Look, I’d concede that vegemite’s not for everyone but I’m not in the mood to pander to you babies.
The way I see it, you have two basic options: vegemite on toast or vegemite sandwiches. In my youth, sometimes my mum made them for me every day of the week. And how did I turn out? Fucking awesome, that’s how.
I don’t know the science of vegemite, but I do know that spreadable yeast extract is a modern marvel and all you people who think you don’t like it are wrong. Have you even had it on toast? I had two bits yesterday morning and then smashed that Monday into pieces. I’m basically Chuck Norris, except I’m not a total misogynistic asshole. Why? Because I eat vegemite on the regular, that’s why. Maybe if Chuck had a little more vegemite and a little less bad attitude things would be different and I’d still find his jokes funny. But no. Ruined that, didntya Chuck.
Got a hangover? Vegemite toast. Want to send your kids off to school with a sandwich spread with something nutritious that won’t break the bank? Mother-fuckin-vegemite. Want to get a whole pile of vitamin B and other stuff? You got it. Vegemite for Prime Minister.
Everyone knows it’s the good stuff. People that don’t like it don’t know what they like about anything in any context. People that don’t like vegemite probably also don’t know how they have their scotch, or which way is up and which way is down, or how to put pants on in the morning. I’d feel sorry for you, but that’s not why we’re here, is it?
Sort it out.
Hey you lousy so-and-so’s
What makes you think you can dictate something which is so clearly a horrible idea? Which one of you monkeys wanted Thursday afternoons to be an actual thing? Do you hate everyone? Must you punish us all in this passive-aggressive, all-encompassing way that results in documents that have not been proof-read, conversational tangents that are frustrating even to simply overhear, consumption of over 3 cups of tea?
You’ve gone and made me invent a drink based on things I could find for free around the office, and let me tell you that a Mocha Milo on Nescafe with two white sugars is fucking awful, and I’m still going to drink the bloody thing in a vaguely masochistic attempt to wake myself up. YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN.
I can only assume that some old wealthy white folk sat around a table and were all like “Let’s make them work at least 8 hours a day for 5 days of the week – we’ll dictate start and finish times and proscribe exact breaks, and that will make the idiots do some work”. I hate you, old white wealthy (let’s face it) men. You’re awful.
Let me put it to you that I’d like to come in at 7am and leave at 7pm some days, and other days (read: Thursday and Friday afternoons) just not be here at all. Let me put it to you that I’d rather look at the amount of work done, not the amount of time taken to do the work.
We need to fix this shit. It is ridiculous.
As times goes on, I just care less and less what any of you think about how I look or what I’m wearing.
This is a tiny joy in my life, a slowly building freedom that increases each time I actually manage to dress for myself. An itty bitty ‘fuck you’ to what I see as the patriarchy and its thumb grinding me down. Don’t misunderstand me – I still love clothes, dressing up, the aesthetic luxury that I’m able to choose from an excessive amount of options (I’ll never complain about that, I know I’ve got a good deal), but I really really am sick of living in a culture where anyone thinks I need their approval to wear any particular clothing option I might choose.
I have friends who seem to get that, who when they do compliment me on my clothes, do so in a way that is less about how I look and more about liking what I’ve chosen to wear. It’s those ones I like best, where I never feel as though I’m competing with anyone or trying to measure up to anything.
I’d love the world to be a place where clothes are creative, where nobody has to look a certain way to slide under the radar or grate up against it. Unless that’s what they want.
But get it into your head: don’t care what you think about how I look. Don’t care about your stupid feelings.
(This is as close as I get to road rage – I’ll be shouting the URL for this rant out my window at you, and if we’re very lucky all you’ll hear is ‘stupid’.)
I know there’s a lot of things going on when you’re driving a car. There’s possibly gears to change, and sometimes you’re going to be driving by distractions such as rainbows or two kids on each other’s shoulders wearing a trench coat, and there’s other cars on the road too. It’s tough. I get it.
There’s a simple rule of the road I want to share that I think will be handy: I do not know where you are driving to and I therefore do not know when you will need to make a turn to get there. Maybe you will make a series of turns to get there. I don’t mind. I’m open to it. More power (steering) to ya. But for the love of my brakes and my over-stimulated adrenaline muscle, or whatever it is, please use your indicators. Going to turn left? By all means, be my guest. Going to turn right? I’m also ok with that, although have you thought about keeping left? #politics
I would like you please to indicate with your blinky orange light what your plans are in the near to very-near future about your turns. This way I will not run into you and you and I will never need to meet in person. This way I will keep all my bits of headlight in one smooth bit, as God and Nature intended.
While we’re here: if you’re not going to be turning, no need for an indicator at all. It’s fine. Put that shit away. You bloody idiot.
I haven’t finished talking about dancing yet.
Recently I have been really into car dancing. It’s like regular dancing but you are also in a car, probably driving the car (if you’re not driving it, why are you in there? Get out, go home, spend some time with your family). It’s mainly upper body work as the lower body is pretty much committed to acceleration, gear change and braking. Keep doing those things with your legs, and by all means use at least one of your hands to steer and at least one of them to move the gear stick. I note this is rapidly becoming a driving lesson. I digress.
Here are some possible ways to get the most out of your new-found love of dancing. It’s a game:
You get bonus points for knowing the words and singing them with your eyes closed to indicate a passionate connection to the message of the song. Harder to do when driving, but not impossible.
You get bonus points for dancing to things from the 90s and still knowing the words and singing them.
You get bonus points for making someone join you while you dance.
You get bonus points if the someone who has joined you is a cat, dog or rabbit that you have also decided to serenade with your singing which you are also doing while you dance.
You get bonus points if you are dancing with the cat, dog or rabbit like they are a human.
You get triple bonus points if you throw in a booty pop.
Hey folks! Listen to me!
You should definitely dance. I’m assuming you don’t know about the joy of dance because you’ve never danced ever. That’s weird, first of all. How did you avoid this awkward teenage rite-of-passage that was the occasional gym class bush dance? Maybe you were from the city and bush dances weren’t your thing? Well, just a three word question for ya: Nut Bush City? Brings together the Bush and the City quite well, I’d have thought – a bit of Nut thrown in for good measure.
If this sort of dancing is the very only sort you’ve ever danced, well, have I got a treat for you. Literally any pop song playing on the radio, or on your electronic devices, has been put together specifically to make you want to dance and not think about the deep well of sadness and existential despair inside of you. Like any pop song at all. Get on that! If you feel silly, good! You are silly!
Whether inside of a car or inside of a living room, or in da club, you can really get some fun had by simply turning the volume up and wobbling your wobbly bits. If you don’t have any wobbly bits that’s fine, use your imagination and wobble it instead. Go to town. This is your time.
Hey, pal with foot-in-mouth issues:
I’m sure you didn’t mean to call me “messy” in front of a good chunk of people we know when you noticed that I had a red face and was wearing gym attire. I’m sure what you meant to say was “you look like you’ve had a good workout”. I’m sure that was it.
You calling me “messy” in such a public context, however, is a fail. What it says to me is that it’s not appropriate for me publicly exhibit signs of having recently performed physical activity. Well, not quite that. What it says to me is that it would be preferable if I were to perhaps not sweat or get red while doing said activitiy. Perhaps also that I was giving off a few too many “I don’t give a fuck” vibes because I was all cracked out on endorphins from a tough but amazing workout.
When you call me “messy”, it makes me feel like my choice to pursue a healthy activity is a bad choice. It makes me feel like my very real and human physiological response to exertion is unacceptable. It makes me feel like it’s preferable for me to be seen and not heard. It makes me feel like I should feel bad about my body.
And I don’t, I really don’t.
Don’t call me messy. Don’t set up barriers for me to trip myself over on in my quest to be a fitter, healthier, more productive member of the world. Just don’t do it.