Someone has to do something about the current state of Australian politics, but who can say what the answer is? Me. I can. So here’s my solution: replace all the politicians in each party with the cast of Sesame Street. It wouldn’t be that different really, most of the people who get into politics are Muppets.
Prime Minister: Elmo
Who could possibly stay mad at this guy?
‘Prime Minister Elmo is raising taxes.’
What a bastard.
‘But Prime Minister Elmo still loves you.’
Good point. Let’s tickle him!
Minister for Small Business: Maria
She’s kept the Fix-It shop going for years, thanks to a suspicious amount of broken toasters on Sesame Street. Clearly this woman is prepared to take matters into her own hands.
Minister for Finance: The Count
Let’s face it, he’s not going to mess up the numbers.
Minister for Health: Cookie Monster
Screw it, have a cookie. And some cake. And a deep fried Mars Bar. Then you too, can be as happy as this googley eyed, blue ball of fun.
Minister for the Arts: Prairie Dawn
The girl has wicked piano skills and plenty of experience directing plays full of incompetent fools. The position would have gone to Cookie Monster had it not been for the tragic cancellation of Monsterpiece Theatre.
Minister for Education: Big Bird
He thinks he knows everything. Making him prove it will hopefully wipe that smug look off his face.
Minister for Human Services: Gordon
Because he is a human. (I don’t know if he services)
Minister for Transport: Snuffleupagus
We can ride him.
Minister for Defence: Super Grover
Yes, he falls out of the sky occasionally, but he’s a freakin superhero.
Minister for Immigration: Oscar
No paperwork? Scram.
Minister for the Environment: Kermit the Frog
He was only on the show occasionally, but if anyone knows it’s not easy being green, it’s this guy.
If you would like to know more about why Bert & Ernie are not to be trusted with such matters, please refer to this post.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
My (super, awesome, and not mundane at all) Life
Saturday & Sunday:
Sleep. Food. Shopping. Find a box set of Robbie the Reindeer in a bargain bin and watch all 3 in a row while swooning over the sound of Ardal O'Hanlon's sweet, sweet voice. More food. More sleep. God bless you, weekend.
Monday:
Get up at 4:30 to start work in the coffee shop at 6:00. Less than 10 minutes into my shift, I accidentally punch myself in the face while trying to remove the cover from a display fridge.
Sit through a four hour editing class where we learn about something to do with editing. Yawn a lot from a combination of sleep deprivation and lack of enthusiasm for editing.
A mysterious absence of peak hour traffic means I make it home in 40 minutes less time than the Monday before. I count this as a win.
I forget it is bin night and, for the third week in a row, have to put the bins out while wearing my PJs.
Check for a bruise from the morning punch. No sign yet. I count this as another win.
Tuesday:
Still no bruise. Morning class means I get to sleep in until 7:00. I realise how pathetic it is that I’m stoked about this.
It’s freaking freezing.
Go to my novel class and listen to people discuss books I haven’t read. This makes me hungry.
Quick trip to the supermarket for bread and milk results in the purchase of chips, biscuits, and several Kit Kats. I then try to unlock the wrong car in the car park. I learn not to park next to cars that look like mine.
Night ends with ice cream and a quality episode of QI.
Wednesday:
The alarm goes off while I’m having a dream about Whoopi Goldberg and Julia Gillard auditioning for American Idol. They are wearing those white ABBA jumpsuits. After a disastrous audition, Whoopi pleads for a chance to perform solo. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see how it ended. I’m sure she did awesome.
Computer skills class finishes two and a half hours early after we learn how to insert a text box into a word document. This is still more interesting than the class where we learned how to copy and paste text. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo.
Get home and sit down to work on an assignment. I make a new playlist on my iPod instead.
I reach the conclusion that living alone is not for me when I consider how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a meal with a knife and fork.
Thursday:
Attempt to work on that assignment again. I write two lines then decide I deserve a three hour break.
Off to school for a night class, where the conversation revolves around Tony Abbott, buying transvestites on the internet, and elephants stealing your credit card to pay for hookers. There is also a brief mention of a monkey in bondage. This is the Australian education system at its best.
Sitting outside during break, I regret the decision not to wear a belt today. Icy wind meets my bum. A lot.
Today:
Another early morning shift at work, where I watch a coworker do an impression of the genie from Aladdin doing an impression of Jack Nicholson. This is some of the weirdest shit I’ve seen in a long time. A discussion of Disney films ensues, and I put forward my feelings that Cinderella didn’t make the most of those dress making mice. But let’s face it, she wasn’t very opportunistic. How many years did she spend cleaning for those skanks? Exactly.
I spend far too long in a discount bookshop because they have acquired some kind of magical Queen compilation CD, and I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to exit a building when Bohemian Rhapsody is playing. Or Fat Bottomed Girls. Or Don’t Stop Me Now.
Nothing else happens today. I consider smearing poo on the walls just so I’ll have something to write about, but everyone knows girls don’t poo.
Sleep. Food. Shopping. Find a box set of Robbie the Reindeer in a bargain bin and watch all 3 in a row while swooning over the sound of Ardal O'Hanlon's sweet, sweet voice. More food. More sleep. God bless you, weekend.
Monday:
Get up at 4:30 to start work in the coffee shop at 6:00. Less than 10 minutes into my shift, I accidentally punch myself in the face while trying to remove the cover from a display fridge.
Sit through a four hour editing class where we learn about something to do with editing. Yawn a lot from a combination of sleep deprivation and lack of enthusiasm for editing.
A mysterious absence of peak hour traffic means I make it home in 40 minutes less time than the Monday before. I count this as a win.
I forget it is bin night and, for the third week in a row, have to put the bins out while wearing my PJs.
Check for a bruise from the morning punch. No sign yet. I count this as another win.
Tuesday:
Still no bruise. Morning class means I get to sleep in until 7:00. I realise how pathetic it is that I’m stoked about this.
It’s freaking freezing.
Go to my novel class and listen to people discuss books I haven’t read. This makes me hungry.
Quick trip to the supermarket for bread and milk results in the purchase of chips, biscuits, and several Kit Kats. I then try to unlock the wrong car in the car park. I learn not to park next to cars that look like mine.
Night ends with ice cream and a quality episode of QI.
Wednesday:
The alarm goes off while I’m having a dream about Whoopi Goldberg and Julia Gillard auditioning for American Idol. They are wearing those white ABBA jumpsuits. After a disastrous audition, Whoopi pleads for a chance to perform solo. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see how it ended. I’m sure she did awesome.
Computer skills class finishes two and a half hours early after we learn how to insert a text box into a word document. This is still more interesting than the class where we learned how to copy and paste text. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo. Now I can copy and paste like a mofo.
Get home and sit down to work on an assignment. I make a new playlist on my iPod instead.
I reach the conclusion that living alone is not for me when I consider how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a meal with a knife and fork.
Thursday:
Attempt to work on that assignment again. I write two lines then decide I deserve a three hour break.
Off to school for a night class, where the conversation revolves around Tony Abbott, buying transvestites on the internet, and elephants stealing your credit card to pay for hookers. There is also a brief mention of a monkey in bondage. This is the Australian education system at its best.
Sitting outside during break, I regret the decision not to wear a belt today. Icy wind meets my bum. A lot.
Today:
Another early morning shift at work, where I watch a coworker do an impression of the genie from Aladdin doing an impression of Jack Nicholson. This is some of the weirdest shit I’ve seen in a long time. A discussion of Disney films ensues, and I put forward my feelings that Cinderella didn’t make the most of those dress making mice. But let’s face it, she wasn’t very opportunistic. How many years did she spend cleaning for those skanks? Exactly.
I spend far too long in a discount bookshop because they have acquired some kind of magical Queen compilation CD, and I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to exit a building when Bohemian Rhapsody is playing. Or Fat Bottomed Girls. Or Don’t Stop Me Now.
Nothing else happens today. I consider smearing poo on the walls just so I’ll have something to write about, but everyone knows girls don’t poo.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Tatts Life
I love tattoos. Not all of them, obviously. If you’ve got a Playboy bunny on your lower back you should be taken outside and shot. Or if you’re that guy I saw at the train station last year who had giant sperm tattooed swimming across the back of his neck, you need some kind of mental evaluation. How drunk do you have to be to think that’s a good idea?
Drunk man: ‘Hello.’
Tattoo artist: ‘Hello.’
DM: ‘Neck sperm please.’
TA: ‘No worries mate. Do you want them to scale?’
DM: ‘No, I think giant would be a more visually effective size.’
TA: ‘And you want them right under your chin there?’
DM: ‘Nah, you’d better put them on the back of my neck. I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of freak.’
I’ve never taken the painful-inky-plunge myself, mostly due to needle phobia and commitment issues (forever is a sOOper long time). I’m an art lover, but I’d prefer to have something that I can take down, put in the back of the cupboard and never have to look at again if I ever get sick of it. I’d love to be in the room the day that Captain Sperm Neck has to explain the sperm neck to the grandkids.
I reckon when I’m old I’ll go for it, when there are no consequences to my actions because death is just around the corner. I’ll shave my eyebrows off and replace them with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, freak people out at Bingo by getting numbered balls all the way up my arms, or get a Salvador Dali moustache tattooed on my upper lip (though by that age, like most old ladies, I’ll probably have the ability to grow one). Anyhoo, here’s this:
WHAT YOUR TATTOO SAYS ABOUT YOU
LOVE and HATE on your knuckles = ‘I’m gonna regret this.’
Chinese symbols = ‘I’m a wanker.’ (Rule doesn’t apply to the Chinese)
Zodiac symbols = ‘I’m gullable.’
Skull = ‘I like rainbows and unicorns and I’m very insecure about it.’
Anchor = ‘I’m a pirate. Arr!’
Compass = ‘I’m lost. Please assist me.’
Snake = ‘I'm desperate for you to think I’m edgy.’
Yin Yang = ‘I’m not very creative so like, I went with this coz like, I’ve seen it in heaps of places and like, it means something deep. Right?’
Gun = ‘Ima mug you now! LOL!’
Drunk man: ‘Hello.’
Tattoo artist: ‘Hello.’
DM: ‘Neck sperm please.’
TA: ‘No worries mate. Do you want them to scale?’
DM: ‘No, I think giant would be a more visually effective size.’
TA: ‘And you want them right under your chin there?’
DM: ‘Nah, you’d better put them on the back of my neck. I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of freak.’
I’ve never taken the painful-inky-plunge myself, mostly due to needle phobia and commitment issues (forever is a sOOper long time). I’m an art lover, but I’d prefer to have something that I can take down, put in the back of the cupboard and never have to look at again if I ever get sick of it. I’d love to be in the room the day that Captain Sperm Neck has to explain the sperm neck to the grandkids.
I reckon when I’m old I’ll go for it, when there are no consequences to my actions because death is just around the corner. I’ll shave my eyebrows off and replace them with The Very Hungry Caterpillar, freak people out at Bingo by getting numbered balls all the way up my arms, or get a Salvador Dali moustache tattooed on my upper lip (though by that age, like most old ladies, I’ll probably have the ability to grow one). Anyhoo, here’s this:
WHAT YOUR TATTOO SAYS ABOUT YOU
LOVE and HATE on your knuckles = ‘I’m gonna regret this.’
Chinese symbols = ‘I’m a wanker.’ (Rule doesn’t apply to the Chinese)
Zodiac symbols = ‘I’m gullable.’
Skull = ‘I like rainbows and unicorns and I’m very insecure about it.’
Anchor = ‘I’m a pirate. Arr!’
Compass = ‘I’m lost. Please assist me.’
Snake = ‘I'm desperate for you to think I’m edgy.’
Yin Yang = ‘I’m not very creative so like, I went with this coz like, I’ve seen it in heaps of places and like, it means something deep. Right?’
Gun = ‘Ima mug you now! LOL!’
Friday, August 6, 2010
WRITER'S BLOCK of chocolate
I’ve been struggling to think of something to write this week. I kept putting it off, but this afternoon, it was time to take action. Just this year I discovered a genius method for getting work done. It’s a tactic I like to call ‘drinking a whole lot of water and not letting yourself pee until you’ve finished working.’ Unpleasant, but it gets results.
Half an hour later, still without an idea for the blog and now experiencing a certain level of discomfort, I decided to distract myself with chocolate, for I am a lady and the media tells me this is what we do. As I dipped that Twix into my coffee, inspiration finally struck. So I present to you, ladies and gentleman, my explanation of why the Twix is the mightiest of the chocolate bars.
The Twix is truly a king amongst men. It’s got chocolate. It’s got biscuit. It’s got caramel. What more could you ask for? This is a rhetorical question, but if you chose to answer it, you are a fool. More so, if you answered it by saying ‘coconut,’ you should immediately begin drafting a letter of apology to anyone who has ever tasted a Bounty. It is the shame of the chocolate bar world and should immediatley stop ruining boxes of Celebrations chocolates. It ain't no celebration when they're all that's left.
My second preference to the Twix is our friend the Snickers. I quite enjoy a Snickers. If chocolate bars were people, Snickers would be my boyfriend. Why? Because it’s sweet, a little nutty, and according to the wrapper it ‘really satisfies.’ (Please insert your own ‘snicker doodle’ joke here. I’m not lazy, I’m just making the blog interactive, yeah? Everyone’s getting involved, yeah? You bought that excuse, yeah? Stop distracting me, I have to pee.)
If neither of those options is available to me, I will purchase Maltesers. They’re not a chocolate bar, but they’re magically delicious, and quite painful when thrown directly into your best mate’s face at close range. Priceless.
Thank you for taking this journey with me. I’m going to pee now.
Half an hour later, still without an idea for the blog and now experiencing a certain level of discomfort, I decided to distract myself with chocolate, for I am a lady and the media tells me this is what we do. As I dipped that Twix into my coffee, inspiration finally struck. So I present to you, ladies and gentleman, my explanation of why the Twix is the mightiest of the chocolate bars.
The Twix is truly a king amongst men. It’s got chocolate. It’s got biscuit. It’s got caramel. What more could you ask for? This is a rhetorical question, but if you chose to answer it, you are a fool. More so, if you answered it by saying ‘coconut,’ you should immediately begin drafting a letter of apology to anyone who has ever tasted a Bounty. It is the shame of the chocolate bar world and should immediatley stop ruining boxes of Celebrations chocolates. It ain't no celebration when they're all that's left.
My second preference to the Twix is our friend the Snickers. I quite enjoy a Snickers. If chocolate bars were people, Snickers would be my boyfriend. Why? Because it’s sweet, a little nutty, and according to the wrapper it ‘really satisfies.’ (Please insert your own ‘snicker doodle’ joke here. I’m not lazy, I’m just making the blog interactive, yeah? Everyone’s getting involved, yeah? You bought that excuse, yeah? Stop distracting me, I have to pee.)
If neither of those options is available to me, I will purchase Maltesers. They’re not a chocolate bar, but they’re magically delicious, and quite painful when thrown directly into your best mate’s face at close range. Priceless.
Thank you for taking this journey with me. I’m going to pee now.
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