The Fat Kids Are In Charge Of The Candy Shop, Is That The New Black?

The fat kids are in charge of the candy shop, is that the new black? The Haves making decisions for the Havenots? When has that ever been good for social justice? When has putting the mean rich kids in charge ever been a good idea? I want to know who voted for these guys? Come on, lets see ya? We'll be able to have a Royal Commission into it, once we are all totally sick of the stuck up posh kids, and we have kicked them out of the cubby house.


Why is that idiot Tell The Truth Tony and his treasurer Angry Joe making it harder for the lower socio economic population? Surely, in an advanced country, the government should be making it easier for the poorest in our society  Otherwise, why do we even have governments? With a Federal government, who now pretty obviously got into power on the back of a whole raft of lies it told, we now need an Integrity Commission, Highest Court in the land, type structure, that can investigate truth in politics and those who lie to get into power.

Tony the political prostitutor of daughters and his bunch of elitist Christian right wing thugs are trying to destroy the very fabric of Australian society. Its equality. Its fairness. By their very actions. Deliberately? It is hard not to think so. Why? To thank the evil overlord Rupert the Wrinkled and the evil Queen Gina the Giant for supporting him, the Mad Abbott, or as Prince Paul liked to call him, the resident nutter, the intellectual nobody, in his ascension to the highest office in the land. A fool on his throne.

Rupert the Wrinkled owns 70% of the voice of the land so as to brainwash the natives to make them compliant.

It can only be to create a poor working class as a thank you to big business who have supported the election of the One Term Tony Liberal government? A pool of cheap labour that will be supplied to  those who live in gated communities as fodder to run their individual capitalist machinery.

There is no other explanation why you would target the poorest members of society for the most savage treatment. 

And democracy fails all of us.

We now, practically, have a dictatorship, with Rupert the Wrinkled, and the likes of, as the puppeteers calling the shots. 

Our economy is not in a debt crisis, in fact, it is relatively strong compared to just about every other economy in the world. Angry Joe even admitted as much in a recent interview in NZ.

His exact words, “There is no crisis in the Australian economy, nor is it in trouble.”

Our welfare system is not in crisis. We spend comparably little on welfare compared to other advanced economies.

Our health system is also not in crisis. It is one of the best and one of the cheapest in the world.

No, big business wants to cut its expenses to make more and more money and Tony the Idiot, who big business installed in The Lodge to ensure it get what it wants, is willing take down whoever it takes to give the proprietors of capitalism whatever they want.

A democracy is rule by... um... who exactly for... er... um...who?

Do we really want the rich to get richer and the poor get poorer, in a modern, clever society? The few times that I have been to America and it has been a few over the years, visiting their big clever cities, I have never been able to see far enough passed the homeless people on every street corner to see exactly what the American dream looked like. Nobody ever seems to want to talk about that? Do we really want that in Australia... also?

Falling Down Like a Sack of Shit

I don’t know why I haven’t written about my sore hip and what caused it? I guess, I felt a bit like a dope. Or, I was just writing about other things, political things rather than personal things and now I have come back to the personal…

I think I have been preoccupied with this evil Federal Government and how Tony Abbott and his bunch of elitist Christian right wing thugs are trying to destroy the very fabric of Australian society. Utter Morons! Deliberately? It is hard not to think so. Why?

However, here goes.

The builders started work on renovations to my old neighbour’s house early Monday morning a week ago. Buddy was barking at the noise of their arrival and their morning start up, up the back by the gate that leads through to each of our gardens. We have always wire fences between the four houses up until this point up until Gordon sold his house. Now, we’re not quite sure what we are going to do going into the future. That may all have to change.

We blocked off the steps dividing the bottom part of our back yard to the top part of our back yard so Buddy would stay out of sight. So he wouldn’t make a pest of himself, which is unlikely. And so he wouldn’t get stolen, which is more likely. We used the hard metal mesh that we usually block Buddy from going down the side of the house. We placed two green plastic chairs on either side of the mesh, which was between them, making it impossible for him to access the top part of the garden.

I headed to work at 8am. So much for working Tuesday to Thursday. I really so wanted to have today off when I saw all the workers at my old neighbour’s, just to look after Buddy, but, I think, the blocked stairs seemed like a good compromise...

... the barricaded stairs was a good compromise until I got home and I decided to step over the barricade rather than take it down. The builders were likely to be back the next day, so why take it down. I stepped up onto the wall of the stairs, I stepped over onto the wall of the raised garden and I stepped down onto the wrought iron chair to step down onto the ground, but the wrought iron chair broke as I stepped onto it and I went “splat” onto the paving like a bag of shit. Crash! Onto my right hip and right shoulder, almost ending up in the pond. Ouch! Fucken ouch!

I was shaken. It was sudden and unexpected.

I went upstairs to get changed out of my work clothes. I got very cold standing there and started to really shake uncontrollably. I came back downstairs and lay on the couch and waited for the shaking to stop.

Then I decided not to be such a pussy and I lit the fire. It was hard work. I think I was in a bit of shock.

Poor me, poor me.

I was okay though. I held an ice pack on it all night, right up until I went to bed. Sam patted my head.

I got up at 4am, over heating, it had been one of those very cold nights and Sam put the column heater on in our room for the first time but we still had the three doonas on our bed. I was nervous that I was going to be in pain. And I was. I had trouble walking after I stood up. My leg hurt, very much. I went downstairs, it was difficult, the stairs were very difficult. I took Nurofen. The pain seemed to subside after that, when I woke at 6am it felt a bit better.

It still hurt when I walked though. I was really seriously wondering if I was going to be able to work.

It was hard driving to work the next day. My sports style car seats seemed to press on my hip and made it ache as I drove to work.

I took Nurofen every four hours. I didn’t say anything to E who I was working with, I just tried to get on with it. But all day I stressed about it, every time I got up it hurt. I stressed that I had really done some damage to my hip. And if I had, what did that mean?

I didn’t say anything to anyone, as I felt a bit like a dick, even though I thought I was limping noticeably. I really hit that paving hard, what if I had damaged my hip, fractured a bone, or chipped something? These things happen. I really stressed about it, quietly, to myself. Nobody noticed.

I had been thinking about heading to St Vincent’s when I got home to get an x-ray, just to put my mind at ease. I contemplated going to see Doctor Johnny, but he would only send me to a pathology centre to have an x ray. That would mean driving to see him and then if the last time for my toe…

… I fractured my small toe about a month ago, did I write about that? I’m not sure that I did? I kicked the wheel of my wheelie bin in the dark. It really hurt, but I digress …

…was anything to go by, then driving to Carlton for an x-ray. All of that would take a few hours, so I might as well just go to emergency and have it all done there. That’s what hospitals are for, after all. Our world class hospital system that Tony Abbott is trying to destroy, again, I am not sure why?

David called just as I got home. He said that I should go to the doctor.

When Sam got home not long after, I asked him if he’d come to emergency with me and he said he would. We put on our jackets and left. The Gertrude Street Projection Festival was in full swing, so there was plenty of interesting things to look at as we made our way up Gertrude Street.

We got served at the triage counter straight away. They said we would be taken in soon. And we were taken in soon. We sat in the clinic with two other guys and a girl, who all seemed to have problems with their feet that needed x-ray.

A medical assistant saw us first. She took all the details and asked to look at my hip. It was kind of feeling better by bow, probably thanks to the Nurofen every four hours, and there was no bruise and seemingly little swelling. The medical assistant said she wasn’t going to order an x-ray straight away, but she would wait for the doctor to see what he thought.

I wondered if I was waisting everyone’s time.

Not too long after the blonde doctor turned up and he asked me questions and looked at my hip. He said that the area that I indicated was an important part of the hip and the part where everything joined up, so he did want to have it x-rayed.

Not too long after I was taken to the x-ray room where W and P said they were just reading about my mishap. I was wondering if they were laughing. I wouldn’t have cared if they were, it is good to see the funny side. I had to remove my jeans and put on a gown. The x-ray was over quickly.

Not so long after, blonde doctor told me everything was okay, all clear. Yay!

It had taken just over two hours and it seemed very easy.

We walked back down the cold and windy Gertrude Street, I was feeling much happier by then. There were lots of people in the street gazing at the projections on the buildings. I still limped, but it was a limp of optimism by then.

We ate fried rice for dinner. Buddy came in and licked me as though he was trying to make this fallen soldier feel better. The open fire crackled.

Now two weeks later, my hip is still a little sore, although much much better. I have a really impressive purple/black bruise though on my right thigh. I have taken photos of it, which I was going to post, but now I have thought better about posting photos of myself with my pants around my knees. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

The seat in question

Evil Matriarch

My old aunt, Olive, from all accounts and calculations is turning one hundred years old. I think it is next week, the 06th. I should be wishing her health and happiness and congratulations on achieving such a milestone, when in reality I hope the poisonous old bitch is in pain.

Does that make me a terrible person? Lol.

What a piece of work! I love that expression. What a piece of work! She truly is a testament to the old adage, that only the good die young.

According to the modern day meaning of respect, (you know, you are breathing) she should be afforded all the respect in the world. She is 100 years old, after all. A grand old age.

According to the traditional meaning of respect, (you know, you earned it) I say bury her now, why wait until she is dead.

My mother always said that her aunt had tragedies in her life and that we should make greater allowances for her. My wonderful father, who rarely, almost never, said a bad word about anyone, (I take after him. Big smile) responded quietly with, She didn't need tragedies in her life to turn her into a bitch.

I still remember the day that Shane came into our lounge room, not all that long ago, and said, "Christian, Auntie Olive is here," and he saw me visibly shake. It was his Auntie Olive and not mine.

So Auntie Olive, one hundred years old. May you drop dead today and not make it to the milestone.

Monday Off

Sam brought Buddy up to bed before he left for work in the morning. I fell back to sleep snuggly and warm. I woke up again at 10am. Buddy had his head resting on my thigh, sound asleep, snoring.

I sat up and leant against the wall. I could see the sun shining beyond the curtains. I could see that the sky was blue. I was so warm, so comfy. Buddy opened one eye and looked at me. I could have stayed there all day.

But... I soon decided that I had lay in bed long enough and that I should get up and, as Sam says to me, Do do do! It was time to eat, it was time to go to the dog park, surely. If I did nothing else...

My hip still hurts a bit, when I get up, mostly. Once I am walking, it is okay. I put my muesli in a bowl and headed to the shower. I had a big bowl of bananas to cut up and put on the top, once I was dressed.

I never told you about my accident, did I? I'm not sure why? Anyway...

I’d eaten my breakfast and I was putting on my shoes, when Buddy came running down the stairs from the bed. I didn’t even have to click his harness buckle at the bottom of the stairs to get him out of bed. I don’t know what he’d heard, but he’d worked it out. He wiggled, as usual, as I put his harness on him. He's smart. He can sense what I am doing. he doesn't miss much.

It was a lovely day at the dog park, sunny and warm. There were lots of dogs and lots of owners. Lily, the Basset’s, owner extolled the pleasure of seeing so many different types of dogs running around. She also had a wire-haired dog too, the name of which I also forget. It was Blair, or Bryce, or something like that, that kept the Basset on its toes.

It was a day for the owners to congregate in the middle of the park, as the dogs did all the exercise. Buddy and I didn't do our laps, like we usually do.

Olive, the black and white Frenchie, was adorable. She was getting way too excited jumping on Barney, the Jug (Jack Russell/Pug) she was harassing. Grrrrrrrrr!!! Her owner was too funny when he pulled her off, saying, You are getting just a little too Linda Blair on us Olive. Too cute, it was a great description.

I asked if I could take a photo, as my boyfriend wants to buy a fawn Frenchie and I quite like the black and white ones. He responded that his boyfriend wanted a fawn Frenchie but he got his way liking black and white ones better. Just a couple of poofs with their bulldogs. It didn't occur to me that he was gay up until that point.

Olive, the bulldog, made me think all about Olive the bitch auntie. I wrote about her later.

There was the Rough Basset, which I’d never heard of before. I’ve forgotten his name, it was something French.

The old girls turned up, as they want to do. Old Girl #1’s mental Jack Russell, yapped and bit at her obese Jack Russell as it is want to do.

I did photos all afternoon. OMG will my photos ever finish? It was sunny and bright and quite lovely, one of those sparkling days. The day slipped away, too quickly, I felt. Back to my pissy little job tomorrow, how disappointing, I thought. I should have done greater things, I could have, it is just a shame, really. Will I ever? I have to get passed the sense of disappointment, and it’s-all-too-late, first.

I spoke to Mark. He was sitting on his balcony in the sunshine up north. He talked about the big deck renovation he is going to do. He’s had a builder over to give him a quote. He thinks it will cost 40K. It is more than a deck. There is also a room under the deck and under the house, like a self contained guest's room. But it is the deck that will be the feature, out the front at the top of the steeply sloping garden.

I stupidly ate lasagne followed by apple cake in front of Mark on Skype. He, of course, had to comment. He didn’t believe me when I told him how much I weighed. 80 kilos when I am smoking. 85 kilos when I am not. It fluctuates between the two. He clearly thinks I weigh more. I'm not sure what he thinks I way?

“Are you happy with that weight?”

“No, I am not.”

Mark can't help himself, the job his mother did on him about gaining weight.

Sam rang several times during the afternoon telling me to take the mince meat out of the freezer, then to put it back, then to take it out again. He'd been out shopping for dinner and was clearly not able to make up his mind. It was funny and made me laugh. He laughed too, even if he said I could just keep quiet unless I wanted to organise the dinner menu.

We ate mince topped rice noodles for dinner, with chilli. It was nice.

Sam went to bed at nana time, 20.40.

I went to bed an hour later.

Sam got up and had a piss when I went to bed, walking like a Doctor Seuss charter to the bathroom and back again. It makes me laugh. He said my name, which was probably a rebuke for coming to bed so late. I said his name, but he didn’t want to talk. I can see his sideways looks, even standing at the toilet with his dick out in the dark.

In bed...

Sweet dreams, pumpkin.

Grunt.

Kisses and hugs.

Grunt.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

Grunt, grunt.

Anthony Came Over

We were a bit late getting moving, considering Anthony was coming over, sitting in the lounge room until lunch time. In fact, it could be said that it was only Sam being hungry that got us showered and out the door. Still, I can’t say it wasn’t planned, at least in part, I find it easier if I have something to do while I chat with friends. It is easier than sitting and chatting solidly from mid afternoon, just me and them. I can’t buy a bottle of wine to lubricate the goings on, as Anthony is a recovering alcoholic.

It was quite a nice day. Sam and I ate lunch in Masak Masak, in fact we sat outside on the tables on the footpath, but that was mostly because the bbq grill inside was smoking and making the restaurant smell bad. Although, it was lovely sitting outside, I have to say. A gorgeous Frenchie wandered by who seemed to want to sniff everything as he went, just like a bulldog, just like Buddy.

We went to the supermarket to shop for lasagne and cake ingredients. Anthony had called a few days ago and said that he wanted either a banana cake with cream cheese icing, or an apple cake. He said he also wanted something satay.

Something satay, indeed. She never did recover from the illusion that she was a South African Princess.

I made apple cake. I figure you can never go wrong with an apple cake, they are always tasty and that apple and cake combination is so sublime.

When Anthony arrived he rang the door bell three times, three long rings. Really? We’ve talked about this before, it stirs the bulldog up, you know.

“No, I’ve got to ring the bell three times,” was Anthony's reply.

Maybe it has something to do with his, how shall I put it, various mental disturbances?

The apple cake went in the oven not long after he arrived – it should have been ready for his arrival, oh well – and we got on and made lasagne.

The apple cake was very runny as it went into the oven. Anthony declared it a disaster when it still wobbled noticeably an hour later when it should have been cooked.

“That’s going to be pudding,” he declared. “You better have bought plenty of cream.”

“Ye of so little faith,” I replied. “My oven always cooks slow. It always takes 10 minutes more and then possibly ten minutes after that before a cake is cooked.”

“It will be a miracle if that cake ever cooks,” declared Anthony.

Oh, I could have slapped him. Talk about your glass half full.

The ten minutes after that cooked the cake, which was a triumph. The apple slices and the apple crumble had sunk into the middle of the cake. It looked a little “warby” when it came out of the oven, sinking noticeably, but by the time I had plated it and sprinkled icing sugar over the top it looked great, like a fabulous homemade cake you’d see in any Fitzroy coffee shop cakery.

The lasagne was also good, even if I do say so myself. Sam took over the construction of it, after I’d made the various elements, so it was a team effort. It was paired with a rocket salad. Everything tasted great.

Late in the afternoon, when we were still cooking the lasagne, Anthony declared that he was cold and that he needed a fire straight away.

“Just wait until I put the lasagne in the oven,” I said. "And I will light a fire."

“No, I am cold now,” he said. “I need a fire now.”

“Okay,” I said. “The axe is out the back. Chop some kindling and away you go.”

He bristled at the suggestion - still more of the South African princess - but he headed outside to do it, none the less.

He had the fire burning not long after. I don’t know how many fire lighters he used. He seemed unconvinced when I told him I used only one. The next night I noticed that he seemed to have used half a box of fire lighters. Not that I care, or maybe I do consider I am writing this, but in what universe is that sustainable? Really? I am always fascinated by the things people do.

He insisted on having the screen in front of the fire. I bent over the screen later to throw some wood on and my stomach got in the way. Anthony laughed and said his stomach got in the way too. We both laughed nervously.

We watched Teev with our lasagne and later our apple cake on our laps.

Anthony smoked continuously. “Outside?”

“Yes, outside me luv,” I replied. “You only get to smoke inside when Mark is here, as he won’t listen.”

Sam went to bed at nana time. Anthony and watched a doco on Gore Vidal, which was fascinating, until Anthony left at 12.30am. 

We drank tea and ate more apple cake. Anthony insisted on more cream, each time. He denies himself nothing.

Games Games Games, Every Where Games

Didn't we just have the Commonwealth Games in Russia? In Stella, or Sochi or Shitty, or somewhere?

Didn't some games just happen in Brazil? And aren't some other games going to happen in Brazil again next month, or soon, or something?

Are we now having games every few months, or something? Have sporting events gone mad! What gives?

Have athletes suddenly got good lobbyists who have won them the right to bore us to death on a continual basis?

Is this something we do to please the evil overlord Rupert Murdoch?

Is this a plot by Tony Abbot to take the spot light off him, actually, being a cunt?

Does this have something to do with Ian Thorpe telling us he is a fudge packer?

Oh... really... not the Australian spirit? Aussie Aussie Aussie, blah blah blah, is that better? I, actually, don't care who wins or who loses? No, I don't. Whatever country? Yawn. 

Can you tell?

(Aren’t they held for Rupert Murdoch to make millions from TV rights, anyway?)

I thought I was being un-Australain (you know, that expression that the barely not racist nationalist types like to use) maybe a bit GOM, or so my friend Perry labeled me when I told him, but there was a vote on ninemsn which asked, Are you interested in the Commonwealth Games and something like 60% of those who responded said no. I was, actually, surprised, I thought it would have gone the other way, you what a bunch of sporting yobs Australia is (you know you get your nuts rubbed with nugget if you can't kick a football by six months of age) but it made me feel better about how I was feeling. Ha ha. Better about myself, big smile.

Sam said that I didn't have to watch it, which is true, clever Sam, but it is hard to avoid sport overload altogether when all of the news/variety shows/online whatevers bang on about it relentlessly. 

Still, I'm not complaining, Sam is right, after all. Just turn it off and stop whinging. "The only ears you are making bleed are mine."

But, apparently, some athlete we sent to... now where is it? No, don't tell me, I know this, Barcelona, won gold, yippee!

Queue the national anthem. And pass the tissues. And excuse me while I...

I love driving home in this sun light.

Omg! I Nearly Made A Complete Fool Of Myself

I nearly drove into the gates at work, yesterday morning. Jasus! I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Ha ha. Daydreaming? Would I say that I was daydreaming? What choice do I have, but to admit that I was daydreaming? It is what I do best, after all. 

Could you imagine, the new guy crashing through the front gates? Make an impression, they say. Get noticed, they say. Oh fuck!

I was zipping down the main road outside work. Although the roads weren’t especially busy, there were cars right behind me. There are two sets of gates, as there are two driveways next to each other, as there are two properties, with cyclone wire fences, evidence of our previous, glorious manufacturing past, before conservative Liberal Govts sold everything and allowed everything else to be moved offshore. In the morning, both sets of gates have always been open and in the open position they are barely recognisable as two sets of gates at all.


I usually go through the second set of gates to the car park. I think I was singing Angie, with Mick as we approached the driveway. It wasn’t until I had my left hand front wheel, literally, on the driveway – all that cyclone wire just tends to merge into one image – that I realised the second set of gates was, in fact, closed. I’d never seen them closed before. I hit the brakes and came to a sudden stop, I can tell you. (Insert skid sound) The cars behind me all stopped. They didn’t really have to, as I released the brake peddle enough and moved far enough forward to be on the driveway and off the road completely. But there was a P-plate driver directly behind me who panicked, I guess at how sudden it all was, who stopped and remained stationary, as if to draw greater attention to my stupidity, like some little snitch. 

“Move alone, move along, there is nothing to see here.” 

I managed to back across the double driveway to the open set of gates and skulked out of sight, as the line of traffic behind the P-plater got steadily longer. It wasn’t until I had done that that the P-plater moved off cautiously, eyeballing me with his fear and ineptitude as he went. I almost expected him to bring his finger’s to his eyes and then point them at me. 

I wanted to call out, “Shoo! Shoo! Off you go! Get some driving experience and then you can judge me,” but I didn’t, of course.

What's With the Mass Outpouring?

I don't really understand this mass grief phenomenon where we dump a city’s worth of florist shops of flowers on a certain spot, or pack a church carrying a Bunnings worth of candles, or cry hysterically in public singing kumbaya wearing daisy chains standing in spiritual circles for something that essentially has nothing to do with us.

People packed St Paul’s Cathedral for, I guess, the relatives, of MH17? Why? I don't get it? Was it fear? Fear of what? 

Are people bored with their lives and they need the misery of people, they don’t even know, to make their own lives more interesting, more meaningful? Shrug? Why else do people get overcome with the plight of complete strangers? 

I’m sure it has something to do with our slavish addiction to the twenty four hour news cycle. I’m betting it will be a “syndrome” in years to come. I like to call it the world psycho drama.

I just don't understand why? Would you go to the funeral service, the memorial service of somebody you didn't know?


I mean, it is nice. I’d have to say so, if I was asked. It’s better than the opposite, don’t get me wrong. Is it just that there is more of us now? It seems more intense?
Shane said to me (from London) it is fear? Fear of what though? Also dying in a plane crash? Being the victim of war? It seems like an unfounded fear?

Maybe they packed St Paul's for humanity? But with the state of the world, that seems like a very selective criteria. If it were really for humanity, surely they would spend their whole lives in St Paul's. 

Were they giving thanks that something bad happened to somebody else and it didn't happened to them? That hardly seems very generous, or selfless.


Do you think we feel this mass grief for disasters because we are so mean and selfish and self focused in our day to day lives? We treat each other badly in this dog eat dog world. We are mean to people on the roads, we are mean to people at work, we are mean to people on social media - we’re all just one comment away from being a troll, apparently. We think nothing of disadvantaging someone else if it advantages us. 

We are mean to the poor (try harder), the unemployed (get a job), the displaced (don't come here and take our jobs). We are taught by governments to distrust refugees (get in line, or we'll send you back to where you came from) to be fearful of strangers. 

Do you think a big disaster gives us a communal sense of relief, that we can throw off the guilt of our everyday meanness and feel good about ourselves for feeling empathy for other people?


Do big disasters make us feel better about ourselves?