Hissy Fit Nation

That’s it. Right. I’m over it. I’m not putting up with this idiocy anymore. If I have to deal with this nonsense one more time – just ONE more time – I think I might take an axe and smash … no, not an axe. I’ll pepper spray them… look, you can only take so much of this ridiculous, mind-numbing incompetence before you snap. Snap! Just like that!

Damn! That feels good. What’s my problem? Nothing really. Everything, maybe. I was just practising being a Drama Queen. Have you noticed that we Aussies have turned into a nation of hissy-fit throwing Drama Queens? Even if you’re not a main contender, the other 22 million Aussies are up for it. There is always someone on the tellie, in a crowd, in a shop, in a restaurant or in a queue somewhere, who is annoyed, outraged, spitting the dummy, stamping their feet and/or generally getting really pissed off with the service, the government, the universe and everything.

Full Article: Hissy Fit Nation

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Anarchists R Us

Happy little campers around the world have set up tent cities or, as in Australia, mini-Global Villages in solidarity with the Occupy Wall Street anarchists. Entertaining YouTube clips show a passing parade of blood-smeared zombies, dread-locked jugglers, wide-eyed babies in pushers, sign-totting anarchist nana’s, unshaven rough-necked unionists with megaphones, thin, wispy-bearded, hand-knit-jumper-wearing vegans, red coated trombonists, Che Guevara flags and hand-made protest posters everywhere.

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Hens Behaving Badly

Weddings. I’ve been to a few: traditional, hippy, Greek (Vows were pledged in Greek then translated. The feminists gasped when they heard the word ‘obey’), Italian (400 guests seated at trestle tables in the local town hall with little boys in suits running and skidding on the polished floor boards), on a farm (with mooing cows. It was more an ‘I moo’ than an ‘I do’.), in a restaurant (my own wedding), at a registry office (The bride was 8 months pregnant and wore black), in a church with Millie the Golden Retriever as a bridesmaid, a B-team wedding (Married the week before, the couple dressed up again for a party with the B-team guests. We got the B-team speeches too!) and more.

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Generation Whinge

‘I’m driving in my car … I turn on the radio … Dada-da-da … something, um … You’re a liar … Da-da. Ooooo! FIRE!’ All right. I’m no Bruce Springstein. I was driving in my car, radio on, and turned off to the world when I heard voices. Natasha Stott Despoja was being interviewed on the ABC. She said she loved hearing people like demographer Bernard Salt explain distinctions between the generations. And I quote. I have to write ‘And I quote’ because I nearly ran off the road when I heard her following statement, so I podcast the interview to check the facts.

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Psycho Oz

Australians all let us freak out

For we are spooked you see;

We’ve a scary land, we don’t understand;

Our home is so creepy. Our land’s red heart is sort of weird

There’s freaking nothing there!

We cling to the coast, a British outpost;

Freak out Australia, yeah!

How is it that yet another national disaster has hit us and we are, yet again, shocked, stunned (like a mullet, I guess), and wandering around in dazed disbelief? What is it about our short-term/long-term memory loss that we have forgotten, willfully or accidentally, that it has all happened before? Is this, perhaps, some form of widespread Aussie Alzheimer’s?

Moreover, what is it about our market-driven, managerial-cliché muttering mentality and our spin-swallowing, nanny-state, needy attitudes today that we think we are in control? Have we learned nothing from inhabiting this wide brown and savage land for 200-plus years or, in some cases, 40,000-plus years? We Aussies are cot cases. Honestly.

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Cricket Explained

Cricket tends to cause great confusion among novice spectators, recovering alcoholics and Americans. It is, after all, a game where grown men stand around for days looking bored with no balls or madly hug and kiss each other following a duck. As a consequence, I have taken it upon myself to explain cricket to those who wouldn’t know a gibbon from a googly.

The game of cricket came from that part of the world that also gave us golf, chess and Morris Dancing. Those who do not have the patience for golf, the lunatic grin of a Morris Dancer but who drink to much beer for chess play cricket. Players need good hand-eye co-ordination and a mum who knits white, woolly vests.

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The Bimbo Nation of Oz

This is like ….look …. This is a very difficult matter to address. It’s outrageous. It’s shocking. We – that’s each and every one of us in this Great Brown or, maybe Ochre or Burnt Orange Land Whatever. – every one of us in this Great Orangeish Land has been heinously insulted. Some jumped-up, half-baked, self-righteous, smart-Rs of an expert has called Australia ‘The Dumb Blonde of the World’.

How could he do this to us just when we Aussies are making our way confidently in the world? We know who we are! Of course, we do. We are ‘The Drunken Yobs of the World’. Anywhere you go on or off this planet where there is a sporting event, a running of the bulls, a naked bungy jump or just two flies crawling up a wall, you will find an Aussie in thongs, shorts, and optional t-shirt with, possibly, a yellow-painted face and curly green wig, holding a stubbie and yelling ‘Aussie. Aussie. Aussie. Oi. Oi. Oi.’

Full Article: The Bimbo Nation of Oz