Archive for September 2014

Australia suffers horrific humanitarian intervention.

Australia was in turmoil today as a terrifying invasion took place.  “The people are in shock”, said former Prime Minister John Howard.  “We’re really hurting here.”  The invasion occurred yesterday night, and was apparently triggered by Mr. Howard’s entirely innocent comments that he did not believe that a genocide of Aborigines had taken place in his country.  No sooner had he uttered these words that a group of radical academics descended upon Australia, armed to the teeth with a set of irrefutable historical records. “We didn’t stand a chance”, lamented Howard.  “it was a massacre.”

Full details of the conflict are only just emerging, but the early reports are horrific.  According to Howard, he and his fellow troops of genocide-deniers kept trying to blame the laziness of the Aborigines for their current plight, but the academics “just kept shoving us back into historical context.  Man, they were really rough with us.”  The academics, having landed in Sydney under the cover of darkness, advanced at dawn to all the largest educational institutions, where they established safe havens for rational argument.  From here, they spent their first day broadcasting from self-made radio stations, and generally telling the awkward truth about past colonial misdeeds to anyone who would bloody listen.

So bewildered was Howard by this ongoing assault that he is unsure what to do next.  “We might contact the UN”, he said. “Every country has a right to self-determination, and my Australia has the right to remain as firmly in denial as possible.” Howard also had strong words for the promoters of this dangerous new ideology.  “Militant realism is spreading everywhere like a cancer, and it must be stopped”, he warned.  “The violent progress of facts is the single greatest threat to Western civilisation.”

To you men who joke about assaulting women.

Every time you make a remark about assaulting women, and then defend it by saying “it was just a joke”, I think I know what you mean.  It’s not just a joke, really.  It’s not just a joke to the women, or to those who care about them; and, what’s more, it’s not just a joke to you.  It’s really important to you.  You’re saying, under the mask of laughter, something that you genuinely mean.

Don’t get angry at this fact.  You’re angry enough already.  You’re angry that you even have to disguise your intentions.  Because you know there was once a time when you could openly boast absolutely anywhere about the women you assaulted or were about to, and it would go unpunished.  Now, though, you’ve got to be a bit more careful.  Now you have to use jokes, and you hate this.

It’s obvious that you hate this, because when someone says that you are being offensive, you become furious.  Not immediately – at first, you try to patronise them, or laugh them off.  But if they persist with their accusation just once more, you skip past irritation to rage.  You might even start threatening them.  And this is why you’re pissed off – because you’re fed up with the whole fucking pretence, aren’t you? Hate having to bite your fucking tongue.  You wish this fucking bitch would just shut up like the other fucking bitch who had that smack coming.  Fucking hell.  You can’t fucking talk about anything these days, can you?

This is how it feels, isn’t it.  Your blood is up.  Fuck.  What you really want to do is say what you think anywhere anytime.  But you can’t.  Your hatred is like your cock – you want to fuck the world with it, unprotected.  But you can’t: you have to clothe it, so the joke is your condom.

And you hate having to use that condom, but it’s the only way you’re going to get any action.  Because if you hang out with your mates, and tell them straight-faced about the woman you took home who was too drunk to stand, there won’t be so many of those mates any more.  This way, if you joke about it, you can all sit in that pub and you can laugh and the cowards can cower into their pints and you can carry on.  That’s why you hate it when we call you out on your jokes.  Because what you’re really saying is Bitch don’t fucking make me take this seriously.  Because deep down you know it’s not funny and you try to think about that truth as little as possible.

It’s OK, I’m done now.  Go back to your beer and your banter, which is where you feel better.  Just don’t think that we don’t know, and that we don’t see you.  Because we see you just as clearly, when the beer clears and there’s nothing left but the bathroom mirror, as you see yourself.

 

When the UK dared Scotland.

Tell you what, let’s all really patronise Scotland. Scotland – Scotland, what are you thinking. Snot dripping from your nose from all that cold. Listen, take a seat. – No, not over there; away from your oil. Right here, at our knee. Scotland, look at the state of you. All poor and banged up. Pimpled from your poor diet. Scrabbling south for our scraps now and then. Look – stop eyeing the door over our shoulder. It’s freezing out there, you’d never have the guts to run for it. – What’s that? You’d rather risk death by exposure than being smugly smiled at in the comfort of our log fire? No, no you wouldn’t. Tell you what, we’ll even open the door, turn our backs and count to three, and when we turn back you’ll still be curled up right here. You’ll see. – Here goes: One. Two. Three. –

Scotland?
Scotland?
Scotland?