African Mango Diet part 1

So I’m going on that diet (?) where you scoff down two tablets a day and you’re supposed to lose about 20kg in the first month.

I only want to lose about that much, so I thought “what the hey” and I’m going to try it.

There are all these special offers floating about the place and everyone is raving about it and I haven’t seen any bad reviews.

I’ll be honest. I’m skeptical, but it’s only cost me $5.90 to do this so I don’t feel that I’ve been ripped off by too much, and people who know me know that I am beyond brutally honest when it comes to things like this, so if it doesn’t work, African Mango people had better beware.

Tablets come on the 25th of this month, so stay tuned!

War of the Whoreses

I used to live next door to a 58 year old still working prostitute.

Before anyone gets all het up about the fact that I’ve mentioned her profession, let me state that I couldn’t give a flying fuck what a person does for a crust, but this woman thought she was better than everyone else, and that annoyed me.

Our war started pretty much on the day that I moved in next door to her. See, my ex and I were renting and she was an OWNER, and OWNERS are better than RENTERS because they OWWWWWWWWWWWN. It didn’t matter that she laid on her back for a living and her husband was a 2 slabs a night every night alcoholic, while both the ex and I worked full time and had two little kids. We were crap because we were renting and that shitted me off.

Anywho, there was one of those washing lines out the back, under the patio where you had to pull a bar across the length of the patio, and all these horizontal line things would instantly appear and you could hang your clothes on them.

There were no lines.

Bonnie had taken it upon herself to CUT THE LINES because the previous tenants used to hang their stuff out when she was having PARTIES and she didn’t want her friends to see the neighbour’s washing. Because that’s what I do when I visit a friend, I hang over their side fences and check out what the neighbours are doing. This pissed me off. We had to get that shit replaced and I was beyond pissy with her. So next time I knew she was having a party (ex and she got along great guns so I was privvy to information), I went down to KMart, bought the biggest, ugliest looking knickers I could find, smeared the crutch of them with vegemite and tomato sauce and hung them on the line.

War of the Whoreses had started.

The other (more sane and friendly) neighbour and I found her ad in the newspaper and we’d disguise our voices (or, when others came over – there were always willing participants to lend their voice) and set up an appointment with her. We’d then rush to the lounge room window and watch as she tottered to her car and drove off to the appointment – we even had her “work address”, an apartment she had bought especially for her job, seeing as it would have been crass to bring work home to her hubby. The nice neighbour and I would be sitting on lawn chairs sipping cups of tea when she came back from the no show and we’d wave as she drove past.

She started telling my ex bullshit stories about me, and ex (there’s a reason why he’s an ex… he’s kind of stupid) would come back to our place asking me stupid questions.

Her daughter had a party that ended up as a riot, with roof tiles being flung off the house and fights – okay… that was actually kind of fun so skip this one.

She sun baked nude. Spied for my ex after we were separated and HE had a girlfriend – I had friends (1 guy and 2 girls) wonder why the fuck my ex was knocking on the door at 3 in the morning demanding to know who was in there. She hung naked blow up dolls on her fence when she had her parties. She flashed her girly bits at me and scarred me for life. She introduced me to her “nail lady” who later became my “nail lady” because she came to our houses and one day I was talking to her about some photos that I had done and she decided SHE wanted her photos done, asked me to take the pics and I ended up taking photos with my eyes half shut, whimpering, as she shucked her underwear and started brandishing a dildo, also scarring me for life.

We put superglue in the lock of her apartment door. Rearranged her garden gnomes into sexual positions and put them near the road verge. Burned a bad word into her pristine front lawn with oil. Embarrassed her in front of her employees when she went legit and ran a restaurant.

Ahhh… I miss those fun times.

Trolls

Trolls – people who poke around other people’s stuff online, because they’re too chicken shit to actually contact that person in real life, and prefer to live their lives vicariously through their trolldom.

Oh… you were expecting more to this post?

Sorry!

Family

I really love my family.

I’m not really a family type person. I know I’m abrasive and I know that there are some who put up with me because I’m family and because we’re all like that (and I’m okay with that), but I wanted to thank each and every one of them for giving me an awesome childhood.

I was talking to Geof about mum and dad.

See, I come from a super clean cut family. There aren’t that many smokers. And it’s not like a whole bunch of them got healthy and quit, most (and I’m only saying most because I can’t be 100% sure… maybe 97%) of them have never smoked, or have maybe tried it a couple of times and didn’t like it. So yeah… not many smokers and virtually no marijuana smokers and I do both, and I love the fact that I can talk to my parents about drugs and have a normal conversation with them.

A couple of months ago, I was talking about how I don’t get a stick often and that started mum asking me what that was, how much it was and how much you got. So I took a photo of it on my digital camera and showed mum the next time I visited her. I LOVE that I can do that. My parents love me so much that there’s nothing that they don’t accept about me and I’m way way WAY closer to the “imperfect” end of the perfection-meter. Some days, I’m barely even normal.

Back to my family and I’m going to name names.

Firstly, I’d like to thank my Nana and Fafa for giving the best morning teas in the whole world, and for the awesome get togethers that they hosted, be it for Anzac day or some other function.

I was telling Geof about the trestle table in the games room that used to be nana’s patio that was always covered with a white tablecloth with an urn sitting on the table and all the crockery and glasses that were needed would be stored underneath it, and how after the Anzac parade, everyone would go back to 25 Stuart Street for drinks and lunch.

You’d walk across fafa’s pristine lawns (you could always tell which lawn was his when you were driving down the street towards their house because it was the lushest and the greenest in the whole street) and you’d walk into this beautiful house with figurines in cabinets and a big peacock rug hung on the wall above the mantelpiece and then enter the kitchen where there were up to 20 women all buzzing about doing all this preparation and there was never any drama and it all went off like clockwork (kitchen ballet?) where all these women were the masters.

Nan would be in there and aunty Pat and mum and aunty Dawn placing sausage rolls and pigs on horseback (yum) on serving platters, or scooping massive spoonfuls of spaghetti bolognaise into dishes. Add to that aunty Sandy and aunty Mary making sandwiches and those toothpick thingies that had cheese, ham and a cocktail onion skewered on them and they’d all be efficiently putting the finishing touches on whatever had been brought over (mum always made chocolate éclairs and Dee and I would hover over her to see if we could lick the chocolate bowl after mum was done) and aunty Marilyn would totter in on her ridiculously high heels (and I STILL don’t know how she did that. Calves of steel!) helping out with cups of tea and coffee, and it was our job (the kids) to pass around nibblies and eat some to everyone while they relaxed either inside the house or out in the back garden that was huuuuuuuuuuuge.

Fafa had a massive aviary and he had all sorts of beautiful birds in there. Not poofy little canaries, but galahs (even a tame one named Jack who would walk around the backyard) and parakeets and I’m pretty sure he had some bird of prey down in one of the back aviaries, and he had a massive workshop because he liked to make things from copper, and there was a little orchard of lemon trees, and a pond, and a wood shed and stacks and stacks and stacks of wood that fafa used to chop up when it was delivered in the back alley behind his fence.

You know… I could go on and on about my grandparents. Lemon trees make me think of making lemonade in summer, and the walks we’d go on with nana where she taught us counting games so you didn’t notice how far you had to walk, and the word games she’d play with us where you had to find as many words as you can out of “hippopotamus”. The scrabble games; the time I sang a song about a hibiscus flower where you strip off the petals as you sing the song and you’re actually singing about stripping off a woman (hey… no judging. I was super young and had no idea what I was saying) and nana made me sing it to fafa. And I did.

I can even look back on the time I faked being sick so I’d get some sympathy, (and nana gave me a tablespoon full of castor oil and an orange instead) with fondness, rather than throwing up a little bit in my mouth like I used to.

Fafa died 17 years ago; one year before I conceived Caris, and I was sad that he wasn’t there to see her. Nana died October this year.

I wasn’t a visit-y type person (something else my parents accept) but I miss those two.

So much of my childhood is filled with memories of them, that it’s hard to pick favourites.

Even now, I think of chips and gravy at Boans in Perth and the way nana would rub the hair on little African children, because she loved the way their hair felt. Being paid to pick up all the flowers from the frangipani and jacaranda trees in the front yard. Putting my feet in the copper that nan used to wash her laundry, after helping her hang out dazzling white sheets (being a peg handler was serious business). I even remember nan finally caving in and accepting the presence of a washing machine into her house – and this was in the 80’s! R.I.P. copper…

The spare bedroom in their house that had dolls everywhere. The utter awe you felt when you snuck into fafa’s den.

I loved them then, and I love them now.

I remember going to visit my cousins often. Going to aunty Dawn and uncle Max’s house was awesome during summer because they had a pool. I remember a Hawaiian Luau at their house where we all dressed up and the women came in sarongs or grass skirts (and one of the men, by the end of the night, I think) and the loud Hawaiian shirts and it wasn’t just a few people, it was dozens. My nan’s siblings would be there with their kids and the cousins and well… you get the idea. Loads of kids running around, loads of adults running around.

Another thing… the whole damn family were happy drunks. Every single one of them – not that anyone got shitfaced or anything, but everyone was merry and I don’t recall any brawls or bullshit. It was always a damn good time with people playing instruments while others sang, and there was always dancing. Lots and lots of dancing.

We always had a good time.

Roz was the child closest to my age in aunty Dawn’s kids. I remember her obsession with the band Sherbet, and Leif Garret. One time, we convinced my sister, Dee, that if you rubbed powder on your toys, they’d come alive at night time. Dee was devastated when it didn’t happen.

We all used to go to Cadets together, which was held at the church just up the road from aunty Dawn’s house. We’d go every Friday night while mum and aunty Dawn did their sister thing, and dad got a night to himself, if he was home, what with being a shift worker.

I had my first “cook your own meat” barbecue at uncle Michael and aunty Sandy’s house (they also had a pool woohoo) and I felt pretty damn pleased with myself that I didn’t manage to give myself food poisoning.

I remember going to see Angela when she was first born, and seeing as she was born premature, she was so tiny and she didn’t even have bum cheeks.

When Isabella, my own grandchild was born, my first thought was of my first look at Ang and my heart clenched. I didn’t understand back then just how much of a miracle she was, but I do now.

Uncle John and aunty Marilyn had a baby grand piano in their house which my cousin Julie could play like a dream (bitch). I was so jealous of how talented she was. Love you Julie!!!!

Doug is a damn good piano player, too. He wrote musicals for the drama kids at the high school he taught at, and he’s a bitch, too. Kidding!!!

I think I almost drowned for the first time in uncle John’s pool… by the way, thanks, dad, for rescuing me. GOOD TIMES!!!

Speaking of my parents, did I mention that they’re truly, truly wonderful?

I wasn’t the easiest child to get along with. I can admit that. I know that I reduced my mother to tears numerous times with my escapades, but I know she loves me. Being a mum myself, I can appreciate the frustration and the seemingly utter futility that comes with being the mother of a strong-willed child and I applaud the way she handled me during those years. I remember one time, during my teenage years, telling her that I loved her because she was my mother, but I didn’t like her. I must have broken her heart so many times and yet she still loves me (and I love and like like like her). The amount of forgiveness that woman has astounds me, and while I know I’ll never be like her, I’d like to come a little close. I can only hope that when my children progress in their lives, that they love me as much as I love my mum. I hope that they can come to me with the trust that I have for mum because I know that every time I fall, my parents are there to pick me up, dust me off and help me.

My sister… oh gee.

God I love her. I was a horrible, horrible older sister to Dee. I used to tease her and taunt her, but she always loved me, too.

We had a lot of good times, though. I can remember the singing we’d do in the backyard, and the games we played in our rooms. We’d build tents and pretend we were working in a library and loan each other our books (nerds!!!) and I can even remember the time she freaked right the frig out when I met some random guy in Timezone and I talked her into lying to mum about how I already knew the guy and we were all going to see a movie.

I remember getting into a fight with a girl purely because she dared to touch my sister.

The time I got stuck in the middle of doing an apple turnover on the monkey bars in the park across the road from our house, and Dee running to get mum to rescue me. The time I split my pants while I was on the monkey bars and Dee had to run across the road to get mum because no WAY was I walking home with a split in my pants on my own.

The amount of times I’d be up to something and she bloody well told on me.

The time in primary school when a cyclone went through Perth (just a little one) and I was so skinny that when I sat on the ground, the air was lifting me up a bit, and poor Dee was clinging to a pole crying out for me not to leave her.

Dee is fucking awesome. She’s my go to girl, and one of my guilty pleasures at work is going into Gmail so that Dee and I can open up a little message box so we can spend the time we have between work (she has clients and I have things to do, too) chattering to each other and filling each other in on gossip, how our children are all going, and about nothing at all. When I get to work, Gmail is the very first thing to go up – before work software, outlook, and all the other stuff I’m supposed to have on my monitor.

If I’m sad, I talk to Dee. If I have news, I talk to Dee. When I’m happy, I talk to Dee. When I’m bored, I talk to Dee.

You get the picture…

I have family on my dad’s side of the family, but I’m convinced he’s the only normal one out of all of them. The rest… gah… maybe I’m a throwback to them.

I don’t call people, I don’t email them. Hell… I rarely see anyone now. The last time, before nan’s funeral, wassssssssss… maybe fafa’s funeral? (I mean, I still saw people, but just not all together; just some at a time), but I was in a rambly talky mood and I wanted to let the cyberverse know that I appreciate and love each and every one of them.

Now piss off.

Future Employees Beware!!!

I haven’t been in here for a while. Things have either been so boring that there’s been nothing to blog about, or I’ve been so damn busy that I haven’t had time.

Add to that a computer that’s been having heart murmurs to the point where I can’t even get on and, well, you see my problem.

Anywho… Today I want to whine about the jerks who have upset and confused my hubby.

Geof has been looking for work and he had his resume on Seek.com because that’s where all the cool kids go now when they want to find employment. While looking for work, Geof is contacted by Times Publishing in Rockingham and they tell him that they found his resume on Seek and would he be interested in coming in for an interview. If this was the case, he was to go online and apply for the position (which he did) and they would contact him in regard to an interview.

Geof goes for the interview in the morning and by mid afternoon that day, he’s told he has the job and could he start on Tuesday.

Tuesday rocks around and Geof goes to his new place of employment. He’s shown a cute little Organisation Chart that has his name on it, gets the company history and is told that there will be other positions being filled blah blah blah. He brings his contract home and he gets me to look over it, seeing as Geof has a habit of signing things and not looking (which is how I got him to marry me hee hee).

I’m reading over this dodgy as hell contract that included a wonderful paragraph about how he’s currently on three months probation and, during that probation, he doesn’t get to accrue any sick leave entitlements – nor does he get paid for any public holidays that happen to fall on a work day during those three months. Now… this is odd. I thought it was incredibly unfair that a person had to work for three months and not even accrue any sick leave. If you work a 75 hour week, you should accrue 1.44 hours per week toward your sick leave entitlements, and after 3 months that comes to 17 hours – almost three days!!!

I said to Geof “this is dodgy as. What’s the staff turnover like there?” and he told me that there was a girl there that started about 7 weeks ago, but everyone else had been there a while.

I read further and there was a paragraph about annual leave and how, at Christmas time, the company shut down and staff were expected to use their annual leave for this time and if they didn’t have annual leave, it would be classed as Leave Without Pay.

Once again, I turned to Geof and I said “you might want to check about annual leave and if you accrue your hours during your probation. Otherwise, you won’t get paid during the Christmas break”.

I’d also like to point out that I also said “watch your back, hon. I don’t like how this operates”. I’ve worked at a LOT of places and NEVER has there been a “you don’t get your entitlements accrued until after probation” because that’s unfair on the employee. No one is saying he’s gonna take sick days, but if he’s working there then he’s entitled to accrue the leave otherwise he’s working 15 months to get what everyone else gets in 12 months.

Wednesday morning, Geof gets ready for work and he goes in there and prior to signing the contract, he enquires about the annual leave. He’s told that no one has ever asked that question before, but yes, he gets annual leave accrued during his probation. He signed the contract.

By 4pm that afternoon, he’s fired, because he’s “not grasping things as quickly as they would like”. After two days. With shitty training that was nothing like he was told it would be AND on the Tuesday, he was told that it would take a couple of weeks to get in the swing of things.

Yeah… we’re pissed off.

Note: New updates on this ongoing saga are down in comments. Geof now has pay issues – in that they’ve currently not paid him.

Educational Realty Show

I’ve spent the day watching trashy reality TV shows.  Normally I don’t like them, but today I’ve watched Runway, Dating in the Dark, Pineapple Dance Studio, America’s Next Top Model and I’m now watching Don’t Tell The Bride.

Truth be told, I love America’s Next Top Model.  I’ve always loved it because there’s a purpose at the end of it.  Girls who normally wouldn’t make it as models get a fighting chance, because there are some ridiculously good looking girls out there and most of us are of the opinion that we’re rather ordinary.  While people can extol the virtues of another person’s physical appearance, most women can quickly shoot back something that they’re not happy with as soon as they receive a compliment.  You all know what I mean.

I digress…

There are some really helpful reality type shows out there, the most successful one is undeniably The Biggest Loser because not only does the show encourage all the contestants to lose the weight through diet and exercise, they then do makeovers to allow a person to really see the new person that everyone else is going to see.  Our thoughts on how a person thinks about us really makes a difference and before all you super duper confident people say “I don’t care what other people think of me” are full of shit.  There is at least ONE person in everyone’s life where you care what their opinion is of you – be it physical, mental or whatever.  The mental part also comes in the form of the makeover, but contestants are made to face their fears and fight the inner demons that got them fat in the first place.

Apart from this, The Biggest Loser also shows the viewing public just how doable losing that weight is.  I’ll put my hand up and say “yup… I’m fat”.  I make excuses for how my body looks – I’ve had three kids, I’m over 40, my husband thinks I’m perfect just the way I am – insert your own excuse here, but the show blows away all the excuses and shames you into doing something about it.  I’m still not shamed enough, but good on the creators of this reality show for doing something USEFUL.

Which leads me the point of this piece of wisdom-filled debosophiness.

If we can have shows for people who want to be fashion designers, and if we can have shows to help out models and dancers and chefs and people who want romance, why the hell hasn’t anyone come up with a reality show that helps children and their education?

Look at the shows they have for kids to aspire to – Punk’d, Pimp My Ride, My Super Sweet 16th…  I mean come on, is this REALLY the excellent examples that we want our children to be emulating?

Don’t get me wrong – I’m all for free expression and there being crappy reality shows on television.  I used to hate them, but I see their purpose because not every show should be some brain busting intellectual burst of insight (it’s why we have Springer and Jersey Shores), but to have NONE aimed specifically at kids is really sad.

What’s wrong with a show where underachieving brats in average schools are picked by a lottery to go into a studio school.  They would live at this school until “expulsion” and they would be taught their normal school lessons, with a weekly challenge thrown in for good measure.  Living with carers – they would all be together, pitching in with chores, helping each other with homework and interacting with each other.  Encouraging kids to work together towards a common goal and learning all about teamwork.  Teach them what it feels like to be relied upon and to rely on others, but in a positive way rather than the gangs and cliques we currently have. Get some tutors in to lend a hand and help out those that are faltering in a specific subject and give them a chance to learn something that would normally be overlooked in an average classroom.

At the end of each week there would be a test – lowest scorer got to go back to their normal classroom and the others get to do something fun on the weekend which would include something involving physical activity to promote fitness and discipline.  A movie? Trip to the zoo?  Paintball? The possibilities are endless.  The ultimate scholar could be guaranteed a scholarship into a reputable college where they have the ability to really make something of themselves when it’s time to apply for colleges, but only on the proviso that they still applied themselves after the end of the show season.  Lawyers can grapple with that.  It’s no good if you apply yourself for three months and then go back to being a little shit once the show was over – knowing you’d be going to college anyway.  It’s not a free ride, after all.

It doesn’t have to be stodgy and boring.  I’ve yet to come across a group of children who are all super optimistic, chirpy, well adjusted human beings, so there is bound to be dramas and all kinds of fun shit happening during the course of three months and a show like this would show children what’s needed to get a good education, how to go about it and witness the end result, where a kid is plucked from obscurity and is given a reward for doing what every kid should be doing anyway, and that’s getting an education.  Producers could then have a few shows on the kids that have received the scholarships and they could be filler bits in later seasons of the show and seriously, whoever thought a show about a bunch of fatties losing weight would be so popular? Am I right?

What’s wrong with promoting nerdiness and shaming kids into getting good grades and being responsible for their future instead of ditching school, shirking homework and not applying themselves?  What’s wrong with showing lessons on television in a way that may assist kids who are watching the show?  Not every teacher teaches the same way. Right? And while I’ve not been shamed into losing my weight, there are many people out there who have and they’re reaping the benefits, so if even a handful of children are shamed into applying themselves to their studies, isn’t this good?

Yes… I know there are you out there that have the children who do well in school, but that’s not the case everywhere.  Yes… Kids need to be kids and not worry so much about the future, but there’s nothing wrong with laying firm foundations for that future because while it’s absolutely lovely that so many out there think that kids should be allowed to be kids and not worry about the future, the sad truth of it is the future IS there and if you think that raising a 20 year old illiterate lazy waste of space is still going to be cute and fluffy, then you shouldn’t have been allowed to breed in the first place because you’re stupid.

We spend a good chunk of our parenting years telling our kids to stop watching so much television, so lets put something on the television that will give them the same message that we tell them all the time, because every kid knows that their parents lie and don’t know anything and that stuff on TV is real.

There’s nothing wrong with making education cool, and with all our governments singing their catchcry of “no child left behind”, I’m really surprised that a show like this hasn’t been attempted yet.

I Love A Sunburnt Country

rac·ism   [rey-siz-uhm]

–noun

a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.

Many, many people have an odd view of racism (the strangest being “whites against everyone else”), but there’s the definition right there, but I have been called a racist because of what has come of my country. Racial tension is at an all time high in Australia and it’s constantly on the news and while I would never pick out an individual person and beat the crap out of them because of what my country is becoming, I can’t say with 100% honesty that don’t I understand why there are people who do, because I’m getting mad.

I love different food and learning how to cook it, learning about different cultures and hearing a person’s life story, but that doesn’t mean that I want things to change in my country and it doesn’t mean that a person can come into my country and tell me how it’s now going to be run.

For example: There is a Muslim couple who live in Australia, and they’ve decided that we need a Taj Mahal type structure here. Firstly, I look forward to seeing such a magnificient structure here in Australia. Short of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, there’s really not a lot of architectural prettiness here and chances are that come its completion, I’ll be one of the dorks rushing out there to take photos, but I know of people working on the structure that are forbidden to eat meat pies for lunch while they’re doing the job. It doesn’t matter that the structure is made on Australian soil – home of the meat pie, meat pies are forbidden.

In Australia, you’re were never forbidden from eating anything. If you want a tomato sauce and banana sandwich with pine nuts tossed in for fun, then you can eat it. If your previous country is so oppressed that you find something like a meat pie to be grotesque, then you’ve got no business being here and forcing your beliefs on a person on their home soil. It’s not like they’re forcing YOU to eat it, so what’s the fucking problem? Would you like it if someone came into your country and starting telling you that the way you did things was abhorrent to them? Would you wonder what they were doing in your country? Of course you would – so why are you doing it? Isn’t enforcing your dietary beliefs on another person a form of racism in itself? Why is your way of eating more superior to others, and why is it that you think it’s okay to FORBID someone else to eat it? You’re messing with OUR lifestyle and you’re ruling others.

Another example: I used to work for the Registrar General’s Office – the government department responsible for the recording of all births, deaths and marriages in the country. Our laws stated that when a child was born, that child took the surname of the father, the mother if no father was stated or a hyphenation of both names. It’s really kind of simple and makes all kinds of sense, but imagine my surprise when a muslim couple came in and abused me because their child’s surname was wrong because the child’s surname was the same as the father’s. Apparently, in their country, the child would be considered the father’s brother and not the father’s son because their surnames were the same. Apparently the “bin” means “son of” and the child’s surname should have been the same as the father’s given name. Firstly, you’re not in your country, you’re in my country and we have laws just like your country does. Has anyone gone to a Muslim country and demanded that their child’s surname be changed about because of the customs in Australia? And if they did, would they get what they asked for? I think the answer to that question would be a big “no”. But guess what? Australia rolled over and gave them what they want. Isn’t this a way of saying that your culture and laws are more superior and if this is the case, what are you doing here again?

Other examples:

No Christmas decorations up or nativity scenes in what was basically a Christian country in the event that it offends someone. Being frowned upon for saying “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Holidays”. It’s not happy holidays, it’s Christmas, and while people warily say “happy holidays” and roll over like pussies, one can’t help but wonder what would happen if this was tried in someone else’s country and what the outcome would be.

Welfare benefits paid immediately to people coming into our country if they have children. I was of the understanding that before you could immigrate to this country, that you needed to have a place of employment before you could move here, but after working for the welfare system here, I couldn’t begin to tell you how many people went there fresh off a boat or aeroplane and walked straight into a Centrelink office and demanded payments for their kids. Samoan families who, on average, had four kids or more were further given another bonus because they were a large family. That’s Australian taxpayers paying for kids from another country on an already over-stretched welfare system and I can say with absolute truth that Australian families don’t get that perk unless they breed like crazy, and if we were doing that, none of us would have time to work and pay our taxes and then who would be supporting these other people?

Speaking your language in an English country. I’m sorry, but it IS an English speaking country. I would never go to China, France, Japan or even Pakistan without learning some of your language. I don’t think I should have to be multi-lingual because you didn’t bother to learn anything basic – like, “please give me money for my 10 children. Here are their passports”.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for giving people a fair go, but I don’t support having to change my lifestyle and have my freedoms taken away in order to save the feelings of people that chose to come here. I don’t walk into someone’s house and tell them how they should be running it so I don’t know why we are allowing others to come into our home and do just that. I am appalled that our government has shown such utter lack of backbone when it comes to this issue. If we’re supposed to be a cosmopolitan country, why are we forgoing the things that make us Australian? If someone else’s country was so fantastic that they want to change Australia into the same type of country, why did they leave this beloved country in the first place?

Why?

I love your kebabs and your Turkish bread and I love learning the history behind Hannukah – I will even participate in any ceremonies that come with your culture if I happen to be in your home. It’s not that I’m just tolerant, it’s because I am truly interested and I like learning new things. This doesn’t mean that I suddenly want to resemble a muslim person and I’m not going to forego Christmas because that’s not what I’m about. If I can be tolerant of what is, essentially, strangers coming into my home; they can, in turn, be tolerant of my lifestyle. I didn’t ask anyone to come here, even though you are welcome, so why am I changing stuff about to accommodate you?

113 boats have, so far, made it to Western Australian shores. That’s thousands and thousands of illegal immigrants running from an “oppressed” country that want to come here and live on our dime, pleading poverty and hardship, yet had the money in the first place to make the trip.

Should I be mad? Or am I being a racist for supporting sending them home?

If loving the way my country used to be and becoming distressed at the direction things are going is considered being a racist, then maybe I am one after all.

I’ll be sure to tell all my friends – which brings up another point…

Yes, I have friends of different races, yet there are some who say that pulling out that card can still make a white person a racist.

Here’s a news flash, I’m never going to be anything but white and it’s time people from other races got over this fact.  You’re not special because your ancestors were oppressed or used.  You’re not special because of the colour of your skin any more than I’m special.  In fact, when it’s pointed out that I’m white and have no understanding of how it is to be oppressed, you come off looking uneducated and stupid.

I’ll tell my friends that, too.

Shut Up, Whiners

Every year, on 26 January, Aussies celebrate Australia Day.

Back when I was a kid, Australia Day meant that you piled into the car with your parents and siblings and you all made your way down to the foreshore and you spent all day there.

Mum would break up a chook around about 6pm and because you’d spent the day running around and swimming in the river (because it was safe to do that back when I was a kid) you and your sibling/s would fall on the chicken like a wild pack of wolves (minus the growling), fill up on sugary drinks, run around some more, and then finally settle down to watch some awesome fireworks set to music from Australian artists that lasted for about 5 minutes and only came in two colours and one style.

When it came to leaving, everyone was polite and let everyone merge into neat and orderly lines and you were usually home within an hour – not that bad, considering we lived 10 minutes away from Perth.

It’s not like I thought, back then, that one day I’d do the same thing with my kids, but when I did have them, come Australia Day, I was taking the trek with Talia so that she could have the fun that I used to have as a kid.

So the river wasn’t as clean, but she would always quickly make friends and spend the day running around like a blue-arsed fly till she would fall down in my lap to watch the fireworks.

Even without the swimming, it was still idyllic and still enjoyable.  It didn’t matter that it took me an hour and a half to make the same journey home – even though I lived the same distance from Perth as my parents did, and Talia enjoyed it.  Besides, she was getting 15 minutes of fireworks and not only were there more colours, but there were heaps of different styles – stuff on the ground that looked like water fountains and there was the massive chrysanthemum firework at the end

15 years later, going to the foreshore to watch the fireworks is a fucking nightmare.  Sure you get 30 minutes of neat shit that boggles the mind and laser stuff and fireworks shooting off the Narrows Bridge and from Kings Park, but the people!!!!

First, the river is a freaken cesspool.  I can’t believe I used to go crabbing and prawning in that river, because now you couldn’t pay me to put a foot in it.  Then there’s the drunken brawls and the rioting, because Aussies en masse can’t handle their piss anymore.  Added to that, because those drunken fucks are irresponsible and drink drive, the average time for getting home is fucking HOURS because the police are out in force and breathalizing everyone to see whose drunk and who isn’t.

Thanks to 2004 (link, link, link), in 2005 I decided to go to the beach and watch the fireworks from there.  I then did this in 2006 and that was the year of fucking AWESOME fireworks that clashed for supremacy with a lightening storm and the girls and I sat on the shore with waves breaking over our submerged parts and it was… orgasmic (I was at this beach, but where I was sitting, the fireworks were just slightly to the left of the lightening storm just behind it.  I’ve never ooooh’d and ahhhh’d so much in my life).

Police thought they’d give the Aussies a go, and in 2008 they allowed a “quiet drink” for the mum and dad crowd, but banned alcohol for under 18’s (and rightly so) and had the authority to confiscate alcohol from trouble makers.

This is the result…

Who wants to take their kids to that?

Enter all the whiny bastards who seem to have an inability to have a good time without hitting the turps.  If I see one more person say “well… it’s UnAustralian because we can’t drink” I will punch a kitten.

It’s not surprising that dumb cunts like Howard Sattler can’t help but put his worthless two cents in.  Apparently old and loud-mouthed equates to speaking up on behalf of Australians, no matter how misguided you are.

Howard Sattler:
“Mild mannered, decent folk will join drunken yobbos as police targets. A sip of chardonnay at a family picnic will attract confiscation, prosecution and fines of up to several hundred dollars, even if there is no evidence of misbehaviour.”

Well boo-fucking-hoo.

I’m a firm believer that you reap what you sow, and until people in large crowds can act responsibly when alcohol is involved, then I’m all for this ban, and while Perthites click yes or no on polls (notice 60% disagree with the alcohol ban), and cry into their beers that won’t be present on Australia Day on the foreshore or any of the other locations – that’s providing people actually leave their piss at home, lets remember that Perth is the LAST State to bring this in, even though street drinking has always been illegal.

Toughen up, princesses.  If you can’t enjoy a night out without getting shit-faced, then stay home.

Thanks.

Butt the Fuck Out, America

People from Australia, Bermuda, Bangladesh, Canada, Ireland, Scotland, Kenya, India, Sri Lanka, South Africa, Pakistan, Netherlands, West Indies, England, New Zealand, and Zimbabwe know all about the friendly competitiveness that all these countries enjoy when it comes to cricket.

Enter America – who knows pretty much fuck all about the sport and did anyone else notice how they’re NOT players of the sport – wading in wearing their big daddy boots ready to smack us on the ass for a racist commercial.

Here’s the commercial:

KFC Ad – Being Stuck In An Awkward Situation

Now… I don’t know what it’s like in the good ole US of A, but here it’s quite common to get a shitty seat that usually has you sitting in with the opposing team’s fans. It happens in cricket and it even happens in football where all us good white folk are just white folk and our “colours” are those of the footy team we support. Had that commercial been a bunch of Bombers fans surrounding a West Coast Eagle fan, nothing would have been said.

Here’s another ad from the same series of commercials:

Thank God the Victim Wasn\'t Black

And, once again, I state Thank GOD the victim wasn’t black. No one said anything because it was a white man, I’m sure. No complaints came from this ad.

Oddly, no one from the West Indies complained about the first ad. Just like Australia, they found the ad funny and didn’t look for the racial overtones that America prides itself on.

See that? AMERICA thought the ad was racist, but the countries involved in the commercial didn’t.

Obama – you’re a fucking president of a country that isn’t ours. Go back to your fashion bullshit and keep your nose out of things that don’t pertain to you.

KFC – you’re pussies for pulling the ad because of another country’s stupidity.

Seriously.

Fatal Attraction – Sour Grapes

People who don’t take account for their own actions have always pissed me off, but this woman takes the cake.

I ask the question:  If a single man takes up a relationship with a married woman, who is more to blame?  The single man with no marital ties who’s looking to get his end wet?  Or the already married woman who has a couple of kids?

As a married mother of three, I say the woman.  Granted, the man is somewhat to blame, but really, who does he have to answer to on an intimate level?  And what the hell was she thinking?  Apparently, he asked her to his office because “he wanted to kiss her“.  WHY DID SHE GO?!?!?!

Enter common whore slash barmaid, Michelle Chantelois, who was paid $100,000 for an interview with Sunday Night to spill the beans on a three year affair with the South Australian Premier, Mike Rann, that started in 2002.  She’s happy to talk about sex in his office, sex in his car and sex in a park and then has the audacity to ask for an apology because her husband found out and the marriage is now in tatters.  Headlines of “Mike Rann Taught Me How To Lie” are splashed all over the place when she perpetrated the ultimate lie by sleeping with a man who wasn’t her husband.

Hello?  Shouldn’t she have thought of that BEFORE she opened her legs to another man?

She wants an apology from Rann for the affair and she wants it said to her kids and her ex-husband.  She thinks that Rann should be sacked from Parliament.  All because she didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t say “no”.

Personally, I don’t think Rann has done anything wrong.  He slept with a married woman.  He told her it was casual.  He told her it wasn’t about love and yet, she still went to him.  This  not only makes her an immoral slut, it also makes her a stupid one.

Allegations that he made her watch the movie Unfaithful where clandestine lovers meet in a public place and then have intercourse in the bathroom so that they could recreate the scene are ludicrous when she is asked “and was this scene recreated?” she says “I think so, on his part”.

An exerpt:

“Like how often would you have sex with your husband and he actually asked me to watch this particular movie which was called Unfaithful.

“In the scene, the leading lady goes to the cafe with her girlfriends and she meets the guy that she’s having an affair with and they go to the restroom and it’s a very hot steamy sex scene.

“He actually asked me to watch that . . . because that was one of his fantasies, I guess.

Did you rent the movie? “Yes, I did.”

Did you watch the scene? “Yes, I did.”

Did you act out the fantasy? “I believe he did”.

He did? “Yes. He would pin me against the wall.”

What.  You weren’t there?  You weren’t a willing participant?  GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK!

Mike Rann was married in 2006 – one year after these affairs took place.  Hardly a family man or even a married man at the time she states so as far as I’m concerned, his nose is clean.

In October of this year, 4 years after the fact, Rann was bashed by Chantelois’ husband who found out about the affair when he sprung her texting Rann on her phone.  Rann changed his phone number because she went Glenn Close on him.

In my opinion, she and her deranged husband should be apologising to him.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!!!!!