pet peeve … food morons a/k/a bogans a la carte

god almighty, spare me from the food morons.

i eat a lot of sushi, dear reader. love the stuff. lean, good portion sizes, relatively cheap, fun, different.

i was standing in one of my local sushi joints the other lunchtime — konichiwa all at Mr Sushi at the Ashmore Pitstop — waiting for my favourite dishes to swing round on the train track. in a nearby booth sat a classic set of bogans a la carte. three blokes and what can only be described as a chick. bleached blonde, boob tube, long fake french nails with the obligatory gold sparkles.

Miss Sophisticate picks up the menu and waves over one of the sushi builders.

‘Oi’d loike this,’ she said. ‘Only without the roice. Oi don’t loike roice.’

so let’s get this right. hungry. doesn’t like rice. in the whole universe of fast food and takeaways, picks sushi joint. naturally.

similar thing happened the very next day at my other favourite sushi house, Sushi Train at Labrador. Two — i’m guessing — schoolies sat in the booth next to me.

one pulled a plate off the train and proceeded to drown it in — i kid you not — an inch-think layer of mayonnaise. but at least she chose an actual sushi dish to do it to.

her mate asked for a bowl of rice and a bottle of teriyaki sauce. that’s it. need i say more?

go home, children. go home and have a Chiko roll.

the As You Do of the day … vibrator racing!

gym twazzocks and why they get on my tits

i am one of those poor unfortunates who must go to the gym five times a week or risk dropping dead. what can i say, i like m’food.

i don’t take a lot of pleasure in it, other than the reassurance that i have staved off death with the power of my bike-thighs.

but one of the rare joys of a gym rat’s life is watching the various breeds of human that feel the wet, the wet of sweat.

i belong to that group who are always on the knife’s edge between invisibility and humiliation.

you will rarely find us in the free weights section, for that is where the mirrors are. mostly you will find us in overlarge t-shirts, daggy trakky-daks, earphones in, head down, bum up. we’re just trying to get it done with the minimum of attention from the personal trainers, and fellow perspirers. we are quiet and we are very aware of the distance between ourselves and the lycra-clad perfection bouncing happily on the treadmill next to us.

i fight this rampant embarrassment with little fuck-yous of my own. one day i’ll wear my ‘be nice to fat people’ t-shirt. the next day i’ll wear one that says ‘too big to fail’. mostly i raise my middle finger by defying expectations and pounding away on that goddamn bike for 45 minutes, or until my arse goes numb, whichever comes last.

then there are the tryhards. at my gym, there’s a couple who always wear matching workout gear — pristine white, skintight singlets, black shorts and those pretentious useless half-finger gloves that apparently are utterly essential for the sculpting of muscles.

this couple lift weights so heavy they are have to change the method of lifting, just to get them in the air — thereby rendering the purpose of that particular machine completely useless, of course.

the other night, it was just me and Mr and Mrs Twazzock on the machines — there were some others in there, but they were on the free weights and treadmills. The Twazzocks were grunting and moaning at one end of a line of empty machines, and i sat down on the compound row set-up to do some repetitions.

i was adjusting the volume on my iPod when Mr Twazzock taps me on the shoulder.

‘do you mind if i jump in,’ he says.

i look around at all the empty machines and decide that clearly the steroids have proven too much for this man’s cerebrum, and i step away carefully.

twazzock.

then there are the Socialisers. these are the women of a ‘certain age’ who turn up in their best lycra, fully made-up, hair perfect and never actually raise a sweat, ever. in fact, the only part of their bodies they exercise at the gym are their flapping gums. yap, yap, yap.

there’s a bloke i call Golden Sweat. he’s the one who — despite the signs all around the gym imploring us to wipe down the machines after we’ve used them — doesn’t even bring a towel. instead he leaves his nectar smeared on everything he touches.

i knew a bloke who went to the gym every day. and every day he wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a pair of denim shorts that could only be described as Daisy Dukes, and steel-capped workboots. he also thought his sweat should be licked off the gear by the nearest chickie-babe.

when i win Lotto, i’m going to open a gym. the membership will be rather exclusive. nobody under 90kgs allowed. no matching clothes. no mirrors. electronic scales that actually can handle real people rather than supermodels. clean, laundered towels available at the door as you walk in, free of charge. disinfectant at every station.

i shall call it Cupcakes. and it will be free for people who need it and absolutely not free to twazzocks.

hackney woman says what we’re all thinking

these riots aren’t about the GFC v2.0, or even about the man that was shot. this is just Gen Y fuckwits thinking they can get away with a bit of fun and games and a free tv or two. england is fucked.

a little rant about homophobia and a certain kind of man

Let me paint a picture for you. My local servo. 9.30pm on a sunday. I wander in to buy a soothing bucketload of chocolate, as you do. At the counter is a bloke and he’s ranting on at the young fella behind the counter.

He’s banging on about the flood levy and what a fucking unAustralian slag that Julia Gillard is, giving all that foreign aid to the bloody indonesians. I’m mildly amused about this as i just happened to have written about it in my latest blog post over at goldcoast.com.au — you’ll be unsurprised to learn that i was expressing the opposite view, however.

Now this bloke is what i call an ‘eighties man’. He’s probly knocking on 60′s door but he can’t quite bring himself to give up the Grecian 2000 and let a little gray into his life. Either that or he really needs to update his toupee. He’s got that big bushy mo that tells the world he’s never gone down on a woman and never will if he’s got anything to say about it. He irons his skintight jeans to a knife-edge. He’s got his CFMEU polo shirt on and his knuckle tatts say ‘love’ and ‘hat’ cos he lost his little finger somewhere. Probly up his own ass because he looks the type who would love to take it up there if he only had the balls to admit it to himself.

He then proves me right by switching his rant to the Greens and their gay, anti-fishing agenda. ‘first thing they’ll do is ban all recreational fishing down the east coast of australia,’ he opines. “second thing they’ll do is let the gays get married.”

By now, of course, i’m standing behind him in the queue. I lean forward and say quietly:

“careful mate, there’s a big old lesbian behind you, within touching distance.”

You’d think i’d rubbed an ice-cold dildo between his arsecheeks he moved that fast. Off he scurried and just before he walked out the door he yelled:

“You can listen to me, girlie, i don’t care.”

Well, he certainly told me.

Arseclown.

sarah palin’s part in gabrielle giffords’ shooting

OMG … world’s drunkest man

naming and shaming: dear arseclown

y’know, i understand how tempting it is. fat woman, in a car. she’s eating an icecream cone covered in melted chocolate. it’s a slam dunk, right? a home run. who wouldn’t take the piss? who wouldn’t take the moment to exercise their wit and throw a few pithy sentiments out the window as you pass by?

well, actually, a fully-formed human being with a brain connected to a sense of conscience wouldn’t. anybody with any sense of compassion or manners or maturity or even a full-sized penis, would have just let it slide.

because, y’know, it was too easy. most people relish a challenge. you can’t deal with a challenge, so you take the slow pitch when it lobs over the plate at you.

you’re an arseclown. and i mean that in the literal sense. you are an arse. and a clown. ipso facto, an arseclown. take a bow, you knob.

President Obama … i don’t understand

i just don’t get it, Mr President. I don’t understand why you continually associate with these clowns in a way that suggests you actually believe they are going to compromise and deal with you. they have consistently and persistently told you in every way imaginable that their only agenda point is to make sure you are a one-term president.

they hate you, sir. they hate your colour. they hate your intellect. they hate your politics. they hate your wife and kids. they hate your cool. THEY HATE YOU.

they have said they will oppose everything you support, even if what you support was their idea originally. they have said they will filibuster EVERYTHING.

and yet you continue to compromise. you continue to invite them to breakfast and then tell the press how collegial and cooperative it all is. you continue to water down your campaign promises to the point where what you end up with is a shadow of what is needed.

you have until january (the 11th?) to get shit done, before these clowns take over and your chance is gone.

now maybe i’m missing something. maybe you have some magic strategy that will come to light in the next few weeks that will prove you to be the left-wing hero you promised to be.

but right now, you just look weak. and, frankly, you look like a one-term president.

GET SHIT DONE, and forget about clapping these arseclowns on the back.

South Korean parliament goes nuts over school lunches