My Concerns

This post will canvas a host of concerns, beginning with the pervasive confines of corporate gyms. In order to maintain my health and sauna addiction, I’m a member of one. Always have been. I’ve written extensively about gym culture and the calibre of self-obsessed arsehole it attracts, so I won’t recycle it here. I will point out, however, that there’s another sinister undercurrent to the gym. If it weren’t for the gym, I would quite literally never be exposed to chart music or any of the useless products companies heckle us with. I would happily sully my purity in the ivory tower of intellectual enlightenment within which I live. Perched high on my throne, scornfully mocking the sheep and the ease with which their minds can be contorted and controlled. Instead, I find myself in the dubious position of having teenage-like knowledge of all the latest chart-topping tracks, and have even begun to find some of them catchy. I find myself saying, ‘Oh yeah, I know this track, it’s a good one’, and start bopping my head, eagerly awaiting the chorus. That’s when I pick up the pace of my workout, ‘Oh yeah, I’m feeling it. Might check out a club tonight too, dance the night away!’ My head happily sways from side to side as I chew gum and attempt a PB in my revealing leotard. Life’s great! (Please take a moment to picture that scene). I also know a lot about cars too, as that seems to be Australia’s greatest passion, occupying around 90% of the media space. They’re like fucked up families, everyone seems to have one. When you tell people you don’t own a car, and have no intention of ever buying one, you may as well say you’re a Boat Person too, such is the scorn with which you’re met.

On a general note, I’m concerned about the guys who refuse to converse in normal conversations. Instead, they feel the need to hector you with quips. Really unfunny quips. So unfunny that they’re really annoying. One or two quips in a verbal exchange is acceptable. But when they pound you with an endless assortment of unfunny jokes, it’s like someone is jabbing you in the leg with a scalpel and forcing you to laugh. So you painfully chuckle, ‘Oh I get it, the woman is a Curry, that’s funny’. ‘Oh right, yeah, now you’re speaking in a funny voice, you are funny’. ‘Oh, and another quip, again, it’s really good’. I’d rather stare blankly, as if to say ‘Are you done?’. But society demands that I converse politely. To be honest, I just feel like abruptly slapping him. Or arriving to work with a large sack of mulch and casually pouring it on his desk. And then strapping nipple tassels to his nose before kicking him forcefully on the arse and bursting into a loud, obnoxious laughter as the fat bastard falls over. Now that’s funny. Take notes, bitch.

I’m concerned about males. I’ll begin with police officers and then branch out to a more general critique of the sex. In Melbourne, the enlightened powers that be devised the genius idea of dispatching male police officers to patrol the streets in very large packs. So, that’s large, bulked-up men with egos and too much time on their hands, patrolling the streets in gangs… that’ll work! It’s one of those ideas that you just wish you’d thought of. So simple yet so stupid. Because nothing ever goes wrong when feral animals, operating on instinct rather than thought, prowl streets in packs looking for something to do.

So now whenever there’s the most innocuous incident, you’ll see 15 burly males surrounding a petrified drug addict, homeless person or disaffected teen. All pacing around, hectoring the hapless pleb and anyone who should happen to cast a curious eye on the antics of the Gestapo brigade. They jot down notes in their little books, stuff like, ‘Remember to pick up milk on the way home’. They also like whispering into their little walky-talkies, ‘Yo, I have a 15 year old school kid in uniform, he didn’t have a train ticket, there’s 20 lads here, what do we do? Over’.

One male is tolerable. Put another male in the equation and it’s precarious. Herd up a bunch of the cretins and it’s a recipe for disaster. Because males are herd animals. And generally pretty dumb. Confident and brash with a false sense of entitlement, but dumb. Why do you think football players pack-rape? Why do soldiers burn Afghan farmers? Why do radical Muslims treat woman as caged animals? Because men are the inferior sex. Physically stronger, but vastly inferior. Why do I never read stories about two woman getting in a fist fight at the pub? Why is it never two females splitting each others skulls open in road rage? Why aren’t any woman manipulating children with pedophilia? Males are a plague, I’m certainly a self-hating one. I apologise to my girlfriend everyday. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be a lesbian?’, I ask. ‘I certainly would’. 

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