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.