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.

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.

Thinspirational

You are an absolute fucking liar if you deny ever having teased someone, be it to them or behind their back, about the size of their stomach. Maybe you remark on how the pants they chose to wear cause them to bear a striking resemblance to a blueberry muffin, or guesstimate with your fellow bitchy buddies as to how many chins that person has – and whether or not those chins have chins of their own.

It may appear the victim of your cruel words laughs it off or acts nonchalant about being compared to a baked good. However, how would you then feel if you discovered that one offhanded comment you made during recess or around the water cooler at work was the straw that broke the camels back, and that individual developed an eating disorder?

Admittedly, I was guilty of being one of those individuals that would often scoff at the stories shown on television and in print media regarding anorexics and bulimics and considered these sufferers to use their ED as a way to attention whore. I was also guilty of many times poking fun at the more rotund members of society, and stood idly by as others did the same.

Start them early, I suppose.

Having now gained a different perspective on issues of body image, I am disgusted by what I witness around me. Parents telling their young children they need to go on diets and start working out at the gym… for fuck sakes?! Hearing stories of barely pubescent girls and boys being admitted due to dangerously low BMIs, caused by EDs, makes me RAGE.

Even the gay community, a demographic of which I am unfortunately apart of, has absolutely DUMB expectations for what homosexuals should look like – either chiseled Adonises or stick thin ‘twinks’. You don’t fit one of these two categories? Enjoy your hand, loser. Some of you may think I’m being harsh, but that’s the harsh reality. It’s human nature for us to judge a book by it’s cover; if that book is worn and faded, or the pages water damaged and bloated, it will take a back seat to the shiny new copy next to it – regardless of it’s contents.

Hawt.

At the other end of the spectrum, overly slim people also cop shit for the way they present physically. I have on more than one occasion been compared to a ‘broomstick’ or been told to ‘eat a hamburger’. If you’re one of the judgemental cocks out there, stop it. Stop telling your girlfriend she needs to lose the jelly belly she has gained since you began dating, or leave her – you clearly want all the wrong things. Stop telling your tubby younger brother the creators of the wheel used him as inspiration, he can only be told so many times he looks like mans first invention before he starts to believe it.

PARENTS: let your child be a fucking child and eat that packet of lollies and for crying out loud it is NOT OKAY to stick them on a diet or workout regime, and it is SO NOT OKAY to comment on a young persons weight unless they are at a BMI that poses a risk to their well being.  To the media I say, die in a fire. I find it hilarious to see an image of Britney on FAMOUS with text implying she is at a dangerously low weight, and then next to it New Idea saying she’s morbidly obese.

Generally, one knows if one has a weight issue, whether too thin or too fat. Additional commentary by you is almost never required and always damaging. Stop and think.

Stop. And. Think.

Idol-lies: Part Deux

So where was I? Oh yes, Australian ughDol. After holding down the fort against the line jumpers, I filled out the necessary registration forms with others from the front of the line including a hot mess auditionee who couldn’t believe her luck at being at such a prestigious event. I received my fabulous paper armband and stood patiently waiting for my number to be called. Instead, the queen of narcissism – Idol host Andrew ‘Gspot’ - decided to finally rock up to record his piece for the Adelaide leg of the auditions.

What followed was approximately forty minutes of the most tedious, one too many takes of the same fucking setup. Gspot ordered the sea of starstruck hopefuls to stand around him and scream ‘ADELAIDE IS TEH BESTORST’, or something retarded like that. ‘More enthusiasm…wave your hands!!!’, he holla’d spastically like a child overdosed on raspberry Fanta. By this point I had again lost feeling in most parts of my body, so I stuck my hand up weakly and muttered ‘…yay, blaaaah‘. I had finally accepted this Idol thing was totally not worth the shit I was enduring, all of this just to get a chance to perform in front of the judg-

Oh, about that. After the Gspot ordeal, the first batch of victims were ushered into a waiting room where the shows producer, a man oozing the sleaze gene from every orifice, brought our giddy little heads back to reality. After gleefully explaining most of us would go home in tears and we’d have better hope giving head to get ahead in the music industry, the fun filled announcements continued thick and fast. Apparently the so called judges (you know, the ones who judge and stuff?), well it’s too much of an inconvenience for them to have to drag their lazy fucking asses from state to state to do their goddamn job. Instead we would perform for the behind the scenes lackeys; these minions would then decide whether or not we had the body face  talent to be given the privilege to appear in front of the three stooges…in Melbourne. 

So I sat, moments away from my ‘audition’, and contemplated. First I contemplated punching the producer in his man-tits and demanding a refund of the last twelve hours of my life. I also contemplated how exactly this abomination of a show translated from this point, to the idiot box. If we have to audition to be given a chance to - FUCKING AUDITION, then cannot help but wonder how the tone deaf Asians, poorly dressed trannies and performing pedophiles get their shameless faces on the show?

I cracked a smile as I realised what I had suspected since day one of Idol(lise); the show was an orchestrated crock of shit. I gave serious consideration to possibly tracking down the fabled trio of talent seekers and no doubt uncovering the biggest hoax in Australian reality television; the judges were actually living, breathing robots. That, or Marcia was actually Bob Marley reincarnate. 

Life like texture ;_;

Aaaanyway – I auditioned, was labelled a try hard by an uberfaggot vocal coach (his counterpart gave me her blessing however) and was subsequently turned down by the producer and his cronies due to lack of confidence from having multiple cameras shoved in my face. ‘Come back when you have more confidence,’ he sneered.

Holy fucking shit, NO.

Idol-lies: Part Uno

Hands up who remembers the winners of the past Australian Idol competitions? Altogether now!

There was the..uhh..’guy with the afro’, the ‘fat..abo chick’, that ‘Irish dude’ and….some..others – I’m sure? Never mind, no one is quick to judge those of you who have difficulty in the recollection of the one (or none) hit wonders. I would go as far as to say the one and only even remotely successful contestant from the Insta-Idol Factory who managed somehow to climb her pudgy ass to the top – and stay there despite the odds – is Kelly ‘Can I Have Another?’ Clarkson.

I have voiced my skepticism toward the legitimacy of this shittastic show, and shows along the same vein, ever since Clarkson and runner-up Justin Butterface were forced (no doubt by gunpoint) to make another quick buck for the show by pairing up for what is now known more for it’s 9% Rotten Tomatoes rating than it’s SOSODEEP plot; the movie titled oh so appropriately - From Justin to Kelly.

I personally would have opted for the original script idea; Kelly gets a job at Cold Rock and is discovered singing into (possibly consuming?) a waffle cone by a passing camera crew. She subsequently overdoses on Rocky Road ice cream when she realises the crew weren’t actually there to whisk her off to Hollywood to make her a lil’ film star, but rather to ask her if she wouldn’t mind recording a spot for the new Jenny Craig campaign, as the before shot.

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S NOT BUTTER

I went against my better judgement and decided I would bite the bullet and line up like a fucking retard to give the whole Australian Idol thing a shot. As I was warned prior to the event that it was holyshitgonnabepacked I decided to drag a sleeping bag, a POS tarp thing and a foldout chair and camp out overnight in the hope I could get the fuck out of there ASAP the next day.

After being mistaken for a homeless man by an extremely concerned Subway Sandwich Artist I made my way through the city streets to the venue, only to find one other person in the ‘line’. I cursed those whose fucked advice had failed me, and began setting up camp as the half-Asian woman in first place felt it an appropriate time to make a (not-so) funneh about the lack of other retards present. It’s also important to note it was raining like a motherfucker this particular day, which made the entire ordeal all the more painful.

The friends I was expecting to wait out the night with me came as promised. Then left. Those little fuckers left me stranded with Number 1 who had since transfigured™ from a so-so woman into a borderline gorgeous Polish man with rape eyes (BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT’S NICE TO TAKE SHIFTS). So there I was, wrapped up tighter than a black man in a white woman and repeated ad nauseum the phrase I had refused to endorse since it’s Internet inception. FML. FML. FML.

After almost having my nipples fall clean off from frostbite, the morning finally decided to rear it’s reluctant head, along with it a sea of other auditonees; the non-retarded type who preferred the comfort of a bed to the…firm ground of the convention centre. I guarded my number two position like a bitch on heat guarding her manslave, having to on more than one occasion fend off a group of Twitards making a very unstealthy shimmy towards the front of the line.

More to come, fuck.

Dis-appointed

What assets should one possess to catch the eye of Disney execs on the prowl for the next Britney, Vanessa or Miley? You’re pretty much guaranteed at least thirty minutes of fame if you manage to land a leading role on one of the many Disney Channel shows that are adored by the young and old, and in many cases – score your own clothing line/record deal/eerily true to life doll.

The most successful of the Disney darlings seem to share one (not so?) fatal flaw; a penchant for landing their pretty little heads in hot, hot water with some very public -very anti-Disney – paraphernalia splashed across every gossip blog and magazine stand imaginable. Disney damage control always manages to be on hand the second the shit hits the fan to sweep the scandal under Snow White’s rug. It would be naive to assume these series of unfortunate fuckups are purely incidental, so I am going to give credit where credit is due. The Disney corporation have created the perfect publicity stunt. 

Disney may not be directly responsible for the creation and subsequent ‘leak’ of said saucy photos, but they sure make no effort to vent any form of disapproval towards the girls who are supposed to represent the very specific Disney standard. That being being a triple threat, squeaky clean canvas on which Mickey Mouse and co. can weave their mogul magic on.

Soon to be former Disney employee, a one Miss Miley Cyrus, is the best example of good girl gone bad – at least since Britney lied about her (lack of) virginity. Cyrus has done it all; the photos (both leaked and official), the Youtube videos of her and the ‘bestie’ tearing her competition a new one and the latest scandal involving Miley and a much older boy friend.

'..she's just being Miley'

I’m no prude – FAR from it. But I believe absolutely in the preservation of innocence, especially for teenagers today who are growing up on the insidious thing we call the Internet. So when an empire that was created on the foundations of kindness and a respect for the fellow man allows itself to be tarnished by allowing these incidents to flourish for the sake of free publicity, it really grinds my gears.

Either stay true to Walt Disney’s vision or merge with MTV. Or Skinemax.

Jerk Experience

I’m setting the record straight once and for all, retail work fucking sucks. In particular, MY retail job fucking sucks. You see, I’m a lowly night filler at a supermarket situated at the centre of one of those communities I like to refer to as Suburbia Hell. Perfectly manicured lawns, a new (yet somehow old?) house popping up as if by magic everyday, sweatpants, Chihuahuas, housewives, Asians…and more Asians. Compared to the folk who inhabit the self proclaimed Suprising Side of Town, I am as bottom of the barrel as they come.

Every evening, five nights a week, I turn up to my mundane ass job (usually without fail) and commence the rudimentary act of stuffing shelves comprised mostly of healthier options for the figure conscious housewife in training. The 100 Calorie fruit bars are especially popular, even though I could probably snort one of those suckers up my nose with ease they are that lacking in mass. Retail work may not suck as hard for you, assuming you have a somewhat pleasant bunch of peeps to work alongside – however I am blessed with the most anal retentive, jerk off, asshole of a night fill manager in supermarket history. Let’s call him Kwanzo, for the purpose of this rant.

Kwanzo, a former architect in training, decided it was in his best interest to abandon studies and focus his attention entirely on the super exciting and rewarding world of retail. Whether or not this clearly retarded decision gave cause for the bitter sonofabitch he is today is a mystery to myself, and those who fear and loathe him equally as much. So there I am; brain switched completely off as the hands do what they have done for the past four or so years – tear, grab, stuff, crush. Suddenly, my senses kick in as I preempt the danger approaching. Kwanzo shuffles into my aisle, his 90′s inspired slicked back hairdo’ in full force as he makes a beeline straight for me.

‘Pick up the pace, Ashley.’  He spits in his higher-than-thou tone. ’Or you’re not going to get out on time.’

I nod like the little bitch worker drone I am, and send signals to my hands to stuff shit faster. What I really wanted, and want to do everytime I see Kwanzo and his enraged, mixed race face, would go something along the lines of:

‘Okay firstly Kwanzo, you have by far the most annoying accent this side of Singapore – not even bullshitting you. Either get some elocution lessons or just STOP. TALKING. Second – are you listening Kwanzo? I need you to listen. SECOND, you can’t keep me here past my rostered time; this isn’t a third world country where you risk losing a limb if you don’t blow the higher ups.’ I’d pause here, for dramatic effect. ‘Lastly, you can take your shitty shelving job and stick it right up the store manager’s Jennifer Lopez inspired ass!’ Then I would dust off my pants, pat him on the head and make my exit as well wishers from the bakery, deli and checkout cheer me on.

Oh, and if possible, I’d find that obnoxious serial-shopper housewive with the freakishly manicured hair – and tell her she looks like a fucking douche.

No shit, it's what she looks like

Twiabolical

Stephanie Meyer, author of the overnight phenomenon The Twilight Saga may be done and dusted with her money maker; for the rest of the world however, the saga continues at full force. Four (and a half…don’t ask) books, one lackluster movie and countless TEAM EDWARD tees later, and I am officially sick of the Twilight fad and the vampire obsessed drones it has spawned.

…I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s nothing necessarily terrible about the series itse…holy shit, YES. YES THERE IS.

The cold, hard truth Twitards – you’re going to hear it. Twilight and it’s shittastic sequels are the result of a lonely, rather unkempt thirty something woman who decided to textualize her fantasies about a fella (Edward) she once loved, irl. That’s right, Stephanie Meyer is possibly the only fanfiction ‘author’ in history to strike gold with her Anne Rice stolen inspired story about a clumsy, innocent Mary-Suesque teen falling in love with an irresistible vampire boy who, if we bring into account his actual age – is pretty much a pedophile. GG Mormon values!

Assuming Meyer doesn’t run out of moolah and thus decides to produce more Twilight related material (a Renesmee coming of age story is NOT a good idea, stop it) – the fad should hopefully die down after the remaining films are pumped out to satiate the salivating Twitards clamouring for more Bella/Edward goodness. Although I have been proven wrong about the longevity of fads before (the emogh subculture is still alive and kicking to my utter dismay), I am confident the obsession with shiny, pretty vampires and socially retarded girls will fall into obscurity, and the world can return to some form of normalcy.

*Swoon*

To it’s credit, the Twilight saga is the one of the few fads I’ve come across that has managed to produce an extremely diverse group of rabid adorees. Almost every demographic imaginable can be found with their nose burrowed deep in a copy of Twilight, or curiously browsing the teen fiction section of a bookstore – usually an unusually large bookcase dedicated entirely to Twilight novels and R-Patz posters. Pre-teens, post-teens, fat virgins, fat not-so-virgins, Mothers, Grandmothers and homosexuals are the types you’re likely to find discussing intensely trivial things related to the world of Twilight.

Some go a step further and begin to confuse the irl world with Meyer’s fantasy land; a land where jumping around on trees like Donkey Kong is an everyday occurrence. Edward Cullen Robert Pattinson has, on more than one occasion, been propositioned by insane Twitards who believe wholeheartedly the AC-TOR (who I give props for his fairly competent role as Cedric Diggory) has the ability to turn them into a vampire. It’s amazing how a painfully generic love story can create so many young psychopaths, well done Meyer – seriously, exceptional trolling!

Now, I leave you with a LOLTASTIC quote from R-Patz himself…

“When I read it I was convinced Stephenie was convinced she was Bella and it was like it was a book that wasn’t supposed to be published. It was like reading her sexual fantasy, especially when she said it was based on a dream and it was like, ‘Oh I’ve had this dream about this really sexy guy,’ and she just writes this book about it. Like some things about Edward are so specific, I was just convinced, like, ‘This woman is mad. She’s completely mad and she’s in love with her own fictional creation.’ And sometimes you would feel uncomfortable reading this thing.”