God...

Someone recently alerted me to the fact that there is a website, which shares a very similar address to this one, but for one letter. That address is:

http://gelatigecko.blogpot.com/

That's right, blogPOT, no 's'. DON'T CLICK ON THAT LINK YET. You should be warned, it contains some downright scary content. Apart from the name of the link (which is not explained on the wepage at all) which would indicate someone else either

a) Has been cyber stalking me in Jed Parryesque fashion - as the shoutbox would also support, and now has set up an alarmist conversion website

or

b) thinks that alliterated combos of animals and cold confections constitute appropriate internet psuedonyms.

I'll leave you to find the more disturbing option. But what is perhaps most disturbing is the content of that website. After having a brief and unsettling look at it, I decided it contained some things that really put me off religion:

• Big capital red letters for headings such as "The Soon Coming ClimaxProof The Bible Is True WE ARE NOW IN THE LATTER DAYS OF THE END TIMES
  HOW TO BE SAVED"
• Testimonies from non believers about why and how they converted
• Irrelevant lists of how the world is going to shit - sure, why not, let's assume it is. But the biggest concerns they have are pressing global issues such as self esteem: "C. People would become lovers of themselves-2 Tim 3:1,2. Remember the TV commercials—"I do it for me"? "

Ok...so you think it's not that scary, it's really funny. Well here's what's just around the corner if we don't smarten our act:

We are not setting a date; however, we are now living in that generation in which this will happen. Hate, murder, thefts, rape, and every imaginable form of evil will abound. During this horrible period of God’s wrath, Russia, Iran, and other nations will come against Israel. The USA becomes involved. One-fourth of the world’s population will die. Many of the dead will be from the USA, as well as Russia. (Sorry everyone, but that's only as specific as God could be...)

One-third of trees are burned up. All green grass is burned up. One-third of the sea will become blood. One-third of the creatures in the sea will die (presumably those living in the blood part of the sea). One-third of the ships are destroyed. One-third of the waters become wormwood (or poisoned, or radioactive). Massive famines, increased earthquakes, and more diseases will happen as birth pangs of a woman. Those left alive will have opportunities to receive Jesus through the preaching of 144,000 male, virgin Jews; however, death by decapitation lies ahead for most that put their trust in Jesus (naturally), unless they renounce their faith. There will also be many false Christs and false prophets. A one-world, false religion that God calls MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH (quite a lengthy title to go on this new religion's manifesto...) will increase. This religion has existed for hundreds of years and exists today. The nations of the world have become intoxicated with her false teachings. The temple in Jerusalem will be rebuilt (who said it was ALL bad news. Jerusalem temple Working Bee next Friday).

You might be a little shaken after visiting this website...so if you just add my blog to your favourites you can sidestep the whole issue. I'm going back to school now, so blog posts will dry up for a while.

Thank You Herald Sun

The headline that the Herald Sun (a newspaper that cops a lot of flack, and sometimes you may take pity on it, before you see something which unequivocally affirms that it is a nauseatingly patriotic, ridiculous and pathetic piece of caustic toilet paper) ran on Thursday, January 22nd:

IT’S OK TO HIT YOUR WIFE – “Muslim cleric’s web rant on women”

What followed was a story on Samir Abu Hamza, who gave a sermon in which he was quoted in the Sun as saying “In this country if the husband wants to sleep with his wife and she does not want to and she hasn’t got a sickness or whatever, there is nothing wrong with her and she just doesn’t feel like it, and he ends up sleeping with her by force...it is known to be as rape...Amazing, how can a person rape his wife?” What follows is other misogynistic tripe about wife beating being ok, so long as bruises aren’t inflicted, and so on.

And seeing this story on the front really pissed me off. For one thing, the sermon reported took place in 2003, and only more recently was posted on the web, which was when it was brought to the Sun’s attention. So to start off, the news is already 5 years old, coming from a time when Sheikh Hilali was still seen by many as representative of the Muslim community (yes, him, “uncovered meat” guy). So already, events from five years ago are hitting the front pages as a leading story. Just for some perspective, The Age chose to run Jelena Dokic’s tennis victory and an increase in national job losses as its leading stories (both of which occurred within the last week).
And after having established that a) this was from 5 years ago and b) his views are not that of the wider Muslim community, the question that logically follows is “why would any newspaper or news source be giving such serious consideration to the opinions of a dickhead like that?” (or words to that effect). A question which cannot be logically answered, of course, until we remember the conservative audience the Herald Sun panders to. This sensationalist tabloid cares nothing for the damage it wreaks to the Muslim community’s already damaged reputation by printing stories, which, really, aren’t stories at all, or with headlines which include the whole Muslim community in the sentiments expressed by one radical. One can only assume that someone working there would consider their time very much wasted if they had failed to spark another racial riot on Australia Day...
And sure enough, inside on the Opinion page, the vote of the day, posed one of the most one-sided, John Howardesque, vomit inducing polls I have ever seen:

“Are Samir Abu Hamza’s comments out of touch with Australian values?”

Once I wiped the instantaneous spatter of that day’s breakfast from the page, I was able to throw the paper into the biohazard waste box kept by the side of my bed for such emergencies. Of course, I don’t need to go into my deep seated loathing of the phrase “Australian values”, or the fact that wife beating is in fact common enough in Australia even WITHOUT Muslims, believe it or not.

And of course, the next day yielded more headlines, with The Herald Sun running the following:

“You’re all drunks – Muslim cleric blasts Aussies on gambling, boozing”

...I’ll leave you to do the language analysis there, and they ran the same story, except this time he was saying Australia has drinking and gambling problems (not even vaguely controversial). Clearly, it is obvious to everyone that this guy is an idiot. Clearly, he shouldn’t be taken seriously. Yet bafflingly, the Herald Sun has taken him seriously, giving rise to a wave of anti-Islam diatribe throughout their opinion section, including gems from their website such as :

Mate, i've just read a story over at the BBC thats got me in tears. About a 13 year old girl who was raped in Somalia by a few of your lot. But then acused of adultery. She was buried up to her neck and stoned to death in front of 1000 people. WTF are you people on? Yeah we have a few faults but nothing like that. You don't treat people like that, you just don't. Don't tell me your way of life is better or purer or more without sin than mine.
Posted by: Trevor G. 7:39pm today Comment 344 of 346

Or this...

if i was P.M you wouldnt even be able to step foot in the country so be happy that you are here and shut the f up.
Posted by: ryan 5:57pm today

Or maybe even...

Personally you stupid little man, i have never been to a prostitute. No male has ever touched me violently, because quite honestly i would bring my knee up so hard and contact with your obviously inadequate private parts that you would speak in a high pitch for a very long time. I am an ozzie born and bred. I have a drink when i feel like it and i sit in the fabulous Australian sun, live in a house in Melbourne that i purchased with money from the job i work. Not quite as submissive as your women hey. So come on big guy try putting a burkah on me and see what happens. P#@$ off back to where you came. You dont appreciate what this country and its wonderful people have to offer. (Wonderful people indeed...)
Posted by: 6th generation ozzie of FTG 1:34pm today Comment 309 of 346

And the ever charming and articulate..

Hey, we may be drunk, gamble and have fun with the pro's but hey, at least we dont stink like falafels! remember people, curry is not a deodorant!
Posted by: johnny be good of drunkville 1:33pm today Comment 307 of 346

Of course, this is clearly showing a pattern in the way in which this news article has been interpreted by some of the dear old readers of the Herald Sun, bless their racist and grammatically incorrect souls. And so, I think we can very safely say that the reporting of this sort of so called “issue” does far more harm than good – an idiot and his comments who should have been left alone, have been brought out in an, at best biased and generalized article, and stirred the pot of racial tension.

Thank you Herald Sun. May you asphyxiate on patriotism and national pride come Australia Day.

So Apparently You All Hate Me...

So there it is. I gave you all the freedom to have your say about my blog, and in a late swing of surprise voters, it would seem that a large majority of people feel that if I had any sense of decency left I would crawl under a rock and lie dormant for the next century.

I am impressed by the large number of voting, though of course it is quite possible also that the votes stemmed from solely one dissatisfied, malicious, and tech-savvy reader. In fact, it reminds me a bit of the Green Guide letters section - which is always a good laugh, simply to read the letters that people send in. I myself have been guilty of having letters published, before I realised that it is simply a place where people wanting to have their name in print send letters (and then I started this blog, an immeasurably more worthwhile pursuit, of course).

For those of you not acquainted with the sorts of incisive issues chewed over in the Green Guide Letters section, here's a taster:

"Why do radio presenters (including ABC News Radio) say "let's have a listen to" instead of the more concise and correct "Let's listen to"? We Australians usually abbreviate everything (sometimes cretinously), so adding the superfluous "have a" is puzzling and jarring."

This is typical of the kind of intellctual debate which frequents the half page spread which is the letters section. If you ever wanted to be published in this section, here are some of the traits frequently employed by the time wealthy regulars:

• If you didn't enjoy a program, don't every make the mistake of simply saying "I found it a little bit dull." Everything must be overstated. The program was "the absolute limit", "jarring", "an assault to my ears and mind", "a carnage to common decencies",
• Here are some adjectives and phrases which you will no doubt wish to employ: "I was appalled", "shocked", "Shame on (insert name of station)", "Peter Everett (or other host) is friendly and offensive", and of course the ever versatile "How often have I heard people voice their irritation at loud music drowing out dialogue in various film or TV productions?"
• And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, sarcasm and rhetorical questions. Don't assume that there is a limit to the type of stupid questions you can put forward: "Does Hilary Harper have to end sentences on such a high note?", "Does Channel 10 think its audiences enjoy the offensively grating music which announces the advertisement break during films?" and "Why do you think I send these letters into the Green Guide, because I haven't got anything else to do and putting down things makes me feel bigger?"

And so on.

But I digress. I don't really have a response plan for the poll result, and unfortunately ever since my metallic emotion chip was repaired I have found myself unable to be suitably distraught over polls indicating that I am loathed. So I guess I'll just keep going, and if you really hate me, you can leave a comment telling me, or write into the Green Guide to vent your pent-up frustration at the world.

Shark Killed in Vicious Attack

The shark community was enraged once more this week by the latest in a string of shark deaths following attacks from humans. The latest victim, a 5 year old white pointer, was shot dead, after being mistakenly identified by humans to have eaten a swimmer earlier this year. He was swimming in his territorial waters early this morning, when a coast patrol boat approached him, fatally shooting him in the head. He died within minutes, and was collected on board, to be measured and disposed of as humans saw fit.

Shark liberty group "Fins Float Free" have condemned the death. Spokeshark Peter "Die-Humans-Fucking-Die" Finweed had this to say:

"This is typical of the arrogance of the human race. Firstly, they invade our territories when they swim in our waters at the beach. Of course we're going to eat them, they're swimming in our backyard. Yet there are those among them that fail to see this, instead asking to have the sharks "responsible" for attacks to be destroyed. In order to make us responsible, they have to give us rights as well. We are wild creatures, untamned by humanity's social laws and customs. That they see it fit to hunt us down for behaving like carnivorous fish would be laughable were it not so serious.

Nothing has given them a supreme 'right of way' which excuses them from being a part of the food chain. If they choose to swim in our waters, they can expect to be included in our environment. And that includes as a part of our diet. They are constantly slaughtering other species and environments all over the world, and have begun to hunt us down solely because we threaten their dominance. This is bullying at its worst, and it is time that we took some action, before there are too few of us to make a difference."

Left wing politishark Claudia Jawtooth called for calm admist the messages being put out by groups such as Fins Float Free, which she labelled "scare-mongering" which was bound to incite retributory "vigilante killings". "It is unfortunate, of course, that this tragic death has occurred. You will never hear me say that what happened was provoked or deserved. But nor will you ever hear me support the kind of hate speech promulgated by Mr Finweed. Humans are, for the most part, misunderstood creatures, who, despite their unwitting arrogance, selfishness, and ignorance, are just as deserving of a second chance as any of us. I believe, therefore, that it is imperative for us to develop a mutual relationship of trust between humans, perhaps following in the example of the dolphins, who, following their 1743 Bill of Outreach to Humanity have prospered, garnering greater public support from the ruling species on earth than perhaps any other creature. Boundaries have been crossed by humankind, but let's not become the savage in this equation."

This political storm of opinions and controversy, however, is little comfort for the family who are now missing their favourite fanged killing machine of the ocean.

Mental Abstraction

Yep, I'm feeling incredibly lazy, as is the case during holidays.

Funny story of the week:

This made the front page of The Age on Thursday this week as a story...

Basically, a commercial gallery owner is asked by a photographer whose work he displays, if he would consider some abstract artwork from an artist by the name of Aelita Andre. He takes a look, and likes what he sees. He sets about advertising his new show, with nice "glossy invitations and placing ads in reputable magazines Art Almanac and Art Collector", with these abstract works prominently featured.

And it is only then, they he found out....Aelita Andre is 22 months old. Turns out she's the daughter of the photographer who recommended her. Of course, Mr Jamieson (the gallery owner) is pretty pissed off, quoted as being "shocked, and to be honest, a little embarrassed." Another source claimed he added "Well there goes my fucking credibility. Thanks, you two year old bitch."

However, he decided in the end to proceed with the show, but added that though his gallery supported emerging artists, he would not be "making a habit" of showing children's work.

Age art critic said (when not informed of the artist's age)...

"credible abstractions, maybe playing on Asian screens with their reds. They're heavily reliant on figure/ground relations."

The Entirely Necessary Death Scene for Mr Bounderby

I've just finished reading Hard Times as a set text on the booklist at school, and felt compelled to give the tedious, boring, predictable and incredibly annoying character Mr Bounderby the death he deserved...

And so it was that Mr Bounderby found himself bound, as the pun would have it, with a piece of rough rope, to a rather old table which he had inherited with his house (for, as he was at pains to remind all his acquaintances, he would never have been able to afford it himself, with his far from genteel upbringing).
The young gentlemen who had tied him there was unfamiliar to him, and dressed in strange clothes, almost as if he were a student from the future who was sick to fucking death of Mr Bounderby as a character in the novel Hard Times, which he had been forced to read as it was on the Year 12 list. But indeed, Bounderby would scarcely have been able to tell that, more than he could tell if the young gentlemen were a postman or, Fact forbid, a man of the circus.
“Mr Bounderby,” began the young man, after securing all the ropes tightly. “I’m afraid I have a bit of a bone to pick with you.”
“Indeed, picking bones was just one of the many ways in which I was forced to find some form of nutrition when I was a young street urchin. No venison and turtle soup off gold spoons for old Bounderby, no sir! No, my life was always-”
“Shut up. Please. Now.” The young man paused between each sentence, and his voice was quivering with anger. Bounderby, unable to quantify this peculiar change in his tone in columns or numbers (an allusion made suBtly throughout Hard Times – so suBtly that some readers just wanted to strangle Dickens each time the same message was spewed forth), continued to speak.
“...but with the Hands now, the things they would have from you! Why, just the other day it was that Blackpool. Now he was one of ‘em. He was the sort that would have himself eating venison and turtle soup with golden spoons! If ever I saw one!”

As Mr Bounderby had been gabbling away, the young man turned his back, and began to fumble with a backpack sitting on the plain boards of the living room. He turned back around, with a long, and extremely sharp, knife in his hand. And now, at last, a slight smile curved the corners of his lips.
“If you don’t shut up,” he began, stepping closer, “I will fillet you right now, from head to toe.” Bounderby paused for a moment to glance at him and the knife, before launching into another diatribe.
“Oh well, there might be some who would be offended by such a threat, but I am not one of them. I, who have no claim to high birth or status, I who worked from the age of two on the streets to escape my alcoholic grandmother, I who-AAARGH!!!” His spiel ended in an unexpected yowl as the young man brought the knife down swiftly over his right arm, lopping off his forearm at the elbow. It dropped to the floor with a thud, where it began to ooze blood over the boards. This, however, only halted Bounderby for a moment.
“Oh, there would be some who may be shocked, perhaps even insulted, to have their limbs hacked off! But not me, oh no, not me sir! I would like to say this shocks me, but the truth is that this is naught compared to the brawls and street fighting I was engaged in when I was four years old, and a menace to society. Though perhaps you had best think of Loo, who is standing in the doorway, and of much higher breeding, lest you insult her with your behaviour. No, it is not for me that I ask you stop, for this cannot offend me, who came from the gutters and ditches of the world. But it is for Louisa, who was born into the lap of luxury, that I beseech you to stay your hand.”

The young man turned to Louisa Gradgrind, who was indeed standing in the doorway.
“Do you mind?” he asked her.
“May I?” she asked shyly, reaching for the knife.
“By all means,” invited the young man graciously. But what happened next surprised even him. She strode forward, snatched up the knife, and began to stab with an intensity and energy that was truly impressive.
“You BASTARD!” she yelled, as she brought the knife down in his stomach, spraying her face with a mist of blood. “You fucking, stupid, idiotic, repetitive, 2D piece of shit!” she roared, punctuating each comma with another downward thrust. “Why, didn’t, you, get, the, death, you, deserved!” By now she was quite covered in blood, her face ablaze with fury, as she licked specks of blood from her mouth and turned to the young man.
“....ok....,” said the young man, glancing at Bounderby, who seemed to be thoroughly dead. But suddenly his eyes opened and he began to speak rapidly again.
“Oh this is merely a trifle when compared to the abuse my grandmother used to put me through. Some gentlemen may complain of having their internal organs mangled by a butcher knife, but not me. No, I have never claimed to be a gentlemen-”
He was interrupted as Louisa gave one final stab, and he finally fell silent.



“Thank you...” said the young man.

The Losing of Wisdom....teeth

Ok, if there are any internet stalkers out there with your corkboard of facts and snippets of my life in front of you, GET YOUR PENS OUT NOW AND DRAW UP A NEAT MARGIN, as I am about to offer a glimpse into my life, as I relate a tale of pain, unconsciousness, blood and wisdom teeth.

After having braces to straighten my teeth, I was later to learn that my wisdom teeth must also be removed and thrown into Mount Doom or somesuch lest they uproot (yes, the first of hopefully many dental puns to be made) the peace and happiness the braces had fostered upon my mouth. So off we trotted to see a dental surgeon to cut out my teeth. And as the date of sugery grew further, fear began to take root in my gum (yes, a terribly suBtle - yes, suBtle is a new word I am attempting to cultivate at every possible opportunity. You simply pronounce the usually silent 'b' in subtle, hence making the meaning of the word its antonym. Go forth and spread the word, for it is good - pun once more). But I was also excited, as I was going to undergo general anaesthetic, something I had never done before.

Finally the big day came, and like Christmas and Easter and your birthday and every day you ever told yourself was going to be special or different, it was a bit of a let down. The preparation was great. They took me in, explained what was going to happen, checked my heart rate, explained what was going to happen, checked my heart rate again, etc.

And then the moment came for the general anaesthetic. I followed the nurse into the operating cinema, and climbed up onto the table. Then they put a needle in my right hand, and said "we're just putting in some antibiotics", and did that....then they put some other stuff in. Then they must have slipped the anaesthetic in when I was looking the other way, and didn't tell me. And so I missed the whole "count to 10" thing. In fact, I remember none of the going to sleep. This was a disappointment when I woke up in recovery.

My whole face was numb, and I sat there for a while, feeling very light headed and funny, until the nurse gave me a paper towel and said "here, use this to keep back bleeding". And then I realised I'd been bleeding out of my mouth, all down my face and onto my hospital gown the whole time, without feeling a thing. That was fun (the other fun bleeding detail was when we were going home, we went over a speed bump, and because all the blood pools in the bottom of your mouth, it flew out of my sister's mouth all over her. You sort of had to be there...).

And they gave us a magnificent supply of painkillers, that make you feel great. In fact, it's 11.13pm right now, and I'll be getting up at 2am to take my four hourly pain killers. And I have to swill my mouth out with seawater 6 times per day, which is also very exciting. And my face has taken on an adorable hamsteresque bulging and swelling in the cheeks, where I can store grain and nuts for the cold winter months to come.

Conversation Overheard on the Bus #1

Setting: A bus

Characters:
2 young boys
1 mother
1 baby in pram (non speaking role)
1 strange boy (non speaking)

*Enter 2 young boys through bus door, who run to a window seat. The elder boy has one ear pierced (he is about 7 years old). Behind them is the mother (who has ears, nose and eyebrow piercings), pushing the pram onto the bus before validating two tickets. She makes her way to the disabled/special seating area and sits down. The boys begin to fight.*


Elder Boy: No, I'm sitting near the window, I got here first!

Younger Boy: No way, I'm...you're...mum, mum!

Mother (tiredly): Both of you stop arguing, or you'll both be in big trouble.

*pause*

Elder Boy: No, piss off (punches and kicks younger brother)

Younger Brother: No, mum-

Mother: Right. Both of you come and sit with me. Now.

*Elder boy moves*

Mother: You too.

*younger boy shakes head, a mischievous smile creeping across his face*

Mother: Now. If I have to come and get you, you'll be in big trouble.

*younger boy shakes head*

*Bus stops at lights. Mother gets up and walks over to child*

Younger Boy: No, no, no, I promise I won't-

Mother: Too late. Now you're in even more trouble. You're already in big trouble for setting off the alarm on the train.

*The bus stops and the strange boy gets off*



Review of "Conversation Overheard on the Bus #1

The latest in Gelati Gecko's "human portrait" pieces, this is perhaps one of the more disappointing additions. The scene is short, and the dialogue and action, while completely true, is cliched, failing to add anything more to the many jokes already in circulation about parenting and child discipline. The closing line, which is factually accurate, does, however, provide a neat sense of closure to the scene, though this fails to make up for other faults. The post modernistic inclusion of the narrator as an omniscient observer is pretentious and is amateurish at best. Let us hope that he turns his writing to more fruitful labours in the future.

Sorbet Snake

Christmas Luncheon

Unfortunately I have been sick of late, and will this time use this as an excuse for my lack of blogging since last week.


With Christmas fast approaching, it becomes time for my family to decide what we will do with ourselves this festive season. And this year, it is time once again for us to 'host', and invite all our relatives to enjoy a Christmas lunch with us come 25th December. Which I enjoy for a few reasons:

1. It's nice to see my cousins and family I wouldn't otherwise get to see too often.

2. The amount of stress and anxiety it affords some members of the family, and the resulting strains and arguments, are always highly entertaining. Sometimes there are very few, but sometimes they are plentiful and explosive, bursting throughout the day along with the bought cheeriness of the bonbons from Coles.

3. Food is plentiful and often nice.



Of course, small and entertaining spats are not limited to either my family or Christmas time. In fact, the Shadow Health Minister Julie Bishop has recently fallen under scrutiny for an apparently "cat like" action made in Parliament, directed at Julia Gillard. The full article can be accessed here:





http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,24741187-421,00.html

"Hiss!!!!!!!!!"

Julie Bishop has played down the action as "just a little thing I do", in order to get "the girls to put their claws away".

She also laughed off claims that the vicious puncture marks in her so called Julia Gillard "voodoo doll" were anything more than "just invoking some harmless ancient and powerful curses to strike her down on the spot."

She was reported to have been placated when a saucer of warm milk was brought out to the bench, purring softly throughout the rest of the session.

SWEARING WILL SEND YOU TO HELL!!

Yes, I should know, I read it on an evangelical magazine being handed out at my train station. And it detailed how swearing "disrespects the Creator of language. Imagine if you gave your friend a shirt, or a blouse, and then saw them using it as a doormat or rag. How would you feel? God feels the same way when we swear", etc. Which, to be brutally frank (and condemn myself to an eternity in Hell), shitted me just a bit.

I guess it's because I've slowly divested myself of the Christian belief I was loosely raised on, and took on seriously in later life, because I can no longer see any purpose it serves for me. And I would argue, that there are cases when swearing does add a certain "je ne sais quoi" to certain situations. I thereby present:


GELATI GECKO'S GUIDE TO SWEARING:

Swearing has a reputation as being nothing but foul, filthy and abhorrent misuse of the English language. But this fails to recognise the ways in which it can create humour in various written scenarios and serve as collective nouns.

Note the following story:

Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which to be honest, rather annoyed Billy).


If there is any humour to be found in this passage, it would lie in the contrast of the idyllic rural and natural environment, and Billy's lack of awe or appreciation. He is in fact "rather annoyed". But if we add some excellent expletives:

Billy woke to a sunshine filled morning. The bird which so frequently woke him with its sweet song that twittered throughout the green grassy glades surrounding his humble cottage was singing away, filling the air with glorious music (which, if Billy were to be quite candid, was a performance of nature that fucked up his morning).


The sparing use of a well placed obscenity heightens this contrast between the pleasantness of Billy's morning in his natural environment, and the actual annoyance (which has now become something much stronger) which he feels towards it. The elaborate sentence before the so called "dirty word" set the reader up to expect something a little bit open and rude, but probably not so much as that which is before them. This unexpected treasure find is most pleasing and humorous to many people.

Other similar uses include juxtaposing swear words against what is otherwise the height of politeness, to the effect of seemingly oxymoronic sentences:


"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.


"I think we put the alphabetised files in the cabinets in Office G, dumb fuck," replied Genevive politely, with a genial smile.


And lo, the swear word has transformed our previously bland response into a fiery and sarcastic quip.


I guess what I'm trying to say, is that swear words are not just obscene and filthy. They have long lost the meanings which were initially attached to them. They have instead become taboo words, and have great potential to transform writing, if used sparingly.

The other use with which we are frequently employing words of an offensive nature for collective nouns. For example:


"Betty collected her books and other belongings and made her way out the door."

"Betty collected her books and crap and made her way out the door."

This easily facilitated collective noun saves us a lot of unnecessary speech and time, while intimating a casual, comfortable, genuine and unpretentious tone in our writing. Other collective nouns which may be employed are "shit", e.g

"Tom got his shit together and ran from the room."

Also consider the use of swear words to express a grevious mistake made by one person. For example:


"My perfomance was well below par in that exam," sighed Megan.


"I fucked up that exam," sighed Megan.

These are just some of the versatile uses to which these words can be put.

I would end with a swear word if I wanted to be a bit of a smartarse, but I think I'll just end by patting myself on the back for raising such pertinent and vital discussion point, which hopefully will encourage you to take greater risks, and think more about how the simple choice of words can influence an entire piece of writing.



Here endeth the lesson.

Dystopian Essay

Here is an essay I found from a "bored" student who was required to write an essay on the prompt:

"People's visions of the future show that those who try to beat the system invariably end up failing."

While visions of the past show us the heroes from Tale of Troy and Robin Hood, and the realm of fantasy offers hope with heroes such as Frodo Baggins, who overcomes immense hardship to overthrow the Sauron establishment through peaceful protest and lobbying, the future dystopian texts portray a world where nobody can defeat the “all seeing eye”, as in 1984.

Winston is unable to “throw the ring into the fires of Mount Doom” (so to speak) as he lacks moral fibre. Frodo, on the other hand, is much like Jesus, in that he carries a burden (the ring, or all the sins of humanity), and nearly dies (or in Jesus’ case, actually dies.) But he is not like Jesus because Frodo never says he is the son of God, nor does he turn water into wine. In fact, when they run out of lambas bread, Frodo is unable to produce more food from anywhere. Frodo is also nice to Gollum even though Gollum is a bit mean, and I think Jesus would be nice to Gollum/Smeagol too. But in 1984, Winston is unable to defeat the system. Why, I hear me ask?

Because humans are depressed about our future. We look at our children and go "oh...is that all?" and realise that the next generation will screw up the world massively. Either that, or there are key elements to human nature such as greed for power, knowledge and stability which will send society in a general direction until we reach extremes such as the society of Brave New World. And because these worlds are depressing (supposedly, although I like soma give me soma EVERYONE BELONGS TO EVERYONE ELSE), and so people try to rebel. But why do they fail so much?

Because mankind is inherently cbs. John the Savage, from Brave New World, for example, hangs himself cos he cbs trying to change the world or himself. But I think that the society in Brave New World is nice. Lenina thinks so too, because she's nice, and I'm sure Frodo would agree because we all know he liked to have a bit too much fun. But this isn't about Frodo. Or lambas bread, delicious though it may be (*mental note: buy some lambas bread*). It's because people can't change the world.

There are also technical reasons why people can't beat the world. In 1984, it's like Winston and Julia vs EVERYONE so they were never going to win. The government had too much cameras and telescreens and stuff for them to win. Technological power in the hands of authority allows complete domination through fear. Fear prevents people from acting. To go off on a tangent whose line is equal to the equation y = 4.5x + 78.9, in World War II, propaganda was used in Germany, and fear was instilled in those who didn't go with the flow. And so people didn't fight against Hitler so much. With more power, governments are so much more able to eliminate and contain risks or dangerous people wanting to destroy the establishment.

In conclusion, Frodo was very brave, but he could never defeat Sauron in a dystopian novel. Sauron would have:

a) really good army, not just stupid orcs (which are actually Elves that have been tortured, did you know that? But how do they breed...I don't know) He would have robots with silver shields and armour that shoots lasers

b) high tech surveillance equipment instead of just one massive eye. This would be more energy efficient, and slightly less conspicuous

c) a reliable tracker on his One Ring, to prevent Frodo from taking it and running all the way across Middle Earth

d) propaganda with rewards for the ring's capture, so that Faramir would definitely take the ring instead of being "noble"

e) he would also have a tracker on Gollum once he released him, or a microchip

f) he would trigger tsunamis to prevent elves from escaping to the Grey Lands

So as you can see, he would crush everyone. So that's what dystopian stories are. And why you can never beat the system.

Conversation Overheard on the Train #1

As I got onto the train, there was a large beefy man with tattoos, sitting with a somewhat thin woman with long hair. The train was otherwise quite empty.

Woman: And so I had to stand, and when there was a seat, I could only sit down for one bloody stop.

Man: That's not right...they have those fucking signs on the train, you know.....for the pregnant.....and elderly.....and disabled.....they should have them on the bus.

Woman: Well afterwards I was thinking, maybe I should've asked for a seat. And my legs were sore afterwards...and it's just not right.

Man: Yeah, you should ask for a seat. Tell 'em you're fucking pregnant.

Woman: Yeah, nah. It's not good for the kid if I'm tired and sick, is it...

And so then when they got off, the woman PULLED OUT A CIGARETTE AND STARTED TO SMOKE....

I Have Exams, You Know

So that's why I've not been posting anything. Yet still people are asking me why the blog has been so neglected. So, in fear of losing readership, I will put something up. Conveniently (and, some may argue, offensively cheaply) I have a piece of writing I was required to do for English, and so will fob you off with this. It is a "feelie" review, based on the world from Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.



Enjoy...or not.



Alpha Times
“I’m so glad I’m an Alpha!”
Savage Me offers a pertinent message for today’s society, writes Shaun Foster


Savage Me, the latest feelie to be released this year, from Alpha plus debut director Bernard Marx, has been met with praise and adulation, with some comparing it with what is generally recognised as the most popular feelie ever made, A Steamy Month of Passion, by feelie directing legend Thomas Ridshaw.


Marx based Savage Me on the events from two years ago surrounding the man known as “John the Savage”, who was brought out from a Savage Reserve, along with a woman who claimed to be his m****r. John the Savage’s bizarre and illogical attitudes towards having people, and civilisation in general, sparked a large degree of media interest in his situation, which eventually culminated in his suicide. His fascination with Beta Vaccination Worker Lenina Crowne, who afterwards would say that “He both seemed to want me, and yet felt it would be wrong to have me,” forms a focus point of this state of the art new feelie.


In Marx’s reworking of the story, the lovely Lenina (played by Fanny Crowne) is rescued from the possessive attentions of John the Savage (Steven Bates), by Marc Bernard (Harry Green), a hypnopaedia specialised psychologist. He is able to condition the Savage eventually, who finally realises the error of his ways, and has several women before the feelie comes to a close. Artistic director Sarah Brown explained their decision to rework the plot in an exclusive interview with the Alpha Times this week. “We decided in the end to provide the more fulfilling and conventional ending, which left no moral ambiguity as to the concerns and lessons to be learned from the feelie. As John the Savage was a key character, it would have been remiss if we did not correct his social abnormality – and after all, I know I wouldn’t want to go to a feelie where there’s nobody being had!” She added that “an orgy porgy ending provides the perfect climax to the feelie, while reminding the audience that everyone belongs to everyone else!”


Bernard Marx admits that there are elements of himself in his suave and sophisticated hero Marc Bernard, as “We were both quite close to John the Savage, and understood him despite the obvious social problems he faced when an integration with civilisation was attempted. Marc is a gentlemen, and has at least one new woman each week – I wanted to contrast his upright moral character against the volatile and “monogamous” traits of John the Savage.”


Key scenes to watch out for include the scene where John interacts with, and at one stage “embraces” his m****r, Linda (the first time ever in feelies history that a ‘family’ scene has been included). Special effects director Gavin Touch explained that they were required to recreate the so called “love” that John felt for Linda. “We understood it must be an uncomfortable feeling, to make someone behave so irrationally, and “love” was often spoken of in relation to the heart. We combined the sensation of a heart attack and being gored by a bull to provide what we believe is a real and unsettling first hand experience of “love” for the audience. The love making scene between Marc and Lenina underwater was also an ambitious request, as was the one in the anti gravitational chamber. But I think you’ll find the results most pleasing.”


Taking feelies to new heights...or depths...

Challenging, controversial, and more than a little bit titillating, Savage Me has all the makings of a classic feelie, and is well worth the trip.


Other news:



Mombasa reaches new record of 18, 074 individuals from single ovary – Page 2


Debate over the Civilising of more Savage Reserves continues – scientists argue “we are not finished studying” – Page 3

Luna Mooney's Word Game

Now for something completely stolen from Luna Mooney's blog.

Firstly go to the comments section of this post. Then, read the word written by the most recent commenter and reply with the first word that comes to your mind.

You don't have to be registered to play, and you can comment as anonymous if you wish. You can also come back and leave another word, there are no limits to how many times you can play.

It is great fun!!!

Feeding Your Need for Stories

Since people seem to enjoy stories so much, and the blog story is not yet ready to see the world, I'm posting this. It's a gothic take on The Importance of Being Earnest.


Lady Harbury looked briefly down into her teacup. She returned her gaze to Lady Bracknell, who was still watching her intently, as if to suck information from her. Lady Harbury licked her dry lips, and Lady Bracknell’s gaze followed her small tongue as it wet her shaking lips.

“And so,” Lady Harbury continued in a small voice, “I have not seen him since.” She shifted her slight frame in the chair, tucking away a wispy strand of hair.

“I am sorry for your loss, Virginia,” said Lady Bracknell coldly. “Perhaps your manservant could fetch us some more of those crumpets?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” stammered Lady Harbury. “He has left for the market. I expect he shan’t return for a good two hours at least.”
“Hmm,” frowned Lady Bracknell. “I always believe that the efficiency of one’s servants is indicative of that of their master or mistress, as the case may be.”

She replaced her cup of tea and sat her unusually tall and slender body into the chair. She pursed her lips, a splash of red against her otherwise pale face. Her black hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, daring not to rebel against its mistress. Black glittering eyes remained focused on Lady Harbury. There was a pause as Lady Harbury looked down, then glanced over at the grandfather clock by the door. “You are pressed for time, Virginia?” demanded Lady Bracknell lightly, yet with steel behind her voice.

“Oh, no..well...” Lady Harbury rose from her chair and paced around the room, so she was standing next to Lady Bracknell. “Before Lord Harbury died...he said...he told me something...about Lord Bracknell-”
Lady Bracknell rose from her chair with astonishing speed and stood quite close to Lady Harbury, peering down at her face. “And what, pray tell, did he say?” There was no hiding her menace now. Lady Harbury looked up briefly, then, unable to meet the fury in Lady Bracknell’s eyes, returned her gaze to the polished floorboards.

“He said..there was...a reason..” Lady Harbury looked up at Lady Bracknell for a moment and let out a small cry. Her teacup dropped from her small hand, and smashed into a thousand pieces of china. Lady Bracknell stood, a small smile, a slash of red, across her face. And she reached down into the front of her dress, and from her ample cleavage drew a small, but very sharp knife, which glinted in the stream of afternoon sun spilling through the window. Lady Harbury stepped backwards, breaking more china with a loud crunch.
“Well,” said Lady Bracknell quietly. “It would be prudent, I think, if we ensure such damaging rumours that your husband may have inadvertently, I am sure, spread, are nipped in the bud, as it were.”

* * *

“Rotten lot of weather we’re having, eh Algy?” said Jack as he watched the rain dribble down the outside of the window.
“Yes, indeed. One could almost find it reason to get out of London,” replied Algernon with a smirk.
“Whatever do you mean, dear Algy?” replied Jack, turning around.
“Oh, I think you know just what I mean. Where have you been, Jack? You’ve not been in town all week. I suspect you’ve been off Bunburying again.” Algernon took a blood plum from a dish and bit savagely into it, red juice running down his chin in small rivers, staining his white Victorian collar crimson. “I must say, I am curious as to what you get up to on your little outings.” Algernon looked over at Jack.
“Oh, I daresay it’s none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what adventures you’ve experienced during your small wanderings, Algy?” countered Jack, raising his eyebrows.
“Well,” began Algernon, his mouth twitching into a smile, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever read the works of a French philosopher of sorts, by the name of Marquis de Sade?”
The doors of the small living room opened and a servant entered. “Lady Bracknell and Miss Fairfax are waiting outside. Shall I send them in?” He kept his eyes towards the floor.
“Yes, thank you Lane,” Algernon replied lazily. Lane turned and left.
“Algy, you didn’t tell me you were expecting Gwendolen!” exclaimed Jack indignantly. “How do I look, Algy?” He tried vainly to check his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, the very picture of youth and respectability,” replied Algernon, watching Jack in a bemused manner. “It can at least be said you have good taste, Jack, whatever else you may be. Gwendolen is indeed a wonderful girl – she is much like a ripe peach, full of sweet juice as yet not enjoyed, skin soft enough to slice-”

At that moment Lady Bracknell entered the room, a tall imposing figure in black, her comparatively small and petite daughter Gwendolen hidden behind her. Gwendolen wore a white dress, with her golden hair freely falling across her small, fragile face, perfect and white as a porcelain doll.
“You must forgive my lateness, Algernon,” said Lady Bracknell. “I was obliged to call on Lady Harbury after her husband’s disappearance.” She paused to dab at her mouth with a handkerchief. “I was not aware that you would be here,” she said curtly, directing this last comment at Jack.
“Then I am sorry to have surprised you, Lady Bracknell,” replied Jack obediently.
“Oh, I am very rarely surprised, Mr Worthing. I have been on this earth longer than I may look, and I have indeed seen many things. Very few things could surprise me now. However,” she paused, a smile playing across her face. “I must say that Lady Harbury did surprise me somewhat. When I last left her she seemed remarkably unmoved by her husband’s death. Indeed, she did not even see me out of her house. But I suppose that is what one must come to expect from a widow, as grief can affect us all in different ways.” She paused then turned to Algernon. “My nephew, I wish to offer a suggestion in regards to choosing an appropriate wife. I have recently discovered the young Sarah Abbey, daughter of the Earl of Caversham. She is quite a fitting wife; obedient, simple, pretty and well connected.” Lady Bracknell gave a small nod of her head at each desirable characteristic. Jack looked desperately at Gwendolen, who briefly glanced coyly back, giving the tiniest smile, which seemed to make her face glow. The sun came out from a cloud and bathed the room in warm light, as the rain continued to drum on the roof. Jack looked down, took a deep breath and faced Lady Bracknell squarely, although he had to look up to look her in the eye.
“Lady Bracknell,” he began, then continued in a rush. “I love dearly your daughter Gwendolen, and would like to ask her hand in marriage.” He managed to keep eye contact with Lady Bracknell, her white face blanching even further. The room suddenly felt cold, and the sun disappeared. Though she did not raise her voice, the room seemed to grow darker as she spoke, each word saturated in anger.
“Gwendolen, you will stay and hear me tell this man; he is never to marry you. I shall not permit it. If your father were able to be here, he would take the same stance. Sadly, he is still suffering his bouts of illness.” At the mention of her father, a brief look of revulsion passed over Gwendolen’s face, before it was smoothed back into that of a docile daughter. “Gwendolen, we will go down to the carriage now, and leave without further words. I regret I was not able to stay longer, Algernon. Perhaps when we are not in the presence of gentlemen of such unsavoury character we can speak at greater length. Gwendolen, we leave now. Do I make myself clear.” It was a command, and with that she turned on heel, and walked stiffly to the door, followed by Gwendolen, who glanced back once at Jack before leaving.
There was a pause as Jack walked over to the window and watched the carriage in the street begin to move with a jingle and clip clop of horses.
“Hard luck, eh, Jack?” said Algernon, clapping him on the shoulder.
“No,” said Jack. “I refuse to give up. Algernon, kindly get your servant to fetch me a carriage at once.”

***

Jack stepped past the large iron gate, peering up through the fog to the large mansion on the hill. He cursed the driver for taking so long to find it, for he was sure Gwendolen would have arrived home much earlier. He straightened himself up, adjusted his collar and coat, and marched down the path to the looming mansion, gravel crunching underfoot. He was panting slightly when he reached the large double doors at the front of the house. He hesitated, then knocked briskly. He waited and listened. There was no sound, except for a raven in a nearby tree that cawed loudly, as if to alert the house to his presence. He waited. There was still no sound from inside. He paused, yet it was cold outside, so he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.
He found himself in an entrance hall. There was only cold pale light from outside, which failed to reach most corners of the room. He paused. Then he heard something. A movement up the set of stairs on the left of the hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was home. He started up the solid staircase, stepping lightly on the luxurious pale carpet which covered the floor. He placed a hand on the wrought iron stair rail. It was cold and metallic. He continued, and had almost reached the top when he gasped. Just ahead of him, the carpet was wet and sticky, a deep red. He knew somehow that it could only be blood. He looked down the corridor, and saw it continued, pooling up in some areas, and leaving a dark streak running further down in other areas. He continued down the narrow corridor, noticing that the blood became more and more as he walked. At the end of the corridor was a closed door. He crept up closer to it and heard a voice.
“I know it’s been ever so long, darling, you must be famished. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy this old withered handbag almost as much as you did her husband,” said a familiar voice, a ring of cold humour in her voice. She laughed as if sharing a private joke with someone. Jack looked back down the corridor, then opened the door.
“Lady Bracknell, I don’t know what you think-” Jack stopped and stared in pure horror, before dropping to his knees. Before him he saw Lady Bracknell, kneeling before a woman lying on the floor. The woman was dead, and her wispy hair was stained with her own blood. Her dress had been removed, and she lay in her undergarments, her white corset soaked with more blood. Her throat was cut, the slice quite oddly visible, a gaping cut against her white neck. It was then Jack realised Lady Bracknell was sponging her, as if cleaning her wounds.
The room was completely dark, with the exception of a small slice of sunlight escaping through a gap in a curtain. He vomited onto the carpet, then wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet.
“What?” Jack stammered feebly, clutching at a table for support.
“I thought I made it quite clear you weren’t welcome here, Mr Worthing,” Lady Bracknell said, calmly getting to her feet. “Darling, could you please close the door,” she said, looking over Jack’s shoulder. Jack spun around. He saw a man walk out from the shadows behind him and begin to close the door. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of white down the dark corridor, and saw Gwendolen standing at the end. She began to run towards him.
“Gwendolen!” cried Jack. The door slammed shut, and the man bolted it, then turned to face Jack. He was tall and thin, like Lady Bracknell, but there was something different about him that Jack couldn’t place. His eyes seemed to gleam red with hunger and passion which ignited his emaciated face. Jack heard something bang into the door on the other side.
“Papa, no! No! Stop! No, Papa!” Gwendolen was screaming hysterically, hurling herself against the bolted door in desperation.
“Oh, how rude of me,” laughed Lady Bracknell casually. “Mr Worthing, this is my husband, Lord Bracknell.” Lord Bracknell smiled, and Jack realised his teeth were white and sharp, and almost glowing in the darkened room.
“Please, Papa, please! Mama!” Gwendolen continued to plead, tears choking her cries, still attacking the door with all her force.
Lord Bracknell began to walk slowly towards Jack, a smile stretching his thin white lips. Jack stepped back, running into a chair. Lord Bracknell grabbed hold of him with a thin, but surprisingly strong arm. Jack tried to wrestle free. He tried to speak, but his mouth was completely dry. Fear had incapacitated him. He just saw his own reflected terror through Lord Bracknell’s searching eyes. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his lower back. “I told you that I would never allow you to marry my daughter. But I’m glad you made the effort to come out here, Mr Worthing,” whispered Lady Bracknell in his ear from behind him. Jack felt everything was blurred, his hearing slowed down, everything slowed down. He fell forward, and collapsed onto the floor, landing with a loud thud. There was silence in the room, and on the other side of the door, Gwendolen burst into tears, moaning softly.
“Well,” began Lady Bracknell, “that’s dealt with that. I must say I am rather glad we are rid of him. He would never have been an ideal husband for Gwendolen. Yet whatever his faults were, he should make a good feast for you. He is a healthy enough young man.” She looked down at Jack’s body. “Well, was, anyway. And it would be a shame to waste him. Shall I prepare him for you darling?” She looked at Lord Bracknell, then knelt down and began to prepare Jack for feasting, while the last rays of the red sun crept through the dusty curtains.

23/08/1875
Dear Diary,
I have finally done it. I left Mama and Papa. I ran away the day they killed Jack. Having barely known Jack, it has naturally been a serious shock to me, yet I find I have worked through my grief remarkably quickly. And though there are serious doubts on my social prospects without parents, I have for the time being found refuge with the sweet and good natured though somewhat common (although in all honesty she cannot help it) Cecily Cardew, whom I have found was Jack’s ward, and now call my sister. I am having to learn new skills away from my city life, and yesterday I learnt how to use a spade for the first time. With dearest love to you my diary, who has always been with me,
Gwendolen Cardew

End of Holidays

I have been neglecting this blog of late, as holidays have taken up the large part of my attention. And for this I am sorry. I can only hope you have been enjoying your holidays so much that the absence of my blog has not left you dejected and miserable.

I also am well aware that the story installment is late, and will be posted sometime this week. Yesterday I was required to dress up as Harry Potter and deadlock doors against naked drunk men as part of a birthday obligation.

Thank you in advance for your understanding and cooperation.

SMACK

Is it ok to smack children?

Three children, who were taken from their mother as she could no longer care for them, and were living with their grandparents when the grandmother smacked the boy for playing in a drain.

The Department of Community Services then removed the children from the grandparents, and, unable to find a suitable place for them, separated them into different homes.

Full story here: http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,23177403-5001021,00.html

And then the Community Services Minister himself, Kevin Greene, admitted of his own parenting that "There were times when our judgement has been that it was appropriate to smack the children. But we've moved past those days of toddler tantrums and disobedient kids." Just a tad hypocritical. Of course, this raises the question, did the DOCS (Department of Community Services) do the right thing?

Certainly there have been cases in the last year where children have died, after authorities being unaware of child abuse. So perhaps this could explain the hastiness to do something. Yet was it useful at all to SEPARATE the children from one another? No doubt this will only teach the children that they shouldn't tell people the truth (for the child said, when asked whether their grandmother smacked them, 'Yes, she smacked me last week.')

And of course it raises the old debate about whether or not it is ok to smack children. Often parents do it out of sudden anger and fear about their child's behaviour, and this is justified by that.

But its the holidays and I really wrote this post simply because I don't want you all to run away to other blogs, as the waning poll votes would indicate.

"I Was Raped By My Exam"

Well, its almost the end of the week, the end of the term, and a temporary end to school. And of course the school knew we'd want a trial exam for our VCE subjects (they really do think of everything). And of course, after the trial exam, there was the obligatory conversations:

"OMG, DID YOU SEE QUESTION 12? WAS IT C, WITH THE HAPLOID CELLS..."

"Was it just me, or was there hardly any "d" answers for the start of the multiple choice? I don't want to have gotten them wrong"

and then you get

"I WAS TOTALLY RAPED BY THAT EXAM!"

"It was worse than a touchy feely groping Santa with a sackful of Rohpynol"

"The exam paper just held me down and sexually violated me"

Which raises the question, (apart from the rhetorical one, "can an exam paper actually do that?") is it ok to take a word with such strong and horrific meaning as rape and use it to describe someone's disappointment with their performance in a TRIAL exam?

Sure, we do it all the time with murder - "I'd kill for an ice cream", and its generally accepted to be "a figure of speech". So then it would logically follow that flippant asides such as "lol, I raped that exam" will become accepted in the same vein. But does that make it ok?

I don't think so.

Firstly, its just stupid. Exams do not have any sort of autonomous will of their own. They can neither initiate nor object or respond to any sort of sexual activity.

Secondly, to connect a strong performance in an exam to one of the most evil and degrading acts a human being can commit on another is a gross trivialisation of the trauma, feeling of victimisation, and long term psychological issues which surround rape.

And by trivialising the issue, we create a subconscious acceptance of the term "rape", and we are desensitised to it - as many of us already are to hearing about murder and suicide.

So if you hear someone say it, just tell them they're idiots. And if they don't listen to you, just give them a jolly good rogering for their own benefit.

Awwww

Did anyone else catch the front page of The Age this morning? For those of you who missed the photo which went with a story about Malcolm Turnbull's leadership:












Malcolm Turnbull: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA, FROM THE DARKNESS I HAVE COME TO TAKE WHAT IS MINE!!!

RISE, MY MIDNIGHT MINIONS WHO HAVE RESURRECTED THEIR MASTER INTO SWEET LIFE GIVING FLESH AND BLOOD!!!!!!!!!

Oh, and did I mention that I'm a salt of the earth Aussie battler - we even RENTED a house at times, you know.


Nelson: .......*stoically sheds a tear...........


Well anyway, I thought it was quite a funny picture, and that Malcolm looked like a vampire, but maybe its just me...

A Meandering Ramble, or Meamble

Firstly, an update on the last post. "anonymous" eloquently made an excellent point in commenting that as Sydney is so urbanised, it is in the outer suburbs such as Camden that a large school would have to be built, serving as a central Muslim school for all of Sydney.

Which really makes a lot of sense and makes me feel that I should have done that Town Planning elective in Year 10. So there we go, no excuse for not building the school. Camden is just messed up.

And I know I keep mentioning it, but I promise this will be the last time (until we get to 50 votes) that I mention the poll. We did get past the 20 votes mark, so well done to you all for voting. I'm posting the story a bit earlier today, since I'm looking forward to seeing a school play tonight.

And I finally got around to seeing "Hole in the Wall", the Channel 9 game show that has been torn apart by generally everyone for being astoundingly crap - so naturally I had to see it. And I can verify that it is really bad. Not even in a "its so bad its good". Just bad. And boring.