There ought to be a law

My neighbourhood is under constant threat from thieves, vandals, and Bandicoots. As its self-appointed guardian, I have to kill a lot of time late at night. So I watch a lot of television, and I'm absolutely fed up with it.

What gets right up my nose is the endless parade of fast-talking Emus in ill-fitting suits promising instant riches for gullible viewers. Photo after photo of flash cars, expansive holiday villas, and blindingly white teeth all courtesy of their latest scheme, whether it's spruiking dodgy cosmetics, "flipping" unwanted and overpriced real estate, or setting up half-baked websites for "passive income streams."

Am I the only one noticing that these enterprises don’t actually use the business plans that they’re selling? None of these ideas could possibly make money.

The only ones that come close to being legitimate are the ones offering directories of government assistance programmes, and those are morally bankrupt--encouraging Koalas ALREADY on the dole to grow even fatter off the government's largesse, applying for unneeded grants to bilk taxpayers out of their hard-earned dollars whilst they pursue a university degree in advanced knitting or some such rubbish.

The Emu pitchmen aren't the only problem. They wouldn't do it if they weren't making money. In fact, I shudder when I stop to think of the sorts of individuals ready to participate in such transparent frauds. So, an equal share of blame needs to be laid at the feet of the Kangaroos, Dunnarts, and Quokkas so desperate to avoid hard work that they actually believe these lies.

Something must be done to put an end to these scams. At the same time, I'll be stone cold dead in the ground before I suggest that we let the nanny state decide what can and can’t be seen on TV. So I’m proposing a simple solution: Ban Emus from television.

Would we be culturally poorer if they were completely gone? It's not like they've made any meaningful contributions, and allowing them to stay just gives them carte blanche to devastate some poor Echidna's nest egg, figuratively and literally. A ban will rescue our nation from the open sewer of toxic programming that is late-night television.

But such a measure would just be closing the barn door after the horse has snuck into another country on an extended guest worker visa, leaving the victims of these criminal enterprises broke and vulnerable. That’s why they should get in touch with me as soon as possible. For financial assistance.

You see, the other thing I’ve been doing with my time is studying accountancy, and I have developed a new system that will put them on the road to financial recovery whilst guaranteeing that no one else will ever be able to steal from them again. I’ll be happy to send them (or you!) the details as soon as I’ve received my first payment.

_{Racist Wallaby is active on Twitter and vents an ill-considered pile of rubbish opinions on his blog. He also maintains a web page on Facebook, but hasn’t done much with that because he’s not some sex-obsessed Pademelon on the prowl for underage victims.}

The Christmas Party

A Guest post by Miss Commander

It's the Christmas season, and I bet you're all planning 'dressy but not to informal' outfits for those extravagant chrissie parties that your fabulous workplaces are throwing for you and their other valued employees. Am I jealous? Of what, creepy Phil from accounts trying to grope you by the photocopier? Or of the hangover you'll have the next day from mixing your drinks and eating those nasty reheated sausage rolls (that you end up vomiting in an office cubicle that has a handy chart on the back door that tells you how dehydrated you are judging by the colour of your wee, which by the way, today is a 'dangerously dehydrated' rancid pineapple juice yellow)? No. Of course I'm not jealous.

Ok. You got me. I am a little jealous of you gainfully employed types who get a fuss made of them at Christmas time, just because you get a regular paycheck.

As a self employed artsy fartsy type, no one is there come December to thank me for all my hard work, for shlepping all across Melbourne, teaching your kids about the dangers of cyber bullying and unprotected sex (unless you have girls that go to Catholic school, in which case they've just be warned that they're going to get a period, and don't worry, its normal for girls to be mean to each other).

Does anyone care how many brands I've promoted in too tight t-shirts? And I've certainly never heard of a life models Christmas party, and that's one that might actually be interesting to attend, given our enthusiasm for being naked in rooms full of strangers. Adding alcohol to that mix could only be a good thing.

You're probably wondering where all this bitterness comes from. Surely I knew when I trotted happily off to acting school that no one would ever address a kris kringle to me or agonise over the lack of gluten free mince pies available for festive morning teas, should I insist on pursuing a career in the arts unsupported by regular employment?

No, this bitterness comes from the fact that in 10 years of working life, not once have I ever been invited to a work Christmas party (even when I did hold down relatively 'normal' jobs). And with my current career trajectory, this seems unlikely to change.

So here I am, left lamenting the lack of loose nights out with colleagues, and the absence of tacky gifts of the “under $10” variety. I'll never know the joy of decorating a cubicle with tinsel or of exchanging religion non specific cards with co-workers of questionable faith.

Seeing as I'm a small business, surely any alcohol bought for the express purpose of thanking me for my years hard work could be claimed back on the tax that I never pay because I don't earn enough money to pay any? Surely?

Right then. That's settled. I'm off to the bottle shop. Must remember to get a receipt, and try not to loose it in my haste to down entire bottles of port in one go. That's what I call a Merry Christmas.

Cat posts here in between missing a proper workplace and making her own festive fun

Ewoks

A guest post by Jimmy the Jawa

Utinni!

Why I hate Ewoks (or as i like to call them the Dirty Furry Balls of Hate)

People often ask me Jimmy why do you hate the ewoks so much (they also ask me if they can buy droids which is bit insulting as I got sacked from the Sandcrawler years ago after a certain casual clothes Friday incident. Insensitive)'

Ewoks are smelly, rude, obnoxious and over hyped. I am sick of seeing yet another Star Wars merchandising bonanza including yet another ewok inclusion. Toys, clothes, books, cups, shoes, lplush things, next there will be the ewok tom tom. Its crap.

Type Jawa merchandise into Google and what do you get? Nothing. How are we ever meant to get out of the desert, out of these scratchy robes and into some fine threads without some royalties?

But its not just the economic inequality which annoys me or the fact they only appear in one movie while Jawas are all over the place (cause we are movie magic).

Ewoks are evil. Utinni? utinni! UTINNNIIIIIII

Yes. Evil. Remember Return of the Jedi? They were going to eat Han, Leia and Luke. Yes Nommy nom nom noms on the heroes. They eat humans! They weren't burning Vader as some sort of last rites, he was a BBQ for the party, to go with the stormtroopers shishkebabs

Have you ever wondered why there isn't any movies after. The little shitballs ate everyone. Thats right. Everyone. The whole new order to the universe became rissoles

Evil

and they smell like burnt hair

and eat with their mouths open.

and don't return their library books on time.

Ewoks. Dirty furry balls of hate

Utinni!!!!!!

and people say Jawas are bad. All we did was cruise around the desert, wave our arms in the air, sold a little second hand goods and shout utinni on select occasions. When did that become offensive? utinni

An open letter

Guest post by Grumpy Girrrl

Dear fellow residents of a certain sunny, waterside city,

I salute you in your enthusiasm for the great outdoors; for embracing our government’s concerns about your expanding waist lines and going for a walk; for your dedication to your doggie-friends and their love of a daily frolic in the water.

To the cyclists who make the environment just that bit cleaner as you eschew your cars to fly like the wind on your daily commute, and the wanderers, out to soak up some vitamin D with your fellow senior citizens, I salute you too.

So why the frack can none of you salute me in my own endeavours to maintain a svelte waistline and keep rickets at bay?

As I embark on my daily run, why must I balance precariously on the side of an embankment trying to pass you as you plod along, 4-abreast without the slightest concern for other path users?

Why must I dodge your horse sized dog that is careening towards me off-lead,  full pelt,  shaking its harbour-drenched coat and leering unbecomingly, its fangs closer to my shins than is commonly defined as polite.

Why must I give way to your prams the size of range rovers?  It’s not like you are trying to keep your heart rate up.

Why should I lose my pace as lycra clad lunatics whiz past but can’t find the bell to warn they are coming?

WHY PEOPLE WHY!

So share the love, people, and the path. Don’t make me go back the treadmill.

Universities

Guest post from Vitriol Girl 

I am a postgraduate at a very well-known Melbourne-based university. In general, my tertiary experience has been a rather positive one. It was, for example, the catalyst for my introduction to the Captain here—a privilege rarely afforded the lowly, unwashed masses. (Knowingly, anyway.) But the elation I get from a good thinking session or a tidy HD on a paper is rather overshadowed by the fact that the whole institution often feels completely disorganised and totally arbitrary.

Dealing with the university administration system, for example, is like being blindfolded at a party and told to hit the piñata. Only, the piñata is in another building, and so is the party for that matter, and it’s on a different day at a different time, and nobody told you because you weren’t at that unscheduled meeting in the faculty lounge last Friday at 3:37pm where all of this was discussed. They’ve also cancelled the cheese platter but there’s no point in coming anyway because the free champagne is only for professors and you’re just one of their lackeys.

By the way, emailing me five minutes before an event begins does not count as giving me notice.

Speaking of email, no, I haven’t filled out that survey about the inadequacy of the size of the car spaces for the Science Faculty because I don’t park there and I don’t care, I’ve never had anything to do with the Science Faculty and spamming me about it isn’t going to change that.

I’m so sorry I followed the instructions on that form and submitted it to the graduate school office like it told me to do. Next time I’ll completely ignore any written directives and make sure I annoy you with every piece of pointless documentation the system might require of me. Would you like to check over my Medicare claims and tax returns as well? I’ll even attach some passive-aggressive notes to them, just to keep things interesting. ‘Yours in anticipation’ indeed.

And why must the web enrolment system be formatted like a questionnaire from Quiz-Your-Friends? Don’t we have an entire department devoted to information technology? Surely they can come up with something better than highlighted bullet points on a glorified Word document.

Finally, I don’t know what part of ‘I want to have adventures’ sounds to you like ‘I want to sit in an office with a view of a carpark and teach Derrida to bored undergraduates for the rest of my life’ but that’s not what I said and that’s not what’s going to happen.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand the appeal of a room of one’s own and an adjustable desk chair as much as the next person, but I’ve never once considered the institution as a long-term career and I’m not going to start now. I have a life and I intend to live it.

Vitriol Girl blogs over here when she is trying to rescue her soul from her university

Introducing Humberto

Guest post by Humberto the Eggplant bush

Hola, I am Humberto, A newly planted bush of the eggplant.

I have nothing much to say at the moment as all I do is hang out with the capsicum to my left and the tomato to my right. The tomato is a little gossipy and the capsicum is a little sullen so there isn't much happening in Humbertos day at the moment. Just sitting in the sun, sipping  water and living in hope that Pinot the worlds smallest black panther doesn't toilet in me

Its a simple life being Humberto.

But I am wise. I am available to answer any questions so if you have something that is perplexing you, please do drop me a line or ask me in the comments section

adios muy comprades

Beards (and looking like people from movies)

A guest post by Andrew W Harper
 

GRUMBLE GRUMBLE GRUMBLE.

Well so much for the arts career for this year. I've done my dash there. Hey, it was a pile of fun and I loved it, exasperating as it could be but it's got to be one of the worst paid six months of not-on-the-dole ever. I mean I was on the dole in case things didn't work out and I put form in at a certain point – really late most of the time because I'd developed a total an complete aversion to the actual office anyway, and it seemed so bloody pointless because I was getting just enough pay to not earn anything, but it was a contract that would run out that would be bloody that  so I couldn't really tell them to forget it al and forget me , although it went on long enough for me to actually get the boot and have to-reapply, just before the contract ran out, so my reward for honestly reporting my income turned out to be another bloody dole diary, which would have driven me to drink had not the pub been my office anyway.

I like the pub though. I go there and read crappy nerdy horror and science fiction novels, despite my acclaimed pretensions of being a literary wanker and despite music being played there. I do listen to music sometimes but when you've just been teaching YOUTH a special course and you want to wind down with a pint and a selection of short stories about Cthulhu eating the entire population of the planet in 2012, you don't want to here this week's generic shite 80s retro synth band. Is it still retre 80s synth? Or is it something else now? It changes so bloody fast that I can't even pretend not to to keep up, it's too rapid to even notice that I'm not noticing. I mean sure, things have sped up and the kids are still in the know, but there's GOT to be a direct correlation between the consumption of energy drinks and the ability to keep up with whatever trend currently exists, although I did drink a lot of vodka and red bull on Saturday just gone. Unsatisfying stuff, Vodka and red bull – I don't feel like I've drunk anything. I want red stains on my lips and the scent of hops in my far too voluminous beard.

I have a beard you know. It's excellent. I get beard envy from men and mysterious young women 
sk if it's soft or hard – really, this is totally true, I was sitting outside a nice Hobart waterfront bar and this nice young lady asked if it was soft or hard. My Beard. Then asked for permission to stroke it. My wife was sitting right there and thought it was bloody hilarious so permission was granted and yes, my beard was stroked and you know what happened?

The whole moment was bloody ruined when the nice young lady said I looked like the bloke from The Hangover.

CHRIST.

That's the worst thing about the beard. Who do I look like. Everyone has to tell me I look like someone. I've had harry Butler, Charles Manson, Jim Morrison but by far, more than any other single beard comparison I've had, I've been compared to the guy out of The Hangover.

This would be great but I'm the only one who knows his name. What's more, I can PRONOUNCE IT.  The bloke from The Hangover is called Zach Galifianakis. Galifianakis is pronounced “GAL-i-fə-NAK-iss” and I have NEVER SEEN THE HANGOVER.

I'm told it's good but just because I have now had over a dozen strange women and some even stranger men, compare me to Zach  Galifianakis, I hate the film, and this is totally stupid and I know that, but I was already a fan of Zach  Galifianakis because I'm a pathetic comedy nerd who trawls youtube for interesting new comics who do interesting new comedy and I honestly thought  Galifianakis was a bloody genius, and now, he's just the from The Hangover and because I have a beard, I apparently look like him. 

Which I don't, any more than I look like Charles Manson, Jim Morrsion, Grizzly Adams or any other person in history who may have had a beard. I am tempted to shave my beard off just to make all this go away but I have to tell you, I rather like my beard, apart from the comparisons and whlist it IS now Spring ,it's still BLOOODY FREEZING in Hobart and I'm not shaving the damn thing just yet, not when I get compliments on it from guys who run piercing stores.

Anyway, I ended up getting a job in call centre for a while, to pay some bills and buy my wife a present for being a rather nice wife, and for liking my beard. It's crap work, but I can do it wearing a flanney, a Slayer T-shirt and unpolished shoes, and no one is going to tell me I sound like the guy from The Hangover.

Andrew blogs here and here  and may look vaguely like this

 But don't remind him

Tourists

Guest post from Vitriol Girl

Fact: being a tourist makes you look stupid.

I've come to the conclusion, there is no way you can be a tourist and not look stupid. First of all, tourists look at shit, and there’s nothing more annoying than someone who actually takes notice of their surroundings. Don’t try to hide it because we can spot you miles away. No, it’s not the backpack. No, it’s not the bum-bag or the passport pocket or even the Lonely Planet guide. It’s those velcro sandals. You know, the ones that you bought from that outdoorsy looking store because you can walk in them AND it doesn’t matter if they get wet? Them. Nobody—nobody—wears them except for tourists—as if you couldn’t guess, given how they make you look like you’re wearing kneepads on your feet. Kind of like Crocs. Nobody in their right mind would be caught dead wearing them in their regular neighborhood, but for some reason tourists decide that the regular rules don’t apply to them.

And don’t pretend we can’t see you ooh-ing and aah-ing at the top of your lungs over something totally arbitrary. “Look, honey! Look at that chipped plaster awning! Look at this artfully placed rusty spoon! Look at that cup of coffee! / that incredibly common mammal! / your cocktail! / your foot ulcer!” For some reason, the exact same shit that was totally mundane in your own backyard becomes fascinating to you as a tourist. If you’re not gushing about it, you’re bitching about how that rock / building / tree / painting / rusty spoon / kangaroo / foot ulcer wasn’t as impressive as you thought it would be. What do you want it to do, give you a lap dance? Maybe it just looks unimpressive because you’re viewing it through the lens of your camera. Incidentally, is that surgically attached to your face? No? Then remove it. What’s the point in traveling to new places if all you’re going to do is take photos of them? Did you pick up the tourist brochure and go, ‘Hey look at the photos of this place! Let’s go there so we can take our own photos of exactly the same thing!’? You did, didn’t you? How many times are you actually going to look at them? Let’s be honest—you’re going to beg EVERYONE YOU KNOW to gaze at them in wonder (even the blurry ones and the 45 you took of that cockatoo from different angles) but when you sift through them yourself, all you’ll be looking for are the hot / buff / half-naked ones you can post as your Facebook profile picture.

And you know that campervan you’re hauling halfway across the country? It’s fat, ugly, a waste of energy and an oxymoron. You’re not camping; you’re carrying a house. You’re not ‘getting away from it all’; you’ve got ‘it all’ attached to your towbar. Don’t try to tell me all about how you’re getting close to nature; you’re sitting on your arse watching ‘Deal or No Deal’ at 5:30pm just the same as always, only this time you picked it up with a satellite dish next to a gum tree instead of through the antennae on your tiled roof at home. You’re in a national park. Perhaps you might like to listen to the sound of night birds and crickets instead of Andrew O’Keefe. And if you turned that generator off and walked outside you might even—gasp!—see some stars

Additionally, I understand that hauling a 6-tonne pile of scrap metal around the country means you can’t go faster than 75km/h even in your brand new shiny-clean black twin-cab Nissan Navara, but when I’m 8 cars behind you and you’re behind a road train I kind of want to slash your tyres or shove a potato up your exhaust. Not only does it make you the slowest jerk on the highway, but when the speed limit is 130km/h I’m pretty sure it’s a crime against humanity.

Don’t think you backpackers are any better. 

The only thing worse than an overprepared tourist who doesn’t actually want to leave home is an underprepared backpacker who has decided that the most important thing for them to spend their money on is booze, and that because they’re not at home they can be the most obnoxious wanker on earth. Of course  your $12 tent doesn’t keep out monsoon rain, no I won't shout you dinner. 

What kind of dipshit goes for a 20km walk in thongs, without a water bottle anyway? And that car—baby, you’re lucky it got three blocks from the rental yard let alone halfway to Brisbane. Nobody cares about how smashed you got last night, or how many wrong hostel rooms you walked into, or how many girls you failed to hook up with, or how you spewed all over the public toilets, or how you lost your phone, or how hilarious it was when you threw your beer can at that emu / homeless person / member of an ethnic minority / small child. 

It’s like someone sold you epic failure and convinced you it was adventure, and now you’re inflicting your idiocy on the rest of us. When you get hypothermia because you passed out on a rock in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night after somebody shaved off your god-awful dreadlocks, nobody is going to feel sorry for you.

Incidentally, could you move downwind? Clearly you haven’t showered since you left whatever planet it is that spawned you, and can you go back there as soon as possible? PLEASE? 

Vitriol Girl blogs over here when she is in a better mood

I have an overwhelming grump for tourists who 'do' things. "Then we did Salisbury on our way to  doing Stonehenge after which we will do Avebury." If you are just ticking places off a map then go and frack off. 

PS Don't start me on backpackers

PPS or travel photos

Captain AR Pants esq

Beer (and family)

A guest post by Andrew W Harper
 

Angry? I don’t get angry any more, except at family. 

And even that is a waste of time, as I’m in my damn 40’s and my parents are in their sixties and my sole remaining grand parent – the least likeable one – is 86 today and he really can’t bothered. The highlight of his day is going to be some scallops and the two beers the doctor allows him to have daily. He likes those beers but I do NOT get it – he gets those god-awful Tooheys Red Blocks.

Thing is  - we’re in Tasmania. You know what we have here that you don’t that actually means something?

CASCADE BEER.

Yep, stuff the environment and the view from Mt Wellington and the cheeses and the lifestyle, that’s all hippy bullshit that tree changing twats think is what life in Little Tassie is all about, but those of us who grew up taking baths in Cascade Pale Ale, washing our hair in the Stout and drinking the Blue (the lager, the best one, the one that evil evil CUB tried to kill off when they bought our precious brewery) , we stay here because of one big thing: mainland (that’s you lot, he said, reaching for his banjo) beers is the very Urine Of The Goat. It’s DISGRACEFUL. You lot cannot make beer to save yourselves, except The Coopers Family, and South Australia is a whole different thing anyway, doesn’t count and doesn’t in any way make up for VB or even worse, XXXX – that stuff is goanna vomit diliuted with Wombat Pee.

And my granddad, salt of the earth, war veteran, life-long Tasmanian – he doesn’t like Cascade.

I don’t get it at all but he’s 86 and I guess he’s allowed to drink fermented magpie droppings if that’s what he wants to do. I just have to respect that, because that’s what family is all about: not telling people they are morons to their faces, but going home and chewing your poor wife’s ear off over a decent cleanskin. That’s all you can do, and that’s all I intend to do, but I swear I’m going to drink a Pale Ale in front of him because the best birthday gift I can truly give the old bastard is something to abuse me about – because you should here his descriptions of Cascade. It may be Nectar to me, but he manages to combine classic old school racism with an encyclopedic knowledge of Australian Wildlife in his invective, and as much as I cannot stand it, cannot condone it and find it hard to put up with, it will be like music – because I have learned it’s pointless getting angry.

Happy Birthday Granddad. I wish we could share a beer but it’s all about beer ABUSE and it keeps us together, because at least neither of us are micro-brew wankers.

But that is another story, and shall be told another time

Andrew blogs here and here

I like beer. Captain AR Pants esq

Photographs of your kids

yor Fuck You, and Fuck Your Kid’s Wallet Sized Photographs
A guest post by Angry Trvel Gurl

Last night, I had the great pleasure of dining at my mother-in-law’s house, where, my sister-in-law, (who is my arch enemy) started boring me with the details of her two children’s most recent photo shoot. Now, mind you, these children have had professional photographs taken, literally, every three months since they were born. Not counting all the cutesy iPhone pics in between all these sessions. To this I ask: why?

Seriously. Fucking why?

Why do your children need to be photographed every three months like clockwork? Are you that afraid they will be ‘napped within the three month period and you need their most recent photo for the John Walsh Brand Child Tracker Program? (God forbid something horrible ever befall my niece and nephew.) And more importantly: whyshould I give a damn about your kid’s pictures? How does this directly impact me and my day-to-day ability to survive?

“The sitting fee was only $75.00!” She gushed, “And the photos so affordable! She gave us a special rate, and we only paid $230 for everything! (Sitting fee not included.) I’ll be sure you get a wallet size picture, okay?”

Goddammit.

I cannot begin to count the number of wallet sized photos I have of these kids. At least thirty. Probably more. From Christmas, Easter, Halloween, birthdays, more Christmas, random summer portrait sessions, and many more. And each time, I dump the photo in my office, and it eventually gets thrown into a filing cabinet drawer.

Why do I need these? I don’t. I remember what your kids look like. I see them at least once a month, and you post pictures of them on Facebook EVERY FIVE FUCKING MINUTES. And then, you send me e-mail copies of all the pictures you post on Facebook.

“That’s okay,” I said, “We don’t need one, I’ll just print a copy from Facebook.” (Lie.)

“YOU’RE GETTING A WALLET PICTURE!” Sister-in-law roared, as her skin melted away to reveal a demon of the most horrific magnitude, and she leapt across the table,
karate chopping me, severing my spine and draining me of my life force.

(I got better.)

You know what I hate even more than wallet sized photos of my nephew and niece? People at work who whip open their wallets to show me their wallet sized pictures of their children/grandchildren. I DON’T FUCKING CARE! I’m trying to do my job here, and looking at pictures of your snot-nosed ginger grandkids is not helping me make a paycheck! Fuck off!

Last week, a manager skipped up to my desk with a POSTER SIZED photo of her child. That’s right. POSTER SIZED. WHY? I promise you right now my parents never had poster sized pictures of me, thank God. I’d be mortified. Can you imagine your kindergarten photo, blown up, POSTER SIZED? Me with my front tooth missing and all the freckles and frizzy hair?

AHHH!! AHHHHHHH!!!!

“ISN’T SHE ADORABLE??” The manager gushed, thrusting the poster in my face.

Another question I hate. Especially if your kid is ugly. Like this one. Seriously, I’m not a baby hater or anything, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. And this kid is ugly. If it wasn’t for the pink feather boa and lacy white headband the kid was wearing, you wouldn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. The child is
18 months, and still has no hair. This freaks me out. No idea why, but it doesn’t seem natural. It’s like a Chucky doll or something.

“Erm, yes, she’s lovely,” I say, trying to turn back to my paperwork. “LOOK!” Says manager, shoving a portfolio in my face, “THE PHOTOGRAPHER TOOK OVER 100 SHOTS, AND I WEEDED THE PHOTOS DOWN TO 75, LET’S LOOK AT EACH AND EVERY ONE, OKAY?!”

“Okay,” I sob quietly, while trying to tie a noose out of my phone cord.

Seriously parents? Just stop with the photographs. How can you afford this shit, anyway? Recession, my ass. If we get parents to stop whoring out their kids to photogs, I promise you, we can pay China back our national loans like, ASAP.

Reporting live from the battlefield, this is AngryTrvlGurl

I agree totally. One of the reasons I left facebook. That an every fracker wanting me to feed their cows on Farmville. One of my main problems with friends offspring is their middle names, they always introduce to the world using all names and I spend the first five years of their life not remembering which name is the one to use.  In other slightly related news, I have implemented a policy that if the kid can't say "why are you so grumpy Uncle Captain Ranty Pants then they are no good to me. Captain Angry Ranty Pants

Children

A guest post from Huge Jerk

I want to punch the world in the face until it makes sense

I have, for my entire life, and some time before that, had parents. Perfect parents? Perhaps not, but pretty damned good ones, definitely. I love my parents, and they love me (so far as I'm aware). This, some will say, again means that I have no authority to speak. These people will find any excuse as to why what I say should be ignored. Perhaps they are right, but what I am about to say is not new. When one person says something that goes against your opinion, perhaps they are a crank. If two people say it, the crank has a friend. But this has been said so many times, by so many people that you should start to think that there might actually be a point to it.

I'm not a violent person. The title of this post may scream otherwise, but truly I'm not. I don't actually want to punch anyone in the face, but I DO want the world to make sense. No, I don't think a collective world face punch, no matter how hard, would actually make that happen.

The world seems to have abandoned common sense. Who needs to think, when you can blame your deficiencies on the big bad internet, or it's older cousin, TV.

Time to get to the point here. Or one of them, at least. No-one can parent your children for you. It is not, and should not, be up to the government to ensure that your darling children don't have access to violent or racy material. If you want to protect your children, do it yourself. The tools are all there to make it easy for you.

For example, if a game is rated MA 15+, then you should not buy it for your seven year old. Period. It isn't suitable. You can't buy the game for your child because all their friends have it, and then get up in arms about it being violent. You get what you paid for. Lobbying to get game content changed to protect your child doesn't actually protect them. It just annoys everyone who can legitimately buy and play the game. Sure, there's no blood now, but your child is still shooting people. All you have done is given them a game where there are no real consequences. You are part of the problem.

When the Wii-zapper came out, I remember seeing posts and rants about how inappropriate it was for children to be given something which resembles a gun. Aside from the fact that similar toys have been on the market for years (can you say "duck hunt"?) these people were correct. It may not be appropriate for children, so don't buy it. The easiest way to protect your children from the evils of the world is to not expose them in the first place.

Which brings me to my next point.

If you dress your children up like skanks, give them dolls which are skanks, and let them watch TV shows or movies that are full of skanks, they will want to act like skanks.

Is that so hard to understand? Cause? Effect? Oh, no, children are having sex because of the paedophiles on the internet, not because you have dressed them like skanks. I may be old fashioned here, but when I was a kid, if something wasn't appropriate for me, I didn't get it. It didn't matter how many of my friends got it, I didn't. Why? Because my parents understood that they made my buying decisions. Sure, I could pitch in a suggestion (or whine a whole heap), but it was their money they were spending.

I did have access to some violent games, and some lewd movies. I'm admitting that right now, in the interest of fairness. They weren't hidden away from me, but at the same time, they weren't handed to me without my parents knowing what they were about. My parents didn't get up in arms later about it. They knew what I was getting into before I got into it. They let me access it when I was old enough to understand it.

I hope that I can parent my future kids even half as well as my parents did me. I'd like to think that I turned out well adjusted. I'm not a sexual deviant, or a rampaging psychopath. I'm actually pretty normal. And that brings me to my final point.

If you accept your children for what they are, then you're more likely to maintain a happy and healthy relationship with them.

It's not rocket science. Kids will be kids. When they grow up, they'll be adults. Don't treat kids as adults, or adults as kids, and it should all be OK.

Nothing new has been said here. I've got no authority to dispense parenting advice until I've had and raised my own kids. This is all common sense, though. I will be following this advice with my children, and hoping that it all works out fine.

Stop blaming other people for your laziness, and we can all get on about our lives. The government isn't there to be your nanny. Stop messing with everyone else's lives to make your own easier.

More angry outpourings from Huge Jerk here

Its true! Kids will be kids unless they are Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrpus or any of the Irwin children then they are obviously wind up toys. Captain Angry Ranty Pants

You shit me

Guest post by Grumpy Girrrl

This week I’ve been to a naturopath, a kinesiologist  and have consumed vast quantities of ayurvedic (1) calming tea. I felt all peaceful and floaty in the sea of chaos that surrounds me.

I thought I’d lost the will to rant.

And then, lady, yes you, you passed me. Coughing everywhere like your hands were better utilised hanging by your hips, than say, covering your mouth and keeping your goddam swine flu to yourself.

Well that’s hundreds of  non-health-fund-refundable-cos-you-deem-them-lunatic-fringe-treatments dollars down the drain. Sigh.

xoxo

Grumpy Girrrl 

(1) Named after that famous Viking raider Ayurvedic the Prolific, 342AD. Captain Angry Ranty Pants

The Hipster

Guest Post by Ben Russell

I decided to rant about the one thing that all of us get the shits with, the one thing that no matter the race, colour and maybe religion, if you’re not one of those damn terrorists, can all agree really shits the tears out of us, wees on those tears and then throws a bucket of shitty wee tears in the face of all good, hardworking, robot fearing folk; You.

For you are the Hipster.

 http://www.no2emo.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/hipster2.jpg

 

You have a moustache, you ride a fixed gear bike, you listen to bands with stupid names as well as some old school Hip Hop to counteract the crackers and you pretend like there is nothing in the world that can make you excited. 

Everything is something that you’ve had better of at some point in your life. You wander through your existence pretending like you know shit and yet your just as afraid and in the dark as every other poor bastard on this planet.

Now let me take a breath by saying that I have been called a Hipster and I can see why on the outset, I have large thick rimmed glasses, I ride a bike (thought not fixed geared, I prefer bikes that aren’t fucking stupid) and I used to have a regular spot on RTR fm. So things aren’t looking great for me, but the main difference is I love life and continually gets surprised by new information and people, plus I have the facial hair of an adolescent street urchin.

Of late I have been working at a popular internet t-shirt distribution centre, collecting t-shirts and putting them in bags to send to happy people who love puns. You would not believe the sheer amount of dirty hipsters that work at this place. They are all in some band or date someone whose in some band, they all dress amazingly and at the smallest chance they will hijack the iPod and put some shitty short, fast, loud band on and faux yell at each other, because that shit is funny. I go down to Wicker Park and I’m suddenly in a sea of whimsical tattoos that “their friend the artist designed for them”. There are so many tattoos I sometimes feel I’m being edgy by not having one, when asked if I have a buxom she panda with a robot squirrel on its shoulder holding a flaming dice in each hand and inform them that I’m too edgy to fall into the trend people shall gasp with fear and admiration... or continue to ignore my very existence, after all I’m not in a band.

Now there is a way to be these things and get away with, you just have to be interesting. The payoff has to be worth the hype otherwise we are left with the equivalent of a Roland Emmerich film with Jeff Goldblum mumbling down our faces with his dick out about what is essentially nothing and Bill Pulman giving a speech about how the 4th of July is now not just America Day but World Day.

So why don’t you take your shitty, baseless opinions, your amazing looking hair and skinny jeans and fuck off. Maybe I’m just jealous, jealous of having a defined cultural identity, I can’t call myself a Hipster because I like things, things that may be considered Commercial, plus I just don’t have the time to go through all the clothes at the Op –shop. Maybe if you weren’t so fucking pretentious all the time and didn’t think that you were somehow better than everyone else I would want to join you as a bracket of our social network. Maybe I’m just happy wondering the nether regions of society, every now and then giving the goods a poke and tickle and finding some enjoyment out of life...

wait, wait that didn’t sound right.

I agree totally with Mr Russell although I have never been accused of being anything like a hipster but I have on occasional wanted to hit them on the forehead with an open palm and shout at them. Captain Angry Ranty Pants

 More by Ben Russell can be found here

Open Offices

Guest Post by Grumpy Girrrl

Wow am I grumpy.

I’m grumpy because I don’t have my own office in my new job.

 Actually I’m grumpy about my new job in general, but I digress.

What I’m really grumpy about is the decline of office etiquette since I last had to mix with you unwashed masses in an open plan office.

I’ve spent years in my own little office, with tidy book shelves, a complete lack of personal paraphernalia  (save for some carefully selected high-end stationery products) and a secret bottle of spray and wipe for a good, thorough, weekly desk clean.

And now I find myself thrust into your noisy, dirty, uncivilised world. Well let me share a few choice thoughts with you.

1. Speaker phone is Not. Ever. Ok. Keep your hold music and your inane conversations to yourself. I can’t even begin to fathom why you think your laziness at being able to pick up and hold a telephone receiver makes it ok to subject 20 other people to your conversation.

2. Your ringtone is not cool and I don’t want to hear it. Even if I liked Lady Gaga, 15 second bursts of it across the day would not be my preferred way to enjoy her greatest hits. That’s why mobile phones have silent buttons. And in case you’re in anyway unsure, vibrate is not silent

3. Tuna has no place in an open plan office. Nor other stinky food like re-heated mashed up leftovers from last night’s attempt at recreating Masterchef. Take it somewhere else so I can put my gag reflex away.

4. Keep your family photos in your wallet, your kids craft on the home fridge and your mouldy mugs out of my line of sight. This is a place of business.

5. And just because we’re forced to spend 8 hours a day in close proximity doesn’t mean I want to be your facebook friend. I don’t know you, yet I can hardly say no, so I’ll accept it and then put you on limited profile. Pointless.

End of rant. I’m off to spray and wipe.

xoxo

Grumpy Girrrl

I work in a cave in the dark so this doesn't affect me. Captain Angry Ranty Pants

Sustainable fishing

Guest Post by Tynon the Dugong

Helopo. i am Tynon. a Dugong

I hope you all are habving a rweallly rweallly lovelly swwimmm somrewwjhere. i am
 
i love to habve a rweally lovpoley swwimmm and i pray fpor clean oceasns so we can allll swimmm

wjhaty is miopdasty worruyinmgh! Wew are running out of  fioddasdashgs. No mpore fioddasdashg means noi more fioddasdashg and vjhips.

I don't eats fioddasdashg or vjhips (i eat seaaw grass. I'm a vergan) but i like fioddasdashg and we shoudl protect them. I swwimmm with thenm and fioddasdashgare [ppoirttyyt aNMDS FIUN

No fioddasdashg! Itsd worruyinmgh! asop, dszfj apoi worruyinmgh!

it sdfhk awehj msdfjli xcvi ansda whTY M,wqioulk we fpo wjhemn opiur po cceamn sa doie? whjat!yoiuy salklk nrewerwd topi styoippo eatyytiuongh spo m,uichj nbnadlky mciuaghhjt fiosjh. miopdasty worruyinmgh M,wqioulk we fpo wjhemn opiur po cceamn sa doie? whjat!yoiuy salklk nrewerwd topi styoippo eatyytiuongh spo m,uichj nbnadlky mciuaghhjt fiosjh. M,wqioulk we fpo wjhemn opiur po cceamn sa doie? whjat!yoiuy salklk nrewerwd topi styoippo eatyytiuongh spo m,uichj nbnadlky mciuaghhjt fiosjh. M,wqioulk we fpo wjhemn opiur po cceamn sa doie? whjat!yoiuy salklk nrewerwd topi styoippo eatyytiuongh spo m,uichj nbnadlky mciuaghhjt fiosjh.....worruyinmgh worruyinmgh worruyinmgh!!!!!!!

(Hmm. We may stop it there. Tynon types with his flippers. When he gets excited he loses all sense of what he is saying. Which in this case is that the decline of fioddasdashg fish stocks is worruyinmgh worrying! Buy fish for the future. Can't afford it? Can you afford not to? Sustainable fish info here and here and here  Captain Angry Ranty Pants)

Rant in a Tea Cup

Guest Post by Shane McCarthy

Prepare yourselves, I’m slipping on the Ranty Pants.  That’s right, it’s time for a hardcore rant dealing with something I’m extremely passionate about, something I hold dear and cherish above all else (yes, even more than Chicko Rolls).  What is it that could raise such ire? (pretend you can’t see the huge picture above and that you haven’t read the terrible pun fueled title, I’m building suspense)  What is it that would cause me to slip on the awesome power of the Ranty Pants?  Tea.  That’s right, I’m here to rant about tea and how 99% of cafes and restaurants with their snooty coffee blends and high tech coffee makers can kiss my ass when it comes to ordering it from them.

ALLOW ME TO SET THE SCENE

Imagine, if you will, walking into a trendy cafe (or even one of those posho, high-end ones).  You’re looking good, you’re feeling good and you’re at the start of a batch of freshly washed boxer shorts so everything is right with the world.  You take a seat and order a cup (or pot) of tea as you make casual chit chat with the waitress (all in an attempt to appear devilishly handsome and oh so witty…never works).  She strolls off and, before long, returns with the cup of tea, the one you handed over your hard earned cash for (not entirely sure mine is hard earned).  You smile, she smiles, then you see it…and you scream like a girl.

It’s a tea bag.

Now, I enjoy the cafe experience as much as the next man.  I love kicking back in a cafe and, even better, I love hiding in the back of one to do my writing (the sounds and craziness of a cafe are the perfect thing to thrust me into my own world and keep me there until my work is done).  When I’m there however I’m always faced with the most frustrating of dilemmas, I don’t drink coffee and because I don’t drink coffee I’m forced to drink pig swill, or what the cafe staff inconceivably believe to be tea.

TWINNINGS, YOU MIGHT SOUND POSH BUT YOU TASTE LIKE FEET

The worst response I’ve had when enquiring as to whether a cafe served tea bags or loose leaf tea was, “We serve tea bags but it’s Twinnings.”  Allow me to enlighten you.  Twinnings is shit.  It’s little bags of dried up shit sold as tea.  Oh yes, their blends certainly taste different but it’s all essentially shit.  Perhaps they spray said shit with different batches of “flavor” or perhaps it’s the accumulated shit of different animal species.  No, that’s not Earl Grey you’re drinking, it’s essence of Sloth.

Good rule of thumb, if it’s a tea that’s sold in the aisles of Coles?  It’s shit and certainly doesn’t belong behind the counters of high-end cafes around the world (I was actually served a cup of Liptons tea once…they’re even worse than Twinnings!).  99% of tea bags are the equivalent of instant coffee or worse.
 

SLIGHT ASIDE – TEA BAGS VS LOOSE LEAF, THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN

So tea bag bad, loose leaf good, right?  Not exactly no.  Whilst a tea bag is generally a sign of crappy, pig swill tea it’s not always the case.

Just because many “major” brands spend more money on the staple sealing the bag than the tea inside it, it doesn’t mean all tea bags are evil.  Tea bags are a sign of convenience and in rare cases (very rare cases) actually contain high end tea.  So when we reverse this, loose leaf is actually never a sign of superior tea.

Many cafes proudly state that they sell loose leaf when it’s actually Twinnings loose leaf or worse.  Guess what?  Loose leaf Twinnings is just as putrid as the tea bag counterpart.  Loose leaf tea will always give you a better cup of tea when the tea inside both is of the same quality.  Finding that ‘quality’ can be a real bitch though.

YOU’RE CHARGING THE SAME AS YOUR SUPERAMAZINGBESTEVER COFFEE SO DON’T SERVE ME CREEK WATER IN A CUP

So why am I irritated?  Is this just a case of tea snobbery?  Well first of all I’m a self confessed tea chauvinist and don’t pretend to be otherwise, however there’s a definite point to be made here that goes beyond that.

Why, when I go to a cafe to buy tea, am I forced to spend the same (or more) as someone buying a cup of good coffee when I’m served something of incredibly inferior quality?  Like I mentioned above, most tea bag tea is the equivalent of instant coffee, would you spend $3 – $5 for a cup of instant coffee?  Hell no.  So why are tea drinkers forced to do so?
 

A cafe spends an inordinate amount of money on high quality coffee machines and high quality coffee then they turn around and buy the cheapest, nastiest brands of tea.  They have their nose in the air about the quality of their coffee, coffee tech and the ability of their baristas and then they have the nerve to serve up tea bags!  That’s like serving a cup of coffee with a sock hanging out of it, and not a nice, clean, good looking sock, it’s a sock you’d steal off the foot of that weird guy in the mall that shouts to himself and swears at pigeons.

Cafes that do this, that charge ‘full price’ for substandard goods should hang their head in shame as they’re pelted repeatedly with mud, rotten fruit and flesh eating squirrels! (special effort would be made to train the squirrels from birth to eat human flesh for just such an occasion)

THINK YOU SELL DECENT TEA?  WELL LEARN HOW TO MAKE IT

Ok, so you’re a cafe that actually sells decent loose leaf tea? (see how I’m not even saying ‘good’?  I’m not even setting the bar that high.)  Then at least learn how to make it.

Most teas need to be brewed between 3 – 5 minutes.  If the tea is brought over to me, how long has it been brewing? Did you leave it on the bench?  Did you bring it straight out? If I do know how long it’s been brewing then provide me with a way of removing the tea leaves so the tea doesn’t become bitter when it’s sitting there.

THINKING I’M ASKING TOO MUCH?

First of all, I’m not because all I’m doing is asking for a standard of quality across the board.  I’d simply like cafes to provide the same quality of tea as they do coffee.  It’s really hardly effort at all.

Secondly I’ve (unbelievably) been to a cafe that not only sold good tea and not only removed the tea leaves for you but they even timed the tea with a tea timer to ensure the best cup possible.  Outstanding!

Tea drinkers of the world…stand up, shout, scream, holler, be heard!  Tell those halfwit cafes where they can stick their little bags of dried poo and demand something better!

In the meantime, for goodness sake, stock your cupboards with something decent (I’m partial to Elmstock Tea myself).

Originally posted here

Good wearing of the Ranty Pants. Can I now have them back washed and pressed? Captain Angry Ranty Pants

Leggings

Guest Post by Grumpy Girrrl

I have a thing or two to say on leggings. Well more specifically, leggings as trousers. Pants. Outerwear. I thought it was a passing fad, something that the fickle-fashioned-youth in their slender-bodied world would rapidly embrace and reject.

It was around 2 years ago I had that thought.  I fear that it is now more prevalent than ever before. Today I saw a fuller figured 30-something sporting a pair in downtown Sydney. And yesterday a junior colleague was in a floral pair. In the office. With nary a skirt types garment to shield my tortured eyeballs.

PEOPLE where are your STANDARDS?

So here’s the thing. Leggings don’t look good on anyone without the corresponding level of coverage. Not even the young and slender. But I do uphold their right to clothe themselves in a way that is challenging to my extreme-late-twenties sartorial sense. Isn’t that in the position description for those young folk?

But I draw the line when those who are old enough and large enough to know better, don the legging in this way. It’s lazy and sloppy and in no way flattering. That long cardy does not make it right, or stylish, or acceptable on any level.   I don’t care how comfortable you are, put your leggings under a skirt and remember that their primary purpose is in creating a trans-seasonal outfit. 

xoxo

Grumpy Girrrl

I agree. Especially the leggings which have pockets on them! What good are they? You can't put your wallet in them or your hands. What next? Printed belts? Then stencilled flies. Whats a prebuscent chap to do but be confused! Stupid! Captain Angry Ranty Pants