Saturday, October 11, 2014

Sense, Where app Though?

like the facebooksI haven't posted in a little while because I've been on hold with Centrelink and I think if I had to describe hypocrisy, I would say it has something to do with their iPhone app. It might have something to do with the Abbott government on television announcing cuts to pension, unemployment and family payments and yet they openly accept that the recipients of welfare own devices that cost twice as much as that same television! Say I had to describe logic, I would say it has something to do with cutting payments from whomever logs in to the hypocrisy app, wouldn't it? If saving money and making sense were any more mutually exclusive when it comes to the running of this department, you could call them my parents!

You see, we have two types of poor people in Australia: people who think that they're poor and people who actually are. Centrelink caters for the former group, but not because we need it, it's so we can maintain our shallow, bullshit lifestyles. Our Foxtel subscriptions, our Niccotine addictions, our Smurfberry's, our Friday night Tequila blackouts that stands between us and suicide. That shit. We are all like the Mother from Titanic and Centrelink is Kal, and we all want Kal-link to keep us from being seen wearing Kmart's Bangladesh rags and last month's smartphone.

What we don't understand is that there are no excuses for owning an iPhone while taking money that could be better spent by somebody worse off. That is of course unless you're eating your iPhone. I've heard it's a good source of iron, magnesium, greed, slavery. Or if somehow it's powering your house, or has a wool blanket stuffed inside it that shoots out like an airbag. But if you're sitting there playing that Kardashian game that teaches you how to be more like her and how to earn Assberries or whatever, then I'm sorry, you are not in need of welfare, nor are you hungry, or sick, except maybe with selfishness.

And of course, people will respond with thoughtlessly vomited sound-bites like "yeah, but people are given iPhones for free too y'know!" Which only reinforces how little we understand true-poverty. What we don't understand is that when a person needs to ask others for money, the time it would take for them to pawn a free iPhone into cash wouldn't actually be much time at all. That could be a suit for a job interview, a shower at a gym, meals for a few weeks, an arsenal of knives for the rising up and massacring of the higher classes which must be happening soon, I mean, hurry up already!

Now, I'm not saying people should throw there iPhone away if they're receiving money from the government. If you're entitled, then go get it, no matter the injustice. What I am saying is that we shouldn't be entitled, and we shouldn't have to be told this shit to realise, and our government are really the only ones with the power to reshape that attitude. How? By instead treating a Centrelink log in on an iPhone as a red flag that maybe the only bill this chick is having trouble with is her $60 Vodafone cap, not her electricity, or her water, or her Chrisco bill, or her hospital bill from that time she almost died from cancer years ago!

But no, Abbott would prefer to punish everybody like he's holding his dick in one hand and a machine gun in the other. Sort of the government-equivalent of punishing the whole classroom for the actions of one student. Well, I'm the kid who says to that little arsehole "Thanks a lot!" Abbott needs to get a grip and break some undeserving hearts to save breaking the many hearts that actually need this money.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Is it Really Blank?

ENSCRI.BE: THAT TIME NOTHING WAS BLOGGED








This post intentionally left blank
Well…actually, it’s not blank anymore, but before I pointed out that it was blank it was actually blank. So, you know…just pretend I didn’t mention it.



















-56-

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Alcohol-Exc(use)

like the book

I've been sober, I've been tipsy, I've been drunk and I've been a blackout drunk, I've even made absent-minded decisions, but not once have I ever lost control of my actions. No matter how hammered, sober-Ryan has always had to sign off on what I do first. That's why I think that anybody who's ever used the "but I was drunk" excuse is completely full of shit. Here's why:

I personally don't think anybody has ever done anything simply because they were "drunk." And I truly mean "anything." I think it would be much more accurate to say that deep down, some people just aren't very nice, so when they heard that others are buying intoxication as an excuse, they hit the jackpot.

Really, in the beginning, drinking was just an excuse that men cooked up to justify banging women that aren't their wives, and those fuckers are getting away with it. It's genius really, because we have found a medical reason for cheating! You know, the type of shit you can get a doctor's certificate for! "Ryan will be unable to not commit adultery between the hours of 8pm and 8am as he is suffering from severe intoxication." Chicks weren't buying our excuses, so we needed medical professionals to get on our side too.

Of course, I'm not disputing the fact that alcohol loosens inhibitions and impairs judgement. I've acted like a moron drunk, but I chose to act like a moron. If I cheated, it's because at heart I didn't like my girlfriend, not because a Grey Goose told me to!

Why people are buying this garbage, I will never know! All alcohol does is loosen you up to pave the way for your deepest (and sometimes darkest) desires to fizzle to the surface. Alcohol is a truth-serum, not a new identity. So, no matter how closeted you are, if you're a cheater at the bar, then you're a cheater at heart. Kind people aren't getting drunk and committing genocide. It's not meth! It's just alcohol!

Sunday, August 10, 2014

50kmph Dumb Zone

Reduced speed zones around schools make sense and they prove how big the NSW government's cock is when it comes to road safety decisions. They make the surrounding area less of a hazard to little Timmy, they take pressure off the over-stretched faculty and they reduce the risk of Karen running up the arse of another car as she's gazing at the arse on Scott's dad, the "hot builder." But I still have a few beefs with school zones.

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#1 In our society, the worst thing you can do is not murder, not rape and not genocide, the worst thing you can do is hurt a kid. Fuck, we love kids! Which means that it's everybody's job, whether we like it or not, to protect them from whatever crazy people think they need protecting from. This notion of school zones feed into this attitude. For some reason it's really important for the larger portion of the population to constantly be shifting and reshaping things around this significantly smaller portion, and sometimes enough is enough. We need to draw an unbroken line at our roads when it comes to this kid police state.

But you probably aren't convinced that this attitude even exists. So, the next time you drive through a school zone, count how many school zone 40 kmph signs there are against the number of regular speed signs and attempt to draw logic. I can almost guarantee there will be more 40 kmph than regular speed signs, plus perhaps a few carefully situated speed cameras to catch you looking confused. What this tells us is that the school speed which is only in effect for four hours a day, five days a week excluding the 12 weeks of school holidays each year is more important than the speed limit effective for the other 20 hours of the day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year. That's the attitude. The "lets protect kids at any stupid cost" attitude.

like the book of faces#2 However, it's fair enough that we have them around our primary schools, but if a tenth grader walks out in front of a car…maybe they deserve to get hit. That's right, I said it. Are they really trying to tell me that from age eleven, a child still doesn't have the cognitive ability to understand road danger? A school zone around a primary school is protecting children, but put one of them around a high school, and suddenly we have been deputised into protecting morons! Yerp! We're getting nickel and dimed for not protecting stupidity.

#3 What will seem like a contradiction, I also lament any driver who whinges about the simple existence of school zones. I treat drivers and smokers with the same gloves because they share a key attitude – “what I'm doing is a necessity and therefore I can do it when I want and how I want, regardless of how it affects others.” In other words, drivers think that anything that gets in the way of driving, like school zones, is simply deemed stupid. All the while completely ignoring the fact that if people had driven more carefully near schools in the first place, we'd have less dead kids and no school zones. So whenever they get fined because they were too busy looking at Facebook to look at stupid signs, it's "school zones are dumb" this and "why should I have to pay?" that! Grow up and realise that the moment you get behind the wheel of a car, you sign a contract with the NSW government, no matter how begrudging you might be. This is why I try not to associate myself with other drivers; they're horrible, horrible people!

#4 On an unrelated note, you would think that school zones - reducing the limit from 50 to 40 - would have shown people the importance put on a 10km change in speed. It didn't! Instead, many people instead dance between the posted limit and 10kms above that. So in a 50 zone, people go 60. In a 60 zone, they go 70. School zones are a living education and no body's learning shit! Little do drivers realise that speed limits everywhere are being reduced now with this behaviour in mind, which means we all suffer. So, they'll make 60 zones into 50 because it's simply not safe for us to go 70 on that road, which they know we’ll go. It’s a pre-emptive strike.

So in review: school zones are symbolic of our society's draconian policing of children. The zones themselves are unfair revenue-traps during non-school hours. A zone around a high school is not a school zone, it's a dumb zone. Drivers are a lot like smokers - inconsiderate of others. Finally, we aren't learning from what school zones are trying to teach us and now it's taking Karen longer to drive to Scott's place and cheat on her husband, and Karen needs it bad, guys!

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Jack-Offs Jacking-off

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Let's get one thing straight, if a guy has sex with a girl and she doesn't come, the show's not over! To me, all this jack-off's done is figured out a way to jack-off with a vagina instead of a hand. If you've been on this page before or you know me and you thought my standards were high about trivialities, then you have noooo idea how high they are when it comes to the word 'sex'. Sex is two people naked, moaning in a room, indulging in the fruits of human nature! When a dude grunts after thirty seconds, rolls over and goes to sleep, that my friend is a tragedy! In my mind, until I can get my back looking like a Jackson Pollock, sex has not occurred. Regardless of sexual-competency, my pleasure is only secondary to the girls, and that's how all guys should think.

When I was in school, girls that were way too young to be having sex were. Whenever one of them told me that they weren't a virgin, I imagined something out of a movie. I'd picture her profile in black-and-white, straddling a well-toned gentlemen in a dimly-lit room. The thin, long, white curtain waving in the breeze, because who has time to close windows in that state of mind. She runs her hand over her breast and then through her hair out of pure-ecstasy. She leans in and clamps her teeth on his ear. He whispers in hers with his mouth while guiding her with his hand. Having never had sex myself, that's what I would imagine every time somebody told me they'd had sex. To be truthful, that's still the image I carried around even after I started doin’ it myself, right up until the revelation that this wasn't actually happening! I thought that everybody that wasn't me was having better, amazing, knee-rattling sex. I later realised that my definition of ‘sex’ was a fantasy compared to everybody else's. These lucky-guys were just as skinny as I was, just as white and, most importantly, sex was just a matter of getting rid of some fluids to them. Ugh!

Let's get real though, I'm no sexual marksmen, but that doesn't matter because whenever I jump into the sack, my plan is to try to blow her mind, and I use everything in my arsenal to get that done. That's my point. You don't have to be Deepak Chopra in bed to be a sexual guru; you don't! It's about fucking attitude. It's about thinking "it doesn't matter if I come, but it matters if she doesn't." It's about treating every sexual encounter like it's your last because you might keel over and die the very next day. The last thing you want is for that girl to hear of your death and think "oh, that guy that came early and wouldn't go down on me died. GOOD!"

And fuckin' ay right, it's good! These people are the reason wars happen and that slavery exists! Too many unsatisfied women loose in the world!

I understand though, sometimes it's not even physically possible for some people to be amazing in the sack. Sometimes you're going to come early. Sometimes you're going lose your erection. Sometimes you're going to be too drunk. News flash: It's called oral sex, maybe you've heard of it. And if you don't like that (because you're an idiot) or you're worried about infection (because you're smart), you always have these things called "fingers." They aren't a great substitute, but they’re certainly better than nothing. Time and time again I hear about these assholes just coming prematurely and then...well, that's it. What? Are they joking? Have they only heard about getting head and not about giving it? There are ways of making a girl come that don't involve vaginal intercourse. I'm beginning to wonder if guys are even aware of that.

A year ago, I wrote about the beauty of sex, and that's all I was talking about - sex! The real definition of ‘sex’, not this scarring ordeal guys are putting gorgeous girls through. I'm talking about sex so bad that it makes a girl question her heterosexuality while brushing over it with a therapist later on down the track. If there are guys leaving women wanting more - and there are - then maybe women have been right all along, maybe men are all arseholes. Because how could a guy want sex so badly that he dreams of it all the way through his teens, with the wet dreams and the constant jerking off; how could a guy go onto Google and watch naked women have sex for hours; how could a guy essentially beg a girl for sex, and then finally get to copulating with a real, beautiful, flesh and blood woman and then do nothing to make it a purely transcendent experience!

What's wrong with us?

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Why are Everybody Such Good Drivers?

...is what people should be whinging about.

It's my opinion that humans were never meant to operate vehicles and heavy-machinery. We're too easily-distracted, and distraction doesn't bode well with being in control of a high-speed box of steel. But contrary to every trite, clichéd complaint you've heard from either yourself or others about other drivers, I actually think that we're all very good at driving. I'm not being sarcastic. There would be way more crashes and way more fatalities if we really were as bad as we all say we are, don't you think?

Let me just draw this picture in your head: peak-hour traffic. Two lanes. It's so congested that you feel like you're sperm trying to impregnate the city. I want to go left, she wants to go right. We are literally boxes of painted-steel, centimetres apart with extremely high blood pressure. We all want to get home to our husbands/Xboxes/girls we're trying to bang, but this steel cluster-fuck is in the way. And yet, you'll get to wherever you're going without a scratch on your car. How is that possible! If we really were bad drivers, it would just be fucking dodge 'em cars. A few minutes in peak hour traffic and you'd need a panel-beater! Sometimes getting through these car parks we call Sydney's roads is like trying to get a plutonium core out of a missile without touching the magnetic edges, but we do it somehow! Not too shabby, I must say.

You might be thinking, "Yeah, okay. Now give me some hard-facts, David!" Well firstly, my name's not David, and secondly, let me put this to you: One of the media's many Christmas presents to us in this state is telling us how many people have died on the roads during the holiday season. Every year, they tally it up like the state governments are running a competition on who shouts the beers this year. When the kill count numbers are low, you can almost hear the disappointment in the news anchor's voices, just like last Christmas’ reported seven deaths over the eleven day period. Seven out of the entire state, that is. Have you ever seen NSW on a map? It's big. We have over seven million people here, and only seven of them died? Last census found just under seventeen million registered vehicles, and only up to seven of them managed to hit someone. Bad drivers? Get real! By late December, 2000, one of the worst holiday seasons for road accidents in my memory, twenty-five NSW deaths were reported for that holiday period. So, while everybody's too busy whinging about unsubstantiated opinions, I'm not seeing a real lot of solid facts.

With seventeen million monoliths of steel tearing around corners and flying through amber-signals, I need a number around the five hundred mark to garner a response! Give me images akin to ones after an al-Assad massacre or after a train veers off the rails and off a bridge into a deep lake. Then maybe, juuuust maybe I'll credit complaints about "bad driving." However, while there may not be bad drivers, I'd be delusional if I said that there weren't a fuck-tonne of impolite drivers out there, but that's bore-snore! You'd often find that the driving has nothing to do with the rudeness, and that driving-style is merely a reflection of one's personality. So, when you take the car out of the equation, those people are still fuckin’ rude!

We're good drivers.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Whore Waiting

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If you ever see me on the phone speaking with someone, I actually don't want to be speaking with them, probably because I hate them. That's why I love call waiting. When one of my idiot friends is talking about their sick grandmother or stupid shit like that and I hear that beeping sound, it's like a gift from on high. They should call it "god-waiting!" Because those beeps give me carte blanch to be the twisted, impolite prick that I really am underneath. It's the greatest innovation in the world.

You see, most of my friends are polite, and when they're speaking to me on the phone, they're actually speaking to me. They're not concerned about who else could be calling, they're only worried about our conversation. It's because they're fucking idiots. For me, there isn't enough voltage in this world that could shock me into caring any less about whatever it is they think they have to say to me. So, the moment I hear that angelic symphony of beeps, you could not get me off the phone faster. I must, no, I need to get off and find out whether or not that person is anymore interesting than my mother, because I'm rude and I'm not going to hide that shit.

I love call waiting so much in fact that I wish they had it for face-to-face interactions. Somebody could be speaking to me and then something would just pass over me like a wave. My eyes would go vacant, my body language would become stilted and I'd just walk away like the mothership just called. Then I'd go seek out the person I actually want to speak to.

To me though, my strict-adherence to the call waiting gods isn't a true enough reflection of my rudeness, so I've managed to come up with something better and it's called "whore waiting." What happens is, when one of my whores needs me or whatever, they call me. If I'm already on the phone with a friend or my mum or my girlfriend, it cuts my current call off after five seconds and puts me straight through to the other call. This is good because being as rude as I am can get pretty tiresome, especially with all of that button-pushing and all those pleasantries! I'm not a button-pusher and I'm not fucking pleasant! Whore-waiting is all automated! So when there's a call, I just quickly say "SorryNanny! Somebodywantstosuckmydick! You'reboring! Gottago!" before it cuts me off. Genius.

Who would have thought that that the phone companies would be so accommodating for rude, arseholes like myself. While before people were polite and normal and just simply missed calls because they were in one already, now I can be diplomatic with whom I want to speak to! So write yourself a checklist of the following and tick the ones that apply to you right now: Are you an arsehole? Are you rude? Did your mother or father not love you enough? If you didn't tick any of them, then I'm afraid you shouldn't be using call-waiting; it's only for rude arseholes.

Friday, June 13, 2014

O for Oxy(moron)

For those reading who are still in primary school or whose mathematical-genius far trumps my inability to carry the one, here's a little lesson on what an oxymoron is.

An oxymoron is made up of two things: oxy-, a combining form meaning “sharp,” “acute,” “keen,” “pointed,” “acid,” and then -moron, an apt-description of the kid I saw wearing the below jumper today. Hypothetically, let's call him 'North' (because that's what stupid parents call their offspring). North's a moron because his dumb-jumper is an oxymoron and he doesn't even know it. It's a dumper!

First, let's briefly explore North's dumper at face-value. It LIKE MY FACEBOOKZhas a large Guy Fawkes mask on it, captioned underneath by the word 'disobey'. Guy Fawkes was a guy who tried to blow up British parliament in the 1600s. Since then, this stylised-depiction of him has been an emblem for protestors and anarchists, like Anonymous and the Occupy Wall Street movement. The mask is probably most famous for its prominent use in the graphic novel and film, V for Vendetta - a story about a bunch of fascists who wish to bring the government down and promote self-government. The word 'disobey' only serves to confirm that the use of the Guy Fawkes mask is indeed being used for this purpose and not to display fandom for the V for Vendetta series.

So in essence, North thinks he is fucking the system by wearing it.

However, what I suspect he doesn't know is that his dumper is just another object in the system, and his possession of it has only fed that same system it seeks to oppose. It's a truly fascinating and inspiring amount of stupidity for a single article of clothing.

Assuming that North doesn't sew or print images himself, here's why it's oxymoron:

One. North's dumper is a by-product of slavery. While Fawkes never verbally spoke-out against slavery, his depiction has become a symbol for anti-big-corporation by groups like the Occupy movement. The problem is that most of our clothing is made and sold by big-corporations. What's worse, you'll find that most of them manufacture their products in piece-of-shit factories in places like Bangledesh by people that aren't paid nor treated very well. Slavery is probably the most vile part of our system, and if we need to 'disobey' anything, it's that shit!

So to print a symbol of anti-big-corporation onto something that is sold and made by a big-corporation using exploitation and the nectar of evil that is slavery is just a cluster-fuck of conflicting ideas.

Two. He bought it with money! Money! You know? The cornerstone of capitalism? Let's pretend for a moment that it was actually made by some alternative Hippie indie store. They rubbed hemp into their hands, sewed the dumper together with fair-trade cotton and then sent it through a printing-press, all before sucking back a big motherfucker of a doobee. Even then, this is an oxymoron, because the Guy Fawkes mask is (as an umbrella-term) a symbol of anti-establishment, and money is a symbol of the complete opposite! You can't buy something with money and then use it to preach disobedience of the system that created that same money, because if you do, you're a fuckwit!

From a V for Vendetta standpoint, the dude Hugo Weaving played seeked to create a new system of self-governance, not carry on with the same governance - capitalism! Money is capitalism. Without it, we wouldn't have capitalism. So, the dumper is so dumb that it is even at odds with fiction!

This only furthers the point I was trying to make in my post last year about the popularity of Guns and Roses t-shirts and people who didn't like Guns and Roses that much. These people have no idea what they're buying half the time because they're tricked. They need to wake up! They would buy cancer if you put the right font on the fucking advertisements! You might even say it's a little like buying a Rage Against the Machine album. You might say that.

 

This concludes our lesson on oxymorons and the morons who take part in them.

Friday, June 6, 2014

#bringbacklastingactivism

I'm not usually one to post university or school-work, mostly because it's either garbage or doesn't say 'fuck' enough. However, I'm going to post a blog that I had to write for my course because I'm a little proud of it, I'm passionate about the subject and it's very much relevant at the moment.

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Socio-political uprisings which are brought about by social media and other new media are ineffective in creating lasting change. The prominence and fast-paced nature of social-media tools can often trivialise an activist’s cause into a short-lived meme. Castells (2009) called this “instant insurgent communities” (pg. 363). As seen with the recent Nigerian Bring Back our Girls campaign, digital activism brings enormous, worldwide attention to an issue, but how long will it last before it’s forgotten? This essay will explore digital activism’s effective scalability and its ineffective sustainability, as discussed by Rossiter (2014) in his lecture. It will explore the similarities between today’s activism and the Reclaim the Streets movement of the 90s, before social media, as discussed by Klein (1999). It will finally look at Siapora (2014) and how digital activism’s short term nature is instead more effective as a tool for disruption and circumvention of strict governments.

Hashtags, memes and any other form of viral marketing is an “activist practice” (Rossiter, 2014) and only forms a small part of activism itself. While quoting David Karpf, Yang (2014) said that these are “only a single tactic in a whole repertoire of action used by advocacy groups”. In spite of this, it often seems like a cause doesn’t live beyond its practice and, therefore, dies out once it ends, which can happen very quickly. Siapora (2012) said that communication in digital activism is “more about personal experiences and narratives” and less about “a central binding idealogy” (p. 94). For example, while recent campaigns like the No Make Up Selfie for cancer research and the Bring Back Our Girls hashtag seeked to raise awareness and garner donations, there is very little to identify these campaigns with any underlying organisation or long-term cause to ensure its sustainability. It would seem that the aim of these campaigns is more on the side of scalability, seeking to get as many supporters and shares as possible, sacrificing its life beyond the scope of the campaign. One factor attributed to the issue of longevity is the lack of identifiable leaders to look over these movements and campaigns, like with the Occupy Wall Street movement for example (Rossiter, 2014). Siapora said that these weaknesses “confuse publics and ultimately sabotage efforts for change” (p. 94).

However, there is also the presence of seriality in activist practice, which Rossiter (2014) argues is only another form of sustainability. Seriality refers to practices that are repeated, either in the same or across different movements. Within the same movement or cause, the repetition of a certain practice would engender a sense of continuity of that movement, even in the absence of a clear ideological stance or organisation. Siapora (2012) says that “although on the one hand this may be seen as weakening the movement, on the other it offers it a tactical advantage as movements can regroup and reconfigure themselves with relative ease” (p. 94). If we also look at seriality in a historical light, it could be argued that social media aren’t to blame for short-lived activism and that it’s actually existed all along. We can see this from the Reclaim the Streets movement from 1995. “They camouflage identifiable leaders, and have no center or even a focal point” (Klein, 1999, p. 316). The Occupy Wall Street movement from 2011, 16 years later, also has no leader, no center and no focal point. In fact, Occupy was almost a remediation of Reclaim the Streets, as both seeked to cause disruption by occupying public spaces in protest.

However, perhaps short-term uses of social media aren’t particularly a bad thing and would perhaps be better thought of as tools for disruption and as a side-step to higher powers, like regimes and government. Speaking in terms of the recent repression in Greece, Siapora (2014) says that “disruption politics creates an opening, enables and encourages others to take part in anti-austerity politics, providing a public outlet for the anger and despair felt by many in Greece and which is prohibited and repressed in the streets and squares”.

If we also look at Arab Springs, the internet was a powerful source of disruption. Following the death of Mohamed Bouazizi, a man who had set himself on fire, Tunisians took to the internet in the absence of coverage in the state-run media. They watched YouTube videos and foreign news coverage of their government’s corruption, and “bloggers and activists pushed on, producing alternative online newscasts, creating virtual spaces for anonymous political discussions” (Howard & Hussain, 2011, p. 36). They also state that they were “communicating in ways that the state could not control, people also used digital media to arrive at strategies for action and a collective goal” (pg. 36). As mentioned earlier, in Greece, political participation in public spaces has become heavily policed and the media are simply seen as “propaganda machines” (Siapora, 2014). Siapora states that because of this, Twitter is “one of the few spaces left in Greece for the conduct of public politics”.

In conclusion, while it’s quite certain that online social movements and digital activism deal in meme-like, short-peaks of communication, in the process sacrificing longevity and sustainability, two things can be argued to that point. The first is that there is perhaps sustainability in the seriality of activist practice. Seriality within a common cause extends the life of it, even in the absence of a binding ideology. Seriality across different causes is simply a demonstration of new activist behaviours and practices, introducing an almost linked networked web between each cause. The second argument is that, regardless of seriality and sustainability, the scalability make these practices powerful tools in disruption and in the liberation of information in otherwise repressed and censored environments, such as Greece at the present moment. So perhaps it’s wrong to think of digital activism as a trivial and short-lived endeavour, and better to think of it as powerful in the short-term and somewhat sustainable in a non-traditional sense.

Hit the jump for a reference list…

Sunday, May 25, 2014

The Female Mind is like Indiana Jones

http://facebook.com/enscri.be
While I'd steadfastly agree that the female gender is the far-superior of the two sexes, I must point out that women are bat-shit insane.

Women only ever have one complaint about men, it's that we think with our penises. But that's just one thing - with women, there are millions of things! I look fat. My hair is frizzy. I wonder if they can see my chins. My arse is too big. My arse is too small. Look at my cleavage everybody! I'm nervous about the wedding because I've put on weight. Ew, pervert! Stop looking at my tits! Do these nine-inch heels and all this make up make me look like a circus-clown? Yes. Oh, thank god! I was worried!

Worried about what exactly?

Men think about sex every seven seconds, and women think abou...holy shit. I have no idea what women are thinking ever, because they're sixes and sevens crazy! They don't even know what they're thinking! If this were the Magic School Bus and we went inside a girl's head, I'd imagine it would be not unlike a scene from Indiana Jones! Choose any of the four and imagine pure-chaos.

There's a larger-than-life boulder tumbling toward him and he's running away as it draws closer. He swings from a vine over a pit of spikes and the vine only just holds him to the other side before snapping in half and whip-cracking to the ground. And then the Nazis make an entrance, shooting the place up. They're yelling racial slurs, even though Indiana wasn't exactly Jewish, I don't think. And then Shia Lebouf appears and starts fuckin' up the series. He gently whispers shit into the girl's ear drum like "Ooooh! Doesn't she look pretty?" And she thinks to herself "Yeah! Who said that she could look so pretty?"

That's what's going in every girl's head at any one time.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

I'm a great person. Or why I'm so awesome.

To wrap up my previous post, People I Wouldn't Befriend...

Just before you recycle that invitation you were writing me, take note that the friends I do have, or did have, forever hold a special place in my thoughts and in my heart. For a person that I truly and profoundly adore, it takes a long line of garbage to send me running. However, while I may have a notoriety for bolting at the first wave of a red flag, my sense of loyalty is actually iron-clad, and I mean that with every fiber that makes me human.

If I care about you, there is no end to the list of things I'd do. If it's 3am and you've just found out about your parent’s divorce, I'll be there. If it's New Year's Eve and some ass-hat is giving you trouble, I'd probably just end up being another victim, but I'll be there...bleeding, probably. If you're upset and you don't even want me there, I'll be there anyway, because I'm a creep. It's who I am.

To me, every person is unique, and that's indispensable. The friends I keep, I intend to keep forever.

History is harsh though. In my darkest days, not everything I did defined who I am. I was crippled by a pain and indecision that made me do things that only reflected my anger, not my heart. But that's the past. Today, my veins coarse rich with the purity of warm blood. I even care for people that have nothing to do with me. Need proof?

  • This passed month, I helped my lost bus driver. He took a left instead of a right and every turn he made after that was a wrong one! Meanwhile, there were five other people on that bus just watching while this poor guy was probably freaking out. Five people didn't get up, so I did. I put my laptop away and stood next to him for about five minutes until we were back on track. Not because I had work or class or somewhere to be. It was because he needed help and, like a hard-on for generosity that needs regular attention, I have a lot of help to hand out on any given day.

  • This passed month, I gave some dude ten dollars. He approached me on the street in distress while I was on my way to work. We spoke for a few minutes. He was very polite and apologetic. He spouted off some story about his car radiator and was complaining that there weren't any mechanics within walking-distance. I agreed. He asked for twenty dollars and promised that he would arrange to get it back to me. I gave him all the money I had - a ten dollar note - and joked with him that "I'm a charitable person, not a loan-shark." Why did I do it even though his story was maybe bullshit? Because regardless of authenticity, he was nice! And if I was ever in a pickle and I was nice, I'd like a fellow human being to help me too. Sometimes ten dollars can go a long way for somebody else, but for me, I would've just wasted it on garbage.

  • This passed month, like every month, I went to work. While that might not sound like much considering what I do, the only reason I show up is to help people. It really warms my heart when I know that I've lended a hand to someone in a profound way. I work for the help desk at a shopping centre. I get people who have trouble walking, people who have hurt themselves, people who are panicking because they think their car's been stolen or that somebody's taken their kid and even the lost kids themselves - I get it all, and I love that my job puts me in the position to help those people. It might explain why I haven't found a better job.

  • This passed month, like every month, I was a good friend. I wont go into detail, but it's because I love my friends and I care for each of them, no matter the level of friendship. That's why I'm picky with who I let in.

A lot of this may seem like bragging to you, and that's because it is. Why might you ask? Because I haven't done enough bragging in my lifetime. It seems I need to fill my bragging-quota. For years I sat silent while people scathingly called me an arsehole. That's because I simply didn't care for what I viewed as a narrow-minded opinion from people who knew nothing about me. In fact, I still don't care, because you see, I'm not writing this for me, I'm writing this for my friends - past, present and future.

I write this for the people I've met this year that may have the wrong idea about me. For the friend that has constantly felt like they've had to defend me in conversation. For my partner whom it kills when the word 'arsehole' is preceded by my name. This is for them, not for me and not for you.

For once I need to care more about how my perception might hurt my friend's feelings and less about how it doesn't hurt mine. You see, I am not an arsehole. Gospel.

Yeah, I may not be the greatest person you've ever met but, take it from the person who knows me best, I'm pretty fuckin' good.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

People I Wouldn’t Befriend

I'm hard to get along with because I'm picky. All it really takes is for somebody to do something dumb in order for me to call it a day. But I'm not talking about 'mistake-dumb', where you accidentally trip, push over a library-stack and kill a small child. I'm talking about 'on-purpose-dumb' that normally starts with a person saying "check me out scaring this kid!"

So, here are a bunch of on-purpose-stupid that would make me drop a friend like a bag of soil:

People that block sneezes
Sooooo dumb! I once blocked a sneeze by accident and I almost had an aneurism! I had a headache all day. So many questions are raised by this, like why? Or, better yet, are they not aware of the function of a sneeze? It's to expel germs from the body into the air to prevent you getting sicker. It's right next to pissing. How much expelling can a sneeze do when you block the fucking thing?

Anybody who uses the term 'punch-on'
Two reasons: one, the syntax is illogical, and two, the people who use that term are generally the ones that do the 'punching-on'. There is nothing more important to me in a friend than gentility and correct syntax.

People that wear glasses with no lenses
Here's my basic understanding of mathematics and optometry:
Lenses + Frames = Glasses
Lenses - Frames = On the ground
Frames - Lenses = Zero friends
Get it? No? Oh that's right, coz ya dum! 

People that use tablet-computers as cameras
Admittedly, there are excuses for this. You forgot your camera or whatever, fine. But you look ridiculous, and I'm with you, so now I look ridiculous!

Passengers that have GPS-related trust-issues Look, when I’m following the GPS, I'm open to some alternate routes from passengers. If you know the area well or it's sending us into peak-hour, guns-out chaos, then sure, suggest away! It is just a machine after all; we are smarter. But regardless of our opinions and preferences, the thing is going to get us where we want to go, that needs to be agreed upon when you step into my car.

Some people don't get this. If you keep saying shit like "why didn't you go down down Elizabeth Drive?" Or "where is this thing taking us?" And then you pull out the navigation on your phone and I start receiving two competing sets of directions, then fuck off and get the fuck out’ta the car. I can't take it. I don't need somebody to demonstrate where Google and Navman differ, I just want to get to the party.

I'm sorry, but The nice Navlady takes precedence over my friends, that's just my golden rule.

There's a follow-up to this coming in the next post, so keep an eye out.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Jiggers of Ridiculousness


Who else has heard about this sweat-ban bullshit?
"New alcohol laws preventing sweaty people from entering special events will be imposed from June 3rd across central Sydney. 
This follows an emerging trend among young event-goers who are reportedly drinking to excess a day prior to an event, then "sweating out the alcohol into plastic cups" and drinking it to intoxication during the event, says NSW Premier Mike Baird. 
Under the new laws, anybody appearing to be perspiring on entry will be refused. Anybody seen engaging in any physical activity, such as running or exercising, will also be removed. 
Head of the Australian Event Association, Garry Sonnet, is outraged, claiming that ticket sales will suffer as a result.”
New South Wales, I swear to God, what a state!

I'd be lying if I said that I was surprised though.

For years now Sydney have been crawling toward increasingly draconian guidelines that not just affect drinkers but everybody as a collective population. It's gotten to the point where it's becoming a crime just to be near the service of alcohol, even if you're one hundred percent, praise Mohamed, sober. This brings me back to my visit to the annual noodle market held in Hyde Park earlier this year.
I'd been to the Hyde Park noodle market once five years ago and it was the cat's pyjamas. This year, not so much. When we first arrived, the park was gated up like a prison. Getting in was no Thai Beef Salad either. I thought that with that level of security, maybe there was a plane behind those gates and we had to actually fly to the noodle markets this year. There were thorough lay your shit out on the table bag checks. I even had to blow the guard like I'd normally do on a trip, so you can imagine my dismay when we got in and there was no plane! We looked around a little and the moment I see it, it fucking hits me like a bus! There's a bar this time! I thought to myself, 'How ridiculous! A bar at a noodle market!' And then I didn't think about it anymore.

That is until I wanted a bottle of water.

You see, I was only carrying two dollars on me like an idiot, so we had to go to the cash machine a few minutes away on the street, but I needed some water first. Problem is, none of the stalls were selling liquids like they did the first time I went, only the grease in their food; they just kept directing me to the bar. So I wait in line behind all of the alcoholics and the staff check my ID for water; not a big deal. The big deal is when I tried to leave the park with it in my hand and the guard wouldn't let us. He kept pointing to a sign that read ''Alcohol prohibited passed this point" (the area is normally an alcohol free zone). Of course, we told him that it was just water, as it was a transparent, labelled bottle. But his argument was "How do I know that? You could've put alcohol in there?" And I realised, 'Fuck! He has us there. Silly old me! How could he possibly know that I didn't just put vodka into a Mount Franklin bottle? How could he know that I didn't pour Jack Daniels into a condom and now it's sitting in my large intestine?' My answer to those questions is: WHY THE FUCK SHOULD IT MATTER? I'm at a food festival, not a mosque! I'd been there for no more than fifteen minutes and we'd already had our bags checked, had our IDs checked for water and had a clash with a bouncer. A bouncer at a fucking noodle market! Can you believe it? And why? Because there was alcohol being served nearby? I didn't go there to drink! No body goes to a noodle market to drink! I went there to have a nice night in the park and eat noodles with my girlfriend, instead we had to spend the night dealing with the michigoss that is now a New South Wales licensed event.

When I went the first time a few years ago, on the other hand, it was purely a harmonic experience. We could just walk in and out of the park without interrogation. We weren't imprisoned. We didn't have to explain shit to anyone, except for what meat I wanted with my noodles. Why? Because simply, there was no alcohol around.

My point is that what was once a nice event was turned to shit with one little addition: alcohol, and that really goes for anything you add alcohol to now. That's why I just chuckle when these pub and club owners get so worked up when they're patrons start punching and slicing each other up. The owners always act like they're confused about why people are doing it, like they’re in the frozen yogurt business or something! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that their bars are wallpapered with advertising for alcoholic-beverages and are being constantly lined with shots by their own staff. I'm no doctor, but maybe that has something to do with it. To put it simply, if you're going to get huffy when drunk people are going to behave like drunk people, then stop serving alcohol. To add to that, if you can't add alcohol to something without interrogating people and making things harder for whatever reason, then might I suggest the same thing – not to serve it.
Here's another question: does alcohol really need to be everywhere now?

I love drinking as much as the next guy, and it would be nice to be able to have a few drinks everywhere that I go, but I never asked for it to be that way. I never asked for it to be at the movies, I never asked for it to be at the noodle markets, or at the shopping centre, or at dinner, especially if it means having to be ID'd, bag checked and constantly scrutinised for sobriety. Why didn't I ask for that? Because I'm fine with going somewhere else for my poison. I fully appreciate that some places are for food and some places are for gettin’ stupid. I'm happy to see a film and then visit a bar afterwards. That's why having a bar at the noodle market was so ridiculous to me. What's more, Hyde Park is literally in the middle of a city that has so many nightclubs, pubs and bars, it looks like the maps of our city have fuckin' chicken pox. To put it simply, we like drinking. But couldn't people have just drank after their noodles, not during? Is that so bad?

So, if I had to chock what I'm trying to get across into one sentence, it would be: If you can't handle the obvious repercussions of serving alcohol or you can't serve it without your business or event being run like the aim is a paradise utopia, then why serve alcohol?

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Uni is a Sexual Tiger

When I finished high school, people in my grade jumped straight into university's pants like it was a hot babe on prom night, and that always puzzled me. The notion of finishing a relentless thirteen year education and then immediately beginning another even more relentless one confused me. "Why not enjoy your youth a little bit?" I'd ask. But since starting a degree myself, I finally get university now! It's all about the chicks, right? Or if you're a chick yourself, it's about the dicks. Or if you're gay, it's about the dudes. Or if you're a lesbian, it's about the boobs. If you've got a fetish, it's about the fucking faculty, or fucking the faculty, rather. I get it now! It is literally a meat-market on campus, and these lectures and assessments are only hurdles in the way of getting a piece!

I get university now because from the first week that I was there, I would've needed a gas-mask not to smell the sex in the air. It's rampant - the sex, or more accurately, the desire for it. Most girls are trying to avoid it, all guys are rooting for it (pun intended). Want to know how I'm so sure? One of my teachers - and that's all I'll disclose just in case she employs me one day - is a fox. The moment she stepped through the door, I saw a quirky, orange-furred, hunting fox. The word on campus seemed to share that opinion. The guys I spoke to had noticed. The girls I spoke to had heard other guys say so. The jury is in on this chick! Some need prodding and probing before they'll eventually let you in on their thoughts, but we're all thinkin' the same thing.

So if guy's ears are perking up over this thirty year old mother of two, then you could imagine what else is when there are quite literally hundreds of hot girls in their late teens to early-twenties walking around on a daily basis - young girls! To make matters worse, the cohort of my campus is comprised of more girls than the less appealing gender.

I also get university now because the campuses are dangerously provocative. At my particular one, I could take a girl out without even leaving campus! Everything is there! This is what I'd do: I'd start with a romantic dinner at the uni-restaurant. Then head on over to the cafe in the hopes of divulging some personal details over an innocent milkshake before moving to the uni-bar where we get a little looser. We drink, we divulge a little more, we drink a lot more, we flirt, and woa! Her hand is on my knee! So then we could stumble over to the bean-bags or the loungey-bed areas of the library to make out; believe me, they're accommodating. However, we could skip the library and head straight to the uni-village (or uni-hotel) and make the beast with two backs. Single night accommodation for seventy bucks, a mere twenty bucks more than what you'd find at your regular hooker-hotel. We'll then of course wake up in the morning, either awkwardly or still horny, hopefully the latter. We'll shower and I'll go across the road to my Media Cultures lecture. That's-fucking-possible!

In short, there is enough at this campus for me to maintain a second relationship under the guise of 'study'. "Where were you last night, Ryan?" "You're crazy! I was working on my essay, I swear!"

So, what I'm trying to say is: university is a party, and that's without living in a dormitory! Seriously, the learning commons room has two wine glasses in the kitchenette! I swear, the only thing my campus is missing are those condom vending machines in the bathrooms! When you're boyfriend says that he's studying, he's not lookin' at books! And when you're girlfriend says she needs to go to a mandatory workshop...well, actually, that might be all she's doing, but she's being watched, you can't argue with that. So if you have a partner trying to make something of themselves at university, convince them to just quit and become electricians, because university is a sexual tiger! Roar!

Monday, March 31, 2014

Not So Free Delivery

A few months ago after I had just moved in, I decided to try the local Chinese restaurant out and they instantly earned themselves a new enemy, purely based on the bullshit service that was on offer. I am that enemy.

This got me thinking about the constant fear in which I'd live if I ran any business that offers delivery. The thing is if you give bad customer service or piss a customer off, what's to stop them from just calling in fake delivery orders and sending you broke? There would be no way of telling which orders are real and which are fake. The customer has the status quo, which means you’re up shit-creek!

Sure, you could change the store number, but that's not a hasty thing. You first need to change store signage, reprint menus and communicate the new number to your existing customer-base. And let's be honest, even then, not everybody is going to get that memo, so you're going to feel it for a while.

So basically what I'm saying is, if you want great customer service, visit a pizza place, and if you want to be worried all the time, open a pizza place.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Yelling & Synthetic-Sorrows

When I was just a tadpole, I liked this revoltingly-juvenile celebrity magazine, mostly because I liked the posters that came with it. One day all those years ago, I was out shopping with my father and I saw that the new issue included a thing of lip gloss. So I asked 'Please, please, Dad, can I get it?' And I bet he thought 'what the hell? It's a dumb magazine', but he gave me the money anyway. I only wish that I was gay so that this would be my coming out post, but alas, no. On the contrary actually, I was going to give it to a girl I dug and, in the process of buying her affection, add some posters to the wall. So, I walked up to the docile Asian man working the newsagency, no doubt the owner, I handed him the magazine and a fifty dollar note (because that's how much magazines cost) and I politely asked for my lip gloss. Now before I go any further, understand that in my days of walking on the child side, I was a sweet, shy, polite little boy, which I still very much am, only difference is that I hadn't quite discovered the delectable art of profanity and sarcasm just yet. This is where the newsagent informed me that he had none left. Dismayed and confused, I timidly accepted that for three reasons: 1) I was shy, 2) I couldn't see why he would be lying, and 3) I didn't want to add insult to injury by drawing further attention to the fact that I was a boy making a fuss about strawberry lip gloss. So I walked away with the magazine in hand, disappointment in heart and no lip gloss.

I went back to my dad to tell him and he didn't buy a fucking word of it! He walked, no, he stormed up to the guy, asked for the lip gloss, the man repeated what he had told me a few minutes earlier and dad lost his shit! Yelling! Swearing! Demanding for the lip gloss! He even threatened to 'tip the shop over' if we didn’t get it - an exact quote that I use to this day. So, there I was, twelve years old, endeavouring to keep my non-gay identity intact and then my dad comes along yelling 'my son was nothing but polite and you still won't give him his lip gloss!' Customers were watching. His co-workers were watching, and the newsagent knew they were watching too. I literally saw fear in his eyes and sweat break from his flushed face. But it was the sweat and fear of a liar! Because just as he could take no more of my old man's abuse, he handed over a thing of lip gloss as it was advertised on the front of that stupid magazine I was holding in my hand.
So, putting aside the fact that it is now clear to you why I am the way I am, and also putting aside the mystery of how my father was so unequivocally certain that this man was just a fraud in news-wrangler's clothing, the reason I tell you this little tale is to demonstrate what has since blossomed into what is now a culture of yelling and, thusly, a culture of synthetic-apologies.


Culture of Yelling
The general consensus among most customer-servicemen is 'get me through this day with as little bullshit as possible'. So when some nut walks up to one of them and starts yelling because the store won't give shit away for free or whatever their issue is, there are two things that can be done: one is the correct way, and the other is the incorrect but quicker, and therefore, more appealing way.
For instance, Dick walks into a store looking for a refund (his name's actually Richard, but we're calling him 'Dick' because he is one). Unfortunately, the staff can't give him a refund because according to their policy, it's impossible. The store-assistant politely explains this to him, actually using the word 'impossible'. Then Dick starts yelling. They explain that they won't tolerate quasi-primate-behaviour (I'm paraphrasing of course), but he continues making a scene anyway because Dick is a gentlemen. So they call security or their local police station and they escort him out or Taser his testicles or whatever's socially-acceptable now with this state's Police department.
On another day, Norman goes in looking for the same refund (we're calling this one 'Norman' because it sounds like 'normal'). Once again, the shop-assistant informs Norman about the policy that makes that type of refund impossible. He enquires further, calmly speaks to the manager whom simply reinforces what the assistant said and everybody leaves a little dismayed, but no psychological-scarring.

That's what should happen, here's what's actually happening.

Dick yells and the world is his oyster! Take the fucking keys to the city, because he is God! He is Kong! And of course, the assistant is like 'sorry, sorry, sorry! Yes, you are the best.' They won’t only give him a refund, they'll give him refunds for shit that didn't even come from that company! Meanwhile, Norman wouldn't get the refund. Why? Because he didn't yell; the fool! That's his punishment. How dare he not frighten or humiliate anyone? The manager is like 'You know what, that fuckhead's not getting a refund if he's going to act that way!'
 
That's a pretty sad message. To a customer, what does that say to me? If I yell, I'll get whatever I want regardless of the rules? If I yell, they'll roll out the red carpet, but if I'm polite and calm, I'm only disadvantaging myself? How is that a thing?

That's why I chuckle now whenever somebody explains a rule to me or gives me some list of cans and cannots, because in this culture we've built, bosses wipe their asses with them everyday! I bet if I said 'Yeah, okay. Now show me the rules for customers that yell', they'd just tear up the rule book right in front of me, scream that there aren't any, rip off their shirt, run away while performing numbers from Annie and check themselves into the closest psychiatric ward! Rules are like a gay guy in Russia the moment a customer starts making a scene: means nothing
Also, in a culture of yelling, in which we are, you not only observe behavioural-dissent among customers, but among staff too. The message sent to customers that yelling is beneficial is two-pronged, because it also sends the message to staff that they're stupid for following the rules in the first place. Think about it. The staff are berated for saying 'No, this is the policy. No, no, it's written in stone'. But then their weak, piece of shit boss scurries out and makes them look and feel like insignificant pigs-asses by giving the customer the refund anyway! After a person has just been treated like a scratching-post, rallying on the side of a policy they were made to believe is iron-clad, for a superior to then rally against it is, in my opinion, the greatest and most humiliating token of disrespect.

To those that I'm talking about: that’s also a double-edged sword. It's not only to the detriment of your team in the short-term, it's to the detriment of your fellow customer servicemen. You remember them, don't you? You're fuckin' partners battling with you on the front line!

But it's very simple why shop assistants and bosses do this; there's no mystery here: it's in keeping with the 'get me through the day' attitude that I mentioned before. Giving an unruly customer what they want gets them away the fastest, while calling the bacon or security will take time and probably just make them angrier. That's why we hand the money over when we're being burgled, it's the 'get me through the day without being shot!' motto that us humans live by. So, they opt for the 'take what you want' solution, but it's not so much a solution than it is a big, selfish band-aid! By doing this, this customer learns two things: that this behaviour is tolerated and this behaviour is what works. So the next time they have some problem with a place, they'll pack their bag, load their yelling-shotgun and do the exact same thing. They could be back to the same store since it's now a sure-thing, and the boss will just have to give more to get rid. Then more and more people will catch on, and thus, a culture of yelling is born. Hell! Maybe us dudes can eventually get some sex out of this! "I will not leave this store unless your casual removes her fucking clothes" and of course the boss will be like "Why don't I just blow you instead? Will that be satisfactory?" Because you know, whatever gets them away the fastest.

Yelling is rewarded, manners are not, and that's really at odds with what my parents used to tell me. Whatever happened to kicking people out? Is that old-hat now or something? Can you even be old-fashioned at twenty-three? I don't think I know any other fashions.

Anyway, that brings me to my next point...

Culture of Synthetic-Apologies
Whenever I'm buying something and the assistant says the word 'sorry' to me, I'm like 'Egh! Bring me a fucking bucket!' Don't apologise to me if you don't mean it, or to anybody else for that matter. "Beep-boop-I'm-sorry-beep-boop", that's all I hear really. Mean the things you say, please! I think I'd prefer it if these people just stabbed me in the side of the neck with a pair of scissors! At least I'd know that it came from somewhere real!

You see, in a culture of yelling, you will always discover a sub-culture of synthetic-apologies. Try it out for yourself: one day soon, get a little stern with somebody serving you, someone who seems like they're spirit hasn't quite died yet, and they'll immediately start filling their underwear with the physical-embodiment of fear, and they'll then take it and start spewing it forth in copious amounts verbally to prevent any yelling to occur. Just a verbal-rainbow of perfunctory bullshit like 'sorry', 'my apologies' and 'I like this job'. Bleeerg! And people think that they aren't owned by anyone? Please!
Once I was in a store and I didn't realise that it was that time of the week when I should be selling my body for food, and the card machine read 'insufficient funds', and the girl apologised to me, and I thought to myself, 'Why the hell do you care, lady? Net banking never apologises to me! So if the web dun give a shit, then why would you!’
 
My question is: When a person starts saying 'sorry' for everything to everyone, all day, everyday, then what does that word mean in the end? To me, in this case the concept of an apology has gone from grief to prevention. From reactive to pre-emptive. When they go home at night and say sorry to their parents, husband, wives, kids, housemates, what sort of gesture is it if they've been saying it all day to people they'd sell for cigarettes? Nothing. It's like a hooker banging her husband.
I know that every time I say sorry to someone - a real sorry that you have to dig deep for - a weight gets lifted from my shoulders. It's like a B12 shot to my soul. But whenever I've said it even a little bit begrudgingly, which was beginning to happen at work, I'd feel like I'd need a shower, but not just any shower, the type of shower you have after going near a Japanese power plant!

For my own sanity, I'm starting to limit myself to only saying sorry to things that I'm sorry about, which as I write this I realise is basically nothing at a customer-service job. Also from now on, I'll breathe when I start to turn blue and blink when my eyes begin to crust over; just mentioning obvious things for humour, you see. I'll admit though, it's hard to abstain from the word completely, so I've replaced it with 'unfortunately', 'I'm afraid to say' and, for special occasions, 'I'm sorry to say'. Why? Because I refuse to become one of those people that just mechanically says shit, like a knee-jerk reaction. Yell, 'sorry!', yell, 'sorry!'. Like some puppet! Or a robot! Take your pick.

No, you know what, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you feel that you have to tip toe around and choose your words carefully like we're living under Stalin! I'm sorry that somebody is yelling at you right now because either your weak-ass boss or every other boss not unlike yours was too much of a pussy - yeah that's right I said it! - pussy to do what was necessary and make a managerial decision! I'm sorry, but there will come a time when all of this over-tolerance and cock-massaging abolishes the weight that those of us in customer service put behind our rules and regulations, and it will be chaos. Unfortunately, the pony has to shit sometime, I'm sorry to say.

Friday, February 28, 2014

Lazy by Matriculation

Like the page!"Have I been bad?"

Some people just aren't made to sit in a classroom and waste time not having sex, which is fine because sometimes I'm too busy to fix the plumbing on my own. From kindergarten to year ten, for me those sorts of kids were a treasure-trove of chuckles: drawing swirls on ceiling fans, repeatedly pressing the stop button on school buses and having back-and-forths with teachers - hilarious. But then when we get into year eleven and onward and the government-imposed sentence of schooling is over, to me the funniest thing they do is show up to class when they could just simply leave...or should I say 'frustrating'?

You know what I'm thinking of doing, I'm going to go to prison (let's not lie - it'll probably be for murder), whinge the entire time about being there and then when they tell me that my sentence is over, I'm going to break down in tears, screaming 'if you try and make me leave, I will fucking shank you! I like the sodomy!'

I'm then going to get myself a treadmill for a little 'forced out of the slammer' gift, do about five minutes on it and then grab a burger so big that you'll ditch your religion. Beef and bacon on Good Friday! A nice sacrilegious meal!

Both examples of two things that are less ridiculous than staying in school after eleven years of failing it.

When school's out not just for summer but forever, why don't they just get out? I mean, this is a premium-cut of stupidity, I must say. This shit is at least hundred dollars a kilo, you don't even know! To fail at school and consistently want to leave and then be so dumb and so bankrupt of motivation that they won't leave when they're being let out - wow! That's truly fascinating!

You see, when I'm being made to do something that I dislike, and then somebody tells me that I no longer have to do it, I stop doing it. Is that weird behaviour? What logic is there in staying in school? All they're doing from that point on is wasting everybody's time and wasting their parent's money. Firstly, it wastes the teacher's time because whenever the moron misses class, which is often, the teacher has to make sure that the he/she has what they need to catch up. Also, like I said, these students are usually too dumb and unmotivated to understand anything! So everything has to be explained twice! Now, I'm no mathematician, but if the teacher has explained it once to us while the moron was away because they came down with a bout of masterbaforia or whatever, and they then have to explain it again to them and then once more because the dumb-fuck just isn't getting it, that's a total of...just gimme a sec! Beep-boop-beep-boop...three times that this teacher has had to explain what a fucking proper noun is and how it differs from a regular noun! Three times!

Secondly, in the midst of all of this triple-explaining, my time is wasted because class-time has been pissed away. This means less time can be spent explaining new topics the first time and suddenly I have more homework to do! And it's all because some guy in my class has a dick in his hand instead of a brain in his head! That's right, I could have perfect attendance but, because of this knuckle-dragger, I have to catch up in my own time anyway! So my time's now wasted. Then to top it off, these students talk through class, they distract the people around them and they distract the teachers, thus, wasting even more time.

So let's review: they make teachers explain things three times because they weren't there, which wastes time, and when they are there, they waste everybody's time by distracting them anyway. Fan-tastic!

At the end of year eleven, my first voluntary year of school, I made the decision to leave school and do my final year at a college, not at school. You see, I had the misconception that the end of year ten would sift out all of the aforementioned morons, but it didn't. So I then foolishly thought that going to college would expose me to a more adult-environment, as people of any age are welcome to complete the course, but it wasn't. It was the same old grass-fed bullshit! This cut of stupidity has to be at least two hundred a kilo, because this bunch weren't just simply continuing their schooling, they fucking started it themselves! They're the ones that got off their lazy-ass one year and filled out all the forms. It was them! So why? Did they have a moment of motivation, signed up for college and then accidentally jerked it off in front of some porn? How does one go from a motivated student to some unruly creep that shows up for no reason?

Some have suggested that this is parental-pressure, which I could definitely see. However, to me, this speaks volumes about how deficiently-minded these parents are! I'm going to say seventy-five dollars a kilo of stupidity for this one. By the end of year ten, their little shit has been going to school for eleven years. You're telling me that after eleven years, they couldn't tell that they're kid is an academic-disaster? Plus, I went to a private school with these people, are their parents fuckin' rich? For example, My school fees for year eleven were just under three and a half grand! What job do they have that allows them to throw away over three thousand dollars on an education that isn’t being used and, more importantly, where do I go to get that job? Because I want it!

My only other real suggestion is that it's easier to get welfare payments when you're a student in this country. Sometimes it's just a formality to these guys. They'd rather fuck around in class and make things difficult for others than work for the money. I suspect that was the case for most when I went to college, especially considering that welfare also waived most of the course fees if you’re eligible. Some had it down to an art. They were well-aware of the line that would get them kicked out and off payments if they crossed it, and they rode that god damn line all year. They knew how many classes to show up to each week, they knew when it was time to lay-low for a while - they were artists, I swear. I said 'artists', not 'arses'. But yeah...they were also arses. But this is also dumb, because I refuse to believe that this method is any easier than just working. I mean, class is really boring and working pays way better than welfare.

The school year itself is a lot like a war, have you noticed? You never end up finishing it with the same amount of people as when you started. School’s a lot like Normandy. The boat hits sand at the beach. With suspense the soldiers wait. Gunfire can be heard in the distance. Then 'BOOM!' The door comes down and two men immediately fall to the ground, their bodies full of bullets. Then a couple get picked off in the water. A few die on the sand. And the academics manage their way behind walls further up the beach and quickly disperse through the battlefield.

We're only a month into the school year, so the door has really only just swung open, but give it time and more and more will leave or defer or get kicked out, riddled with bullet-holes no doubt. Which is good; leave! But why stay? Why be somewhere when you don't have to be, that's my question? Is it for welfare payments, parental-pressure, a party, to make friends, school-girl fetish? Why? But, naa! You can't answer me because you're an idiot that never showed up to Thursday afternoon English!

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Foxcunnts

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You remember how those Foxconn workers burned to death in that factory that one time and everybody at Apple were too worried about losing their iPad stock to give a shit? Well here's a new burn for those that (unfortunately for them) survived: Foxconn and Google have made a deal to begin replacing their factory's human Foxconn workers with robotics and automation. Now I've read about ten of these articles and it needs to pointed out that these journalists don't seem to believe in the word 'replace'. The reason is probably because they don't want people to know that the very workers that are being replaced will most likely be the ones constructing the robots that will replace them. Of course, I'm only speculating, but I find that big ironic media-elephant to be some weird hybrid of hilarious and tragic.

But first, let's get the simple fact out of the way that Foxconn is a vile corporation, and big surprise, they're based in none other than one of the funniest countries: China! Everyday I lament about how difficult it is to live on the same planet as the people who run that company. I call them 'Foxcunnts' to make me feel better. Let me tell you a little something about Foxconn. Foxconn is hell. They should just rename it to 'Hell' so that iPhone users aren't duped into thinking that their devices are forged on angelic-clouds or whatever Apple fanboys think. Amazingly, Foxconn is where most of the world's electronics are whipped up. Apple. Microsoft. Nokia. HP. You name it.

Funny that I should mention whipping, because here's how bad this place is. This is the place where the prototype for the iPhone 4 went missing and later showed up in some bar. So utterly afraid was the dude responsible for losing the prototype that he decided that killing himself would be easier than facing these Foxcunnts. Suicide-talk a little icky for you? GOOD! Because this is the place that had sooooooo many workers leaping from the tops of their factories that they installed suicide-netting to prevent anymore from happening. Yeah! This place is so ghastly that people can't even wait 'til the end of their shift to off themselves! They even started making them sign anti-suicide agreements. I mean, in 2010 they had eighteen attempts; it basically rained bodies! And I just love how that was their answer - netting! Not 'Hey Foxcunnt #1, maybe there's something wrong here since we've had nine suicides in the span of three months?' You know how many coworkers of mine have killed themselves ever? Fuckin' zero!

Of course, there are all the other bells and whistles synonymous with slave-labour: long hours, no days off, minimal pay, all that shit.

And that's a normal day at the office. But when a new iPhone is coming out or whatever, Foxconn goes ape-shit.

Enough about shit you could just Google, and should. To add to all of the hardship, I'm willing to lay money down that the final legacy of these poor bastards before they are thrown out (probably literally) will be for them to build there replacements, and quite possibly die while doing so. While to us spoilt-westerners, we can just go and get a new job, the reason these people put up with all of this shit is because it's all they can get to put food on the table and not live outside. Many of them actually live in on-site dorms offered to the workers by the company, not because they are at all healthy to live in, but because they're free. By the way, didn't Satan show itself as a serpent and convince some people to take something else for free but then they felt like shit about it afterwards? An apple or something? Hm. And who makes iPhones again? Apple Inc.? I don't know about you but I'm seeing a bit of a connection here. But I digress. So if they lose these jobs, they also lose their homes (trying to work out if that's bad or good). So being made redundant I'd imagine would be not unlike a death-sentence. This would be the ultimate final emotional-assault - to make your employees build the things that will stop the money that they use to buy their food and the job that provides them a residence. Diabolical.

But you know, we all want faster mobile internet or whatever.

Mark my words. When a company of employees whose job it is to assemble electronics and the company then wants to replace them with electronics that don't need to be paid, don't need breaks and won't end up in the news when they die, then who better to get than those same people to assemble them for you. Genius. They also would never get the Yanks in to assemble them; evidently, they only like torturing their own people (and sometimes Indians). It's also such a shame that Google, one of the only companies not associated with those Foxcunnts, have now joined them to further their robotics division. That wouldn't be an issue if it wasn't for Foxconn seeing this as an opportunity to put a bunch of impoverished people that they simple see as annoyances out on the street. It's kind of like Google and Foxconn are scratching each other's backs with the cold, dead fingers once attached to Foxconn's workers.

Friday, January 31, 2014

Baguettin’ Sick of this Shit, Neeson!

Is he fucking serious? I know, I’m serious, I’m sure you’re pretty serious yourself, but is he? Less than a month since I first posted about how I’m done seeing posters of Neeson holding guns and now there’s another? What the fuck! I didn’t even have enough time to come up with a clever title or anything, I just had to recycle the other fucking one!

Well, fuck you Liam Neeson, here are some more fucking baguettes!

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Tuesday, January 21, 2014

All Talk, No Walk

You know those people that start speaking to you and it's like 'Toot! Toot! All aboard the bullshit train!' Why do they do that? Sometimes I just want to have a normal conversation where everybody says things that actually happened; is that weird? But, of course not, because the difficulty level on this craaazy little thing called life is too high for them to exercise what we call 'integrity'.

There was this guy in high school that drove me up the wall with this shit! He lead a sad, boring little teenage life after the bell rang, so he had to lie to make himself sound more interesting and less like a friendless turd. And it was always about sex with this kid! He spoke of girls as if they were just monkeys in a forest full of his cock! Instead of them swinging from vine to vine, they were just swinging from a bunch of dicks - his dicks!

I swear, listening to this cat's stories was like operating a jack hammer without ear-safety equipment. Once he was telling me about this time he went over a girl's house and they started watching porn; for the purpose of this post, let's call her 'Alyssa'. Alyssa was like 'Hey! Would you like a drink? I've got juice or, um, Sprite?' and he replied 'Na! I'm good, but do you have any porn, by chance?' Of course, she eagerly exclaimed with a big 'Yeah!' Perfectly plausible story so far. So, they're watching the film and somewhere in the post-blowjob, mid-anal portion of this cine-sexual encounter, Alyssa turned to him and said 'I want to do that with you'. And then they did. I am paraphrasing of course because what I didn't mention is that all the way through the riveting telling of this tale, I'm distracted with trying to get to sleep in a tent, set up in the middle of some forest, on a school camp, in the throes of whether or not I should just douse myself in petrol right there and end this whole thing with a cigarette someone hopefully smuggled onto the trip!

I pleaded with this idiot to admit to me that what he had just wasted my time with was a complete fabrication, but that worthless piece of shit would not budge. He…would not budge at all!

My problem is that I have a pretty good gut about the authenticity of any recount. This gut is like a polygraph. I can never put my finger on what it is that tips me off, whether it's a gap in a detail or an over-embellishment, but when a person is lying, I just fuckin' know! On the odd occasion, it is just that burger I had earlier, but normally, if you're bullshitting, I'm unrolling the metaphorical toilet paper. I suspect the reason I've become so good is because I used to make shit up and exaggerate 'til the cows came home. From trying to convince people that I was a secret agent to twisting and remoulding something that happened to increase it's impact, I was a professional bullshitter, and you know the old chestnut, 'you can't bullshit a bullshitter'.

Now I know that these insecure people are just trying to lie their way into people's hearts and pants using their imaginations, but for me, they're just lying their way into a humiliating rebuttal and a subsequent disownment. Make no mistake, I'll pick them up on it. I'll make sure it's public to make me seem smarter, which is pivotal, and that it's known by everybody to make them seem stupider, especially if there are others around. I have no choice! I can't let people see me eat up shit like it's the truth! Who am I? Someone who eats up shit like it's the truth? (Did I say that already?) Also I won't want to be around them if we can't have a proper conversation! If I have to spend every single excruciating encounter wondering why what I'm being fed has a stench of garbage, the dynamic and simple pleasure of conversation is lost, and I'll want to slit their throat. (But it will be Halal, so it will be a-okay!)

I'm sure there were many people over the years that sad 'Boy, this Ryan is a nice guy. If only he'd stop lying! I might actually spend time with him!' And that's why I stopped, because sometimes people just want to have some toast and a normal conversation.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Baguette Rid of that Gun!

Your new years resolution is probably something stupid that I bet you'll be looking at in the rear view mirror by March, like getting fit or blogging more. But my resolution is something much more important than health: I vouch to never see another poster of Liam Neeson holding a gun.

You see, I love guns, because of my penis, and I love Liam Neeson, also because of my penis, but put those two things together on a movie poster, and I want to gouge out my fucking eyes. And by god, Hollywood, if I see another facsimile of the Taken poster, I will look for you…I will find you… and I will kill you.

Non-Stop is your last chance.

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You know what I’d really like to see, some posters of Liam Neeson holding baguettes. Mmmmm!

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EDIT: Added another photo to the collection, because not even a month could pass without another one of these things coming out! Not even a fucking month! Gave me an opportunity for some more baguettes though, find those babies here. (31/1/14)