsunami or being alive long enough to let go of a frozen loved one as they float gently to the bottom of your Port-A-Pool whilst you whisper ‘I’ll never let go’.

Even though, you quite clearly just let them go.

Otherwise you’d be holding them and they wouldn’t be at the bottom of your pool. So, technically – YOU killed them. Okay, so the ice age killed them initially, but you exacerbated the whole situation by making them even colder at the bottom of the pool. Now they have to work twice as hard to get resurrected which means God has to cut his lunch break short which means you are so not getting ahead of the heaven queue. Fucker.

Podcrastinate: Part 1 – sLuTs!

My first audio blog/podcast/thingy about how teenage girls like to have sex and I briefly touch upon my lack of wood.

CLICKY.

Five Things I Hate About Q

In celebration of the National Equality March held in US of A this week, I’ve compiled a brief list of the reasons why we should have a public flogging (BDSM FANS REJOICE) of the gays instead of yet another song and dance of why the GLBQTI (mmmm.. BLT) community should be given the right to get a divorce and westernise Asian babies. If you’re offended by homophobic notions, please read on. I love an enraged audience, gets me all hot and flustered ‘n’ shit.

1.) Drag Queens: At number one we have a highly disturbing hobby that many a homo indulges in;  the drag scene. Two dollar wigs and Maybelline overdosing aside, the mere perception that it’s in any way appealing to dress like a woman when you clearly own a cock is offensive not only to the senses, but to members of the female sub sex. Dressing in drag is about as artistic as doing the esrever cowboy whilst playing Chinese Checkers with a Chinese guy; ultimately an unimpressive endeavour that will end in failure.

Remember Draggies – your face is not a cake, it does not need icing.

2.) ASL?: There is no such thing as dating, courting and general romancing amongst the Q’s. Instead we have hookup websites that will very likely give you an STD if you even look at them, IM conversations that comprise mostly of the words ‘pic/when/where/inches/bottom’ and ‘asl’. There is no love between men, only lust.

Stop trying to imitate straight couples when they themselves cannot live up to fairytale ending expectations.

R U CUT?

3.) ‘He said he was seventeen!’: Oh yes, it’s time to face the music – gay men love them some hairless, underage twinks. Whilst there are the select few that prefer the older specimen (holla!), experience and general observation has taught me that most Q’s would rather a disturbingly childlike male companion to service their manbags while moaning ‘Daddy’. If I hear ‘I liekyounger lololol’ uttered once more, a kitten in Jamaica loses its ears.

Fucking warned.

Keep that pedo-inspired behaviour behind closed doors, you filthy mingers.

4.) IT’S NOT FAIR, ETC: Homos, especially male homos, should definitely be refused the right to marry. You know why? Because males are by nature, sluts. Even more so than your everyday, average hetero couple. This equality bullshit has got to stop because, well, homosexuality is still not ACCEPTED.

So quit wasting resourses on rallies and marches and stick to your goddamn rimming and your dad/son fetishes and ass-to-ass dildo diving, because you’re all sexual beings and really – deep down most of you don’t care if Adam and Steve can’t become man and..bottom – you just like to complain.

If it wasn’t marriage rights it would be the right to…. have sex with teenagers. Now, believe me, that shit would get the masses out in support.

5.) U.G.L.Y: I like to say Q’s are God’s heterosexual fuck-ups that were thrown into the reject bin and became part of everyday society. Face it, most muff-munchers and anal-architects take a back seat physically to the heterosexuals. A homosexual could eat, sleep and fuck at a gym trying to get fit and will, in most circumstances, look inferior to the hetero hottie on the treadmill beside him.

Also, where did the idea of the fashion conscious gay dissappear to? This aint so in the shit hole town I reside in.

So I salute you, fellow brethren. You are a hot, hot mess with a face to match – and I hope your marriage rights get blown harder than you did Saturday night in the gardens of Adelaide.

Ascent Into Madness

The term ‘normal’ has been overused and applied to so many abnormal beings and ideals that the word has lost all meaning, and thusly should be grabbed by the syllables and thrust into dictionary limbo.

The closest one can come to normal is when one tries to discipline unacceptable habits and traits into a dormant state whilst engaging in social activities. Even I, an individual who identifies as a man with no facades, will tend to suppress the more unappealing qualities when contact between others becomes a foreseeable possibility. Alas, I fail at this most times.

Suppression leads to a nasty build-up of emotions that, upon eventual release – will spew forth like rancid sewer water onto unsuspecting bystanders. This is commonly referred to as a mental breakdown. Hilarious for the most part, mental breakdowns will almost certainly come when the host least expects it and always during the most untimely of situations.

The straw that broke the camel’s back is a common analogy used to describe the moment a breakdown or freak-out occurs. Humans can only handle so much disappointment, heartache, rejection and misfortune before inevitably going absolutely psycho on your shit.

People that are close to this breaking point will commonly share distinguishing signs and symptoms. Bloodshot and/or twitching eyes, sweaty palms and foreheads and a general homicidal facial expression are all dead giveaways that this person has long since checked out of normal and into Norman (Bates).

If you are concerned your crazy has risen significantly, channelling these seemingly unwanted feelings and emotions into suitable outlets can turn that loony lad or lass inside of you into your own creative powerhouse. Weird behaviour births wonderful imagination.