To have won a little prize: to wit, the Sydney Writers' Centre award for Funniest Post in the Best Australian Blogs 2012 competition.
The award was won for this post on the blog you are even now reading.
Congratulations to the other winners, especially Best Blog winner Eden Riley, and my pal Anna Spargo-Ryan, who won Best New Blog.
All the winners are detailed here.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Choose Your Own Adventure!
The story so far: you are an aspiring teen kickball player whose brother is not home by six. Armed with this information, you choose not to call Harold and instead accompany local halfwit "Lauren" to the docks, where adventure awaits...if you CHOOSE it to!
What happens next? It's up to you! Listen to the latest Gather Around Me Choose Your Own Adventure: The Terrorist Trap instalment, and decide what to do!
What happens next? It's up to you! Listen to the latest Gather Around Me Choose Your Own Adventure: The Terrorist Trap instalment, and decide what to do!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The TROUBLE with Government
Do you know what the TROUBLE is with our so-called GOVERNMENT?
It is that the GOVERNMENT is out of TOUCH.
Everywhere ordinary Australian CITIZENS are gathering around their water COOLERS and having conversations about the ISSUES which affect them PERSONALLY. These are ISSUES like:
- the high cost of living
- how much it costs to live
- the price of things
- prostitutes
- how much money you have to spend on items these days
- the modern problem of life being expensive
- Cabcharges
- LIES
But the GOVERNMENT does not UNDERSTAND these issues, because the government has no WATER COOLERS, and they are in CANBERRA, not the inner WEST where real people LIVE.
The government, in fact, thinks that LIES are FINE, because only LIBERALS object to them. So when ORDINARY people say, "hey government stop LYING", the government says, "this must be the work of LIBERALS!" This is a very OUT OF TOUCH thing to say. Also, they government believes the cost of LIVING is fine, and ordinary Australians need to stop WHINING, even though as Australians we have RIGHTS. If the government was IN touch instead of OUT of touch, it would KNOW this.
These are the issues the GOVERNMENT thinks are important:
- shaking the president of America's hand
- taxing the air in our Coke cans
- destroying wealth
- having sex with Bob Brown
- assassinating each other
These are not things the PUBLIC approves of. But as an ORDINARY Australian who works for NEWSPAPERS I am here to tell the PUBLIC that the GOVERNMENT does not care what it approves of because it is out OF touch.
The trouble is that the GOVERNMENT has never had a proper JOB. People in government don't WORK like you and me, they have STUPID jobs like union OFFICIALS and LAWYERS and political OPERATIVES who never see the sweat of their own hands upon their brows.
Here are some jobs that REAL Australians who UNDERSTAND issues have:
- journalist
- opinion writer
- television pundit
- coal miner
- royal watcher
- water cooler maintenance operative
- commentators
- steel worker
- John Farnham
Here are some jobs that POLITICIANS have:
- politician
- idiot who will one day be a politician
Is it any WONDER these people are out of TOUCH? The Prime Minister has never spoken to a NORMAL person in her entire LIFE. She has not even spoken to a marriage CELEBRANT because she won't get MARRIED and she has never spoken to an OBSTETRICIAN because she does not have CHILDREN. I have children and I can say that it gives you a PERSPECTIVE on life that people who don't HAVE children and are pathological LIARS do not have. That is WHY I am giving this free ADVICE to the GOVERNMENT based on years of EXPERIENCE as a real Australian with functioning SPERM.
I am sure the FAT cats in Canberra will dismiss this hard-hitting and HONEST article as simply another case of LIBERALS, but all I want is for the government to get in TOUCH with everyday battlers and REALISE just how much we HATE it when politicians LIE to use about how they paid for their SEX workers, and when they ask their ASSISTANTS to shower with the door OPEN. If the government does not stop being out of touch SOON, all our shower doors will be open and we will vote in the LIBERALS because at least they are IN TOUCH WITH US.
Please LISTEN to me, I am a JOURNALIST (see above).
It is that the GOVERNMENT is out of TOUCH.
Everywhere ordinary Australian CITIZENS are gathering around their water COOLERS and having conversations about the ISSUES which affect them PERSONALLY. These are ISSUES like:
- the high cost of living
- how much it costs to live
- the price of things
- prostitutes
- how much money you have to spend on items these days
- the modern problem of life being expensive
- Cabcharges
- LIES
But the GOVERNMENT does not UNDERSTAND these issues, because the government has no WATER COOLERS, and they are in CANBERRA, not the inner WEST where real people LIVE.
The government, in fact, thinks that LIES are FINE, because only LIBERALS object to them. So when ORDINARY people say, "hey government stop LYING", the government says, "this must be the work of LIBERALS!" This is a very OUT OF TOUCH thing to say. Also, they government believes the cost of LIVING is fine, and ordinary Australians need to stop WHINING, even though as Australians we have RIGHTS. If the government was IN touch instead of OUT of touch, it would KNOW this.
These are the issues the GOVERNMENT thinks are important:
- shaking the president of America's hand
- taxing the air in our Coke cans
- destroying wealth
- having sex with Bob Brown
- assassinating each other
These are not things the PUBLIC approves of. But as an ORDINARY Australian who works for NEWSPAPERS I am here to tell the PUBLIC that the GOVERNMENT does not care what it approves of because it is out OF touch.
The trouble is that the GOVERNMENT has never had a proper JOB. People in government don't WORK like you and me, they have STUPID jobs like union OFFICIALS and LAWYERS and political OPERATIVES who never see the sweat of their own hands upon their brows.
Here are some jobs that REAL Australians who UNDERSTAND issues have:
- journalist
- opinion writer
- television pundit
- coal miner
- royal watcher
- water cooler maintenance operative
- commentators
- steel worker
- John Farnham
Here are some jobs that POLITICIANS have:
- politician
- idiot who will one day be a politician
Is it any WONDER these people are out of TOUCH? The Prime Minister has never spoken to a NORMAL person in her entire LIFE. She has not even spoken to a marriage CELEBRANT because she won't get MARRIED and she has never spoken to an OBSTETRICIAN because she does not have CHILDREN. I have children and I can say that it gives you a PERSPECTIVE on life that people who don't HAVE children and are pathological LIARS do not have. That is WHY I am giving this free ADVICE to the GOVERNMENT based on years of EXPERIENCE as a real Australian with functioning SPERM.
I am sure the FAT cats in Canberra will dismiss this hard-hitting and HONEST article as simply another case of LIBERALS, but all I want is for the government to get in TOUCH with everyday battlers and REALISE just how much we HATE it when politicians LIE to use about how they paid for their SEX workers, and when they ask their ASSISTANTS to shower with the door OPEN. If the government does not stop being out of touch SOON, all our shower doors will be open and we will vote in the LIBERALS because at least they are IN TOUCH WITH US.
Please LISTEN to me, I am a JOURNALIST (see above).
A politician being IN TOUCH with ordinary Australians
One Hour One Life
Of course as you know depression is something I comment on from time to time, and I've just written a piece for news.com.au on the difficulties of talking openly about depression.
That piece is part of a campaign news.com.au is running in conjunction with Lifeline this month, One Hour One Life. Click on the link to find out all about it - basically there'll be a series of stories about depression and mental illness, in aid of a new Lifeline service, the Online Crisis Support Chat. This goes live on May 8. An hour of time on the chat service costs around $31, and Lifeline and news.com.au are looking for goodhearted folk such as yourself to stump up a little spare change to help connect people in need of help with someone who can give them some.
It is, I reckon, a pretty great cause, and I'm pretty proud to be associated with it.
That piece is part of a campaign news.com.au is running in conjunction with Lifeline this month, One Hour One Life. Click on the link to find out all about it - basically there'll be a series of stories about depression and mental illness, in aid of a new Lifeline service, the Online Crisis Support Chat. This goes live on May 8. An hour of time on the chat service costs around $31, and Lifeline and news.com.au are looking for goodhearted folk such as yourself to stump up a little spare change to help connect people in need of help with someone who can give them some.
It is, I reckon, a pretty great cause, and I'm pretty proud to be associated with it.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Biblical Gaps: A Fill-In Story
The story of how a poor Israelite girl got herself in trouble: this was read at the Wheeler Centre Erotic Fan Fiction event, 26th April, 1012
Mary didn’t quite know how it had happened. She had been leaning on the bar in the Nazareth Hotel and Bistro when she saw Him, standing by the bandstand, swaying sexily to the band’s traditional Hebrew groove. He was the most beautiful creature Mary had ever seen – his shapeless white robe hung seductively from his shoulders; his toes protruded from his sandals with an impudent flirtatiousness; and his long white beard reached almost to his navel in a way calculated to get any impressionable young peasant girl’s juices flowing. And flow they did – she hadn’t felt this moist since the last public stoning. She had nearly squealed aloud when she saw that he was walking over to her, and when he spoke, she almost dropped her West Bank Cooler. Maybe it was the soft yellow glow surrounding him, maybe it was the fact that he was floating six inches above the ground, maybe it was the enormous robe-tent he was pitching, but somehow she had to have Him. Five minutes later they were in the alley outside, tongues writhing like serpents and His hands frantically exploring her forbidden fruit.
From there everything was a blur. She remembered things had got off to a rocky start, when he’d gotten over-excited in her bedroom and blasted a hole in the wall before she was ready. But after reassuring Him that this probably happened to gods all the time, and agreeing to His request that she call Him Father, things seemed to be going smoothly. At the time it had seemed slightly strange that He insisted she wear a pair of cardboard wings and bray like a donkey, but hey, she was a virgin, what did she know? Perhaps this was just what men were like. After all, Joseph could get pretty weird himself, with all his carpentry puns.
Oh, dear Joseph…what would he say? What would he say when he found out about that night of passion? What would he think of her when he discovered that she’d been riding the creator of the universe like a bucking bronco, screaming in ecstasy, “OH MY GOD!” and having him scream back “YES WHAT IS IT?” and then she would scream “OH NO I WAS JUST SCREAMING IN ECSTASY EVERYTHING’S FINE” and he would scream “OH I SEE” and she would scream “SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION” and he would scream “DON’T WORRY IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME” and she would scream “OH MY GOOOOOOOD” and he would scream “OH MARY” and she would scream “NO ACTUALLY THIS TIME I ACTUALLY JUST WANTED TO SAY COULD YOU MOVE TO THE LEFT A BIT YOU’RE ON MY FOOT”. And he would scream “OH YES SORRY SOMETIMES I GET A BIT CARRIED AWAY DON’T I?”
What would Joseph say when he heard all that? Would he be bored? She hoped not. She certainly hadn’t been bored as the ruler of all that is and ever shall be summoned angels to rub her feet, or when he lit up their lovemaking with a series of flashing thunderbolts, or when, slightly more crudely, he ate five loaves and two fishes out of her intimate portions. There were many words she might have used to describe these experiences, but “boring” wasn’t one of them. Well, actually, it was, but in a different context, less in the “watching paint dry” sense and more in the “you be the apple and I’ll be the worm” sense. She hoped Joseph wasn’t bored in either sense, despite the definite feeling that came upon her occasionally, when he was showing off his hand-carved doorknobs, that he could do with a really good hard boring now and then.
She wasn’t sure when it all started to go wrong. It was probably just after he’d yelled that he would “make a flood that would cover the entire earth”, and just before she asked him how he was managing to have sex with her while simultaneously standing outside having a smoke. It might have been the point at which he told her to get on her knees, and caused a rain of frogs to fall from the ceiling. But really, she knew the turning point was when she noticed two shadowy figures standing in the corner, high-fiving and giggling to themselves.
“Father,” she said, trying to ignore the violent motion and singing doves that He brought into existence with every thrust, “who are they?”
“What?” the Lord paused, mid-spank, and looked around. “Oh yeah, those are my crew.”
“Your crew?”
“Yeah, my boys. My gang. My posse.”
“Your WHAT?” Mary squealed over the sound of rhythmic heavenly thwapping.
“Posse.”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought you said…never mind. Look, why…ooh!” Mary was briefly interrupted by a massive shudder of pleasure running through her entire body, as God moved in a particularly mysterious way. “Why are they here?”
“Oh, we kind of do everything together.” From the corner, the two men gave her the thumbs up. Mary tried to focus, despite the beard strands flailing wildly in her eyes.
“Is…is one of them…a ghost?”
“That’s right,” said God, creating a car battery out of thin air and hooking it up to his nipples with His mind. “The Holy Ghost”. The ghost floated over to the bed and shook Mary’s hand. She smiled politely.
“Nice…to meet you?” She looked back at the Lord, who had assumed – rather uncomfortably for his partner – the form of a burning bush. “What’s going on?” she demanded, slapping at her pubic hair with a fire blanket.
“It’s the Trinity baby – we do everything together. Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”
“Son?” Mary looked at the third man, a young bearded fellow with a halo and large cucumber. “Come on – that’s just sick!”
“Sorry babe,” the Lord intoned, having abandoned his bush form and turned into a pillar of smoke, which proceeded to blow into some extremely intimate areas, “You do one of us, you do all of us.”
From there, things went rapidly downhill. Mary had already been slightly put off by God’s constant cries of “Thou shalt not stop” and habit of turning her breasts into piles of salt and back again; but that was nothing compared to the Holy Ghost, who was so insubstantial she could barely feel him, and simply sort of wafted over her making “woo woo” noises. Mary was also made uncomfortable by the impression that she was having sex with the Grand Wizard of the Klan.
If anything, the Son was even worse when his turn came around. Every time she moved, he drew a cross in the air and said “I forgive you”, and he kept breaking off to wash her feet, but what she found really creepy was when he finished and told her he couldn’t wait for her to be his mum. What the hell was that about? He also made a lot of a jokes about the Second Coming that she didn’t really understand.
And now, here she was. She hadn’t heard from God since that night – not even a phone call – and all she could think about was Joseph. He wasn’t going to take this well. He was a conservative sort of guy at the best of times. She did not imagine that he would react well to being told his fiancée had been gang-banging supernatural beings. But Joseph just didn’t understand what it was like to be a young girl, flooded with hormones, wanting to rebel, and easy pickings for any slick stranger with a full beard and a cheap source of wine. He didn’t understand how hard it was to resist a man whose tongue could literally cause earthquakes. He didn’t know the amazing feeling of having your Red Sea parted.
She heard the door open. “I’m home, dear!” Joseph shouted as he walked into the room. “And look – I’ve got wood!” he cried, waving a piece of four by two in the air jauntily. Mary rolled her eyes. Both Joseph’s carpentry, and his erectile dysfunction, had ceased to be amusing long ago.
She stood up and drew a deep breath. “I have some news for you, Joseph,” she said. “I’m pregnant!”
Joseph stared at her. The wood dropped from his hand. “Pregnant?” he gasped. “But…you’re a virgin! That’s, like, your thing!
Well, there you go,” Mary replied somewhat superfluously.
Joseph was aghast. “Who’s the father?”
This was the hard part. Mary knew her story was both hard to believe and absolutely disgusting, but she had to face the consequences of her actions. “It’s God, Joseph. God is the father of my baby.”
“God?” Joseph’s face lit up. “You mean, God has miraculously blessed you with child?”
“Not really. We just had sex,” Mary explained. “Like…a LOT.”
“Ah,” Joseph nodded. “You mean, he filled you with his holy spirit…”
“No,” Mary shook her head. “He filled me with his holy penis.”
Joseph’s face fell. “You mean…he nailed you?” He held up a small nail to illustrate, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Even woodwork seemed bitter and hollow now that he knew what his fiancée had been getting up to.
“Oh, Joseph!” Mary collapsed into Joseph’s thin, womanly arms. “I feel so…so dirty! I lost my head, I think it might have been the wine, or possibly it affected my judgment when God put his hand inside my brain. He used me, Joseph, and now I’m just a story he can tell to his buddies.” Little did she know that this was exactly what God was doing at that very moment, sharing a beer with Vishnu and telling him the whole story with accompanying hand gestures.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Joseph muttered. “I forgive you. Even without placing your sins onto the head of a third party who is then tortured to death in order to absolve you of responsibility for your actions, I forgive you, and we shall get through this together. We’ll raise this child, and he will work with me, making tables and little toy hippos on wheels whose mouths open and shut when you roll them along the floor, and we will be happy together, and he will never have to know he is the result of his mother’s wild night of bizarre kinky group sex with a trio of incorporeal perverts.”
“How did you know all that, I didn’t tell you – ”
“That’s not important right now!” Joseph cried. “What’s important is the future. We shall be married straight away, and our family shall be happy!”
“But Joseph, what about God? Every week when we go to the temple, He’ll be there…leering at me from above. I…I can’t take the humiliation!”
“Don’t worry Mary. You’ll never have to see that creep again. We won’t go His temple anymore. As of now, we’re converting…to Islam!”
Mary didn’t quite know how it had happened. She had been leaning on the bar in the Nazareth Hotel and Bistro when she saw Him, standing by the bandstand, swaying sexily to the band’s traditional Hebrew groove. He was the most beautiful creature Mary had ever seen – his shapeless white robe hung seductively from his shoulders; his toes protruded from his sandals with an impudent flirtatiousness; and his long white beard reached almost to his navel in a way calculated to get any impressionable young peasant girl’s juices flowing. And flow they did – she hadn’t felt this moist since the last public stoning. She had nearly squealed aloud when she saw that he was walking over to her, and when he spoke, she almost dropped her West Bank Cooler. Maybe it was the soft yellow glow surrounding him, maybe it was the fact that he was floating six inches above the ground, maybe it was the enormous robe-tent he was pitching, but somehow she had to have Him. Five minutes later they were in the alley outside, tongues writhing like serpents and His hands frantically exploring her forbidden fruit.
From there everything was a blur. She remembered things had got off to a rocky start, when he’d gotten over-excited in her bedroom and blasted a hole in the wall before she was ready. But after reassuring Him that this probably happened to gods all the time, and agreeing to His request that she call Him Father, things seemed to be going smoothly. At the time it had seemed slightly strange that He insisted she wear a pair of cardboard wings and bray like a donkey, but hey, she was a virgin, what did she know? Perhaps this was just what men were like. After all, Joseph could get pretty weird himself, with all his carpentry puns.
Oh, dear Joseph…what would he say? What would he say when he found out about that night of passion? What would he think of her when he discovered that she’d been riding the creator of the universe like a bucking bronco, screaming in ecstasy, “OH MY GOD!” and having him scream back “YES WHAT IS IT?” and then she would scream “OH NO I WAS JUST SCREAMING IN ECSTASY EVERYTHING’S FINE” and he would scream “OH I SEE” and she would scream “SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION” and he would scream “DON’T WORRY IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME” and she would scream “OH MY GOOOOOOOD” and he would scream “OH MARY” and she would scream “NO ACTUALLY THIS TIME I ACTUALLY JUST WANTED TO SAY COULD YOU MOVE TO THE LEFT A BIT YOU’RE ON MY FOOT”. And he would scream “OH YES SORRY SOMETIMES I GET A BIT CARRIED AWAY DON’T I?”
What would Joseph say when he heard all that? Would he be bored? She hoped not. She certainly hadn’t been bored as the ruler of all that is and ever shall be summoned angels to rub her feet, or when he lit up their lovemaking with a series of flashing thunderbolts, or when, slightly more crudely, he ate five loaves and two fishes out of her intimate portions. There were many words she might have used to describe these experiences, but “boring” wasn’t one of them. Well, actually, it was, but in a different context, less in the “watching paint dry” sense and more in the “you be the apple and I’ll be the worm” sense. She hoped Joseph wasn’t bored in either sense, despite the definite feeling that came upon her occasionally, when he was showing off his hand-carved doorknobs, that he could do with a really good hard boring now and then.
She wasn’t sure when it all started to go wrong. It was probably just after he’d yelled that he would “make a flood that would cover the entire earth”, and just before she asked him how he was managing to have sex with her while simultaneously standing outside having a smoke. It might have been the point at which he told her to get on her knees, and caused a rain of frogs to fall from the ceiling. But really, she knew the turning point was when she noticed two shadowy figures standing in the corner, high-fiving and giggling to themselves.
“Father,” she said, trying to ignore the violent motion and singing doves that He brought into existence with every thrust, “who are they?”
“What?” the Lord paused, mid-spank, and looked around. “Oh yeah, those are my crew.”
“Your crew?”
“Yeah, my boys. My gang. My posse.”
“Your WHAT?” Mary squealed over the sound of rhythmic heavenly thwapping.
“Posse.”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought you said…never mind. Look, why…ooh!” Mary was briefly interrupted by a massive shudder of pleasure running through her entire body, as God moved in a particularly mysterious way. “Why are they here?”
“Oh, we kind of do everything together.” From the corner, the two men gave her the thumbs up. Mary tried to focus, despite the beard strands flailing wildly in her eyes.
“Is…is one of them…a ghost?”
“That’s right,” said God, creating a car battery out of thin air and hooking it up to his nipples with His mind. “The Holy Ghost”. The ghost floated over to the bed and shook Mary’s hand. She smiled politely.
“Nice…to meet you?” She looked back at the Lord, who had assumed – rather uncomfortably for his partner – the form of a burning bush. “What’s going on?” she demanded, slapping at her pubic hair with a fire blanket.
“It’s the Trinity baby – we do everything together. Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”
“Son?” Mary looked at the third man, a young bearded fellow with a halo and large cucumber. “Come on – that’s just sick!”
“Sorry babe,” the Lord intoned, having abandoned his bush form and turned into a pillar of smoke, which proceeded to blow into some extremely intimate areas, “You do one of us, you do all of us.”
From there, things went rapidly downhill. Mary had already been slightly put off by God’s constant cries of “Thou shalt not stop” and habit of turning her breasts into piles of salt and back again; but that was nothing compared to the Holy Ghost, who was so insubstantial she could barely feel him, and simply sort of wafted over her making “woo woo” noises. Mary was also made uncomfortable by the impression that she was having sex with the Grand Wizard of the Klan.
If anything, the Son was even worse when his turn came around. Every time she moved, he drew a cross in the air and said “I forgive you”, and he kept breaking off to wash her feet, but what she found really creepy was when he finished and told her he couldn’t wait for her to be his mum. What the hell was that about? He also made a lot of a jokes about the Second Coming that she didn’t really understand.
And now, here she was. She hadn’t heard from God since that night – not even a phone call – and all she could think about was Joseph. He wasn’t going to take this well. He was a conservative sort of guy at the best of times. She did not imagine that he would react well to being told his fiancée had been gang-banging supernatural beings. But Joseph just didn’t understand what it was like to be a young girl, flooded with hormones, wanting to rebel, and easy pickings for any slick stranger with a full beard and a cheap source of wine. He didn’t understand how hard it was to resist a man whose tongue could literally cause earthquakes. He didn’t know the amazing feeling of having your Red Sea parted.
She heard the door open. “I’m home, dear!” Joseph shouted as he walked into the room. “And look – I’ve got wood!” he cried, waving a piece of four by two in the air jauntily. Mary rolled her eyes. Both Joseph’s carpentry, and his erectile dysfunction, had ceased to be amusing long ago.
She stood up and drew a deep breath. “I have some news for you, Joseph,” she said. “I’m pregnant!”
Joseph stared at her. The wood dropped from his hand. “Pregnant?” he gasped. “But…you’re a virgin! That’s, like, your thing!
Well, there you go,” Mary replied somewhat superfluously.
Joseph was aghast. “Who’s the father?”
This was the hard part. Mary knew her story was both hard to believe and absolutely disgusting, but she had to face the consequences of her actions. “It’s God, Joseph. God is the father of my baby.”
“God?” Joseph’s face lit up. “You mean, God has miraculously blessed you with child?”
“Not really. We just had sex,” Mary explained. “Like…a LOT.”
“Ah,” Joseph nodded. “You mean, he filled you with his holy spirit…”
“No,” Mary shook her head. “He filled me with his holy penis.”
Joseph’s face fell. “You mean…he nailed you?” He held up a small nail to illustrate, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Even woodwork seemed bitter and hollow now that he knew what his fiancée had been getting up to.
“Oh, Joseph!” Mary collapsed into Joseph’s thin, womanly arms. “I feel so…so dirty! I lost my head, I think it might have been the wine, or possibly it affected my judgment when God put his hand inside my brain. He used me, Joseph, and now I’m just a story he can tell to his buddies.” Little did she know that this was exactly what God was doing at that very moment, sharing a beer with Vishnu and telling him the whole story with accompanying hand gestures.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Joseph muttered. “I forgive you. Even without placing your sins onto the head of a third party who is then tortured to death in order to absolve you of responsibility for your actions, I forgive you, and we shall get through this together. We’ll raise this child, and he will work with me, making tables and little toy hippos on wheels whose mouths open and shut when you roll them along the floor, and we will be happy together, and he will never have to know he is the result of his mother’s wild night of bizarre kinky group sex with a trio of incorporeal perverts.”
“How did you know all that, I didn’t tell you – ”
“That’s not important right now!” Joseph cried. “What’s important is the future. We shall be married straight away, and our family shall be happy!”
“But Joseph, what about God? Every week when we go to the temple, He’ll be there…leering at me from above. I…I can’t take the humiliation!”
“Don’t worry Mary. You’ll never have to see that creep again. We won’t go His temple anymore. As of now, we’re converting…to Islam!”
Monday, April 23, 2012
Life - A Love Story
At a young age, I fell in love with life, and this tempestuous affair has continued ever since.
Many times my lover has infuriated me, driven me to distraction and despair and forced me to question my commitment to the relationship. At times it has seemed almost abusive, the way life would harass me and make me feel small.
I've considered leaving, I've thought about escaping this fierce love that terrrifies as often as it exhilarates. So many times I've felt that the relationship is just too much work, and quitting would be the only way to make things better. But always that love has kept me bound.
And no doubt it will continue in much the same way. The days when life and I are so attuned that colours blaze brighter and my heart swells with joy and exultation at the love I have found, will always be followed by the days when I feel out of love, when I feel that irreconcilable differences have widened the chasm between us to the point where there is nothing to be done. Days when my devotion to life is so complete that my only regret is that the time we're allowed to spend together is so short will be followed by days when everything seems dull and painfully eternal, and my wandering eye catches sight of the alluring alternatives, days when I may casually flirt with others and wonder if the grass really would be greener on the other side. The threat of these dalliances might always hang over us, I might always be subject to these doubts over whether I made the right decision committing to this affair that causes such pain and uncertainty.
And yet I can't leave. I must stay, and ride the peaks and troughs, and find out what happens next. Because I fell in love with life, and by now it is almost as if I cannot live without it.
Many times my lover has infuriated me, driven me to distraction and despair and forced me to question my commitment to the relationship. At times it has seemed almost abusive, the way life would harass me and make me feel small.
I've considered leaving, I've thought about escaping this fierce love that terrrifies as often as it exhilarates. So many times I've felt that the relationship is just too much work, and quitting would be the only way to make things better. But always that love has kept me bound.
And no doubt it will continue in much the same way. The days when life and I are so attuned that colours blaze brighter and my heart swells with joy and exultation at the love I have found, will always be followed by the days when I feel out of love, when I feel that irreconcilable differences have widened the chasm between us to the point where there is nothing to be done. Days when my devotion to life is so complete that my only regret is that the time we're allowed to spend together is so short will be followed by days when everything seems dull and painfully eternal, and my wandering eye catches sight of the alluring alternatives, days when I may casually flirt with others and wonder if the grass really would be greener on the other side. The threat of these dalliances might always hang over us, I might always be subject to these doubts over whether I made the right decision committing to this affair that causes such pain and uncertainty.
And yet I can't leave. I must stay, and ride the peaks and troughs, and find out what happens next. Because I fell in love with life, and by now it is almost as if I cannot live without it.
Friday, April 20, 2012
A day in the life of a Podcasting Star
A lot of you are probably thinking, hey, I certainly love listening to the Gather Around Me podcast starring Ben Pobjie and Cam Smith, which I subscribe to on iTunes and totally listen to all the time, and I especially love the latest episode wherein Ben and Cam read a Choose Your Own Adventure book and invite ME to select where the story will take them next - but there are times when I wish I could know more about the process behind the GAM podcast and its wild popularity.
WISH. NO. MORE. Because here is:
MY DAY AS A PODCASTER BY BEN
6.05am: Arrive at the GAM offices, where I am greeted by Esther, our hard-working secretary. She gives me my daily iron pills and flirts outrageously with me, and we have a good laugh.
6.08am: Enter the GAM Control Centre, where Cam screams at me for being late.
6.09am: Cam, sobbing, begs for my forgiveness for being angry, and then takes a short nap.
6.10-6.30am: Catch up on GAM email. Delete spam and offers of marriage from men, move offers of marriage from women into special folder. Agree to every offer of corporate sponsor. Reply to sexy emails from Packed to the Rafters cast members with equally sexy emails.
6.45am: Cam wakes up. I subdue him with a soothing voice and pleas to drop the knife.
7-10am: Planning session for new podcast. We storyboard each episode meticulously on butcher's paper, then transfer the storyboard to our 3D clay puppet board. We then make a crude animation of the podcast, edit and score it, and play it back to see if we think it will fly as a quality Gather Around Me instalment. We do this several times until we have what we call "GOLD". We then record a rough guide vocal using this script, so our orchestra can follow it.
10-11am: Orchestra session. All the music is written by Cam, but in a strange code that only he knows, so he has to hum it to the orchestra and they play it back. Normally a recording session will be done in the nude, and Cam usually assaults at least six musicians before it's over.
11-11.30am: Meeting with lawyers to discuss Cam's defence for assault trial.
11.36am: Cam begs me to let him cut my hair. I refuse, but he goes ahead anyway.
11.45am: Cam starts sobbing again.
12pm: Lunch, eaten on opposite sides of a picnic table in a nearby park, neither of us willing to take our eyes off the other. Between bites of his salami toastie, Cam threatens to kill me several times.
12.45-3pm: Sex.
3-4pm: Recording of the podcast. Cam does the whole thing in a thick Russian accent, and insists on having his "manager", a 17-year-old boxer named Michelle, sitting beside him the whole time. Today's podcast is examining the issue of aged-care funding, but three minutes in we get sidetracked by wondering which sea animal it would be preferable to be raped by, and we never really get back on-topic. By the end of the hour Cam is incredibly drunk and claims he is my biological mother. he then beats me savagely.
4.15pm: Over-dubbing and adding of wacky sound effects.
4.30pm: Daily prayers. At GAM we have a new religion each week to keep things fresh. This week's is Shinto.
4.45-5pm: Sex.
5.15pm: Breakfast.
6pm: Cam asks for my hand in marriage, but immediately rescinds the offer, displaying crossed fingers. He then beats me savagely.
6.30pm: Esther screams with exasperation and hurls herself through a plate-glass window. Later on she confesses it was because "YouTube was being slow".
6.45pm: Wash dishes and genitals.
7pm: Kiss Cam goodnight and shampoo his beard.
7.30pm: Hit the streets, out for a good time.
8pm: Become caught in a deadly game of cat and mouse with international arms traders.
8.15pm: Dessert and bed.
That's SHOWBUSINESS folks!
WISH. NO. MORE. Because here is:
MY DAY AS A PODCASTER BY BEN
6.05am: Arrive at the GAM offices, where I am greeted by Esther, our hard-working secretary. She gives me my daily iron pills and flirts outrageously with me, and we have a good laugh.
6.08am: Enter the GAM Control Centre, where Cam screams at me for being late.
6.09am: Cam, sobbing, begs for my forgiveness for being angry, and then takes a short nap.
6.10-6.30am: Catch up on GAM email. Delete spam and offers of marriage from men, move offers of marriage from women into special folder. Agree to every offer of corporate sponsor. Reply to sexy emails from Packed to the Rafters cast members with equally sexy emails.
6.45am: Cam wakes up. I subdue him with a soothing voice and pleas to drop the knife.
7-10am: Planning session for new podcast. We storyboard each episode meticulously on butcher's paper, then transfer the storyboard to our 3D clay puppet board. We then make a crude animation of the podcast, edit and score it, and play it back to see if we think it will fly as a quality Gather Around Me instalment. We do this several times until we have what we call "GOLD". We then record a rough guide vocal using this script, so our orchestra can follow it.
10-11am: Orchestra session. All the music is written by Cam, but in a strange code that only he knows, so he has to hum it to the orchestra and they play it back. Normally a recording session will be done in the nude, and Cam usually assaults at least six musicians before it's over.
11-11.30am: Meeting with lawyers to discuss Cam's defence for assault trial.
11.36am: Cam begs me to let him cut my hair. I refuse, but he goes ahead anyway.
11.45am: Cam starts sobbing again.
12pm: Lunch, eaten on opposite sides of a picnic table in a nearby park, neither of us willing to take our eyes off the other. Between bites of his salami toastie, Cam threatens to kill me several times.
12.45-3pm: Sex.
3-4pm: Recording of the podcast. Cam does the whole thing in a thick Russian accent, and insists on having his "manager", a 17-year-old boxer named Michelle, sitting beside him the whole time. Today's podcast is examining the issue of aged-care funding, but three minutes in we get sidetracked by wondering which sea animal it would be preferable to be raped by, and we never really get back on-topic. By the end of the hour Cam is incredibly drunk and claims he is my biological mother. he then beats me savagely.
4.15pm: Over-dubbing and adding of wacky sound effects.
4.30pm: Daily prayers. At GAM we have a new religion each week to keep things fresh. This week's is Shinto.
4.45-5pm: Sex.
5.15pm: Breakfast.
6pm: Cam asks for my hand in marriage, but immediately rescinds the offer, displaying crossed fingers. He then beats me savagely.
6.30pm: Esther screams with exasperation and hurls herself through a plate-glass window. Later on she confesses it was because "YouTube was being slow".
6.45pm: Wash dishes and genitals.
7pm: Kiss Cam goodnight and shampoo his beard.
7.30pm: Hit the streets, out for a good time.
8pm: Become caught in a deadly game of cat and mouse with international arms traders.
8.15pm: Dessert and bed.
That's SHOWBUSINESS folks!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Why not?
Why not vote for me in the Sydney Writers' Centre Best Blog Competition?
Am I right?
I'm right, right?
You'd be voting for a blog that:
- is number one in the world in regards to how-not-to-be-a-rapist tutorials
- has more blasphemy per square centimetre than all industry leaders
- is as cute as a button
- uses no child labour
- makes your breasts firmer and more inviting if read daily.
Vote now!
Or don't!
It's really up to you!
It is not my place to be prescriptive!
But vote now!
Unless you don't want to!
!!!!
Am I right?
I'm right, right?
You'd be voting for a blog that:
- is number one in the world in regards to how-not-to-be-a-rapist tutorials
- has more blasphemy per square centimetre than all industry leaders
- is as cute as a button
- uses no child labour
- makes your breasts firmer and more inviting if read daily.
Vote now!
Or don't!
It's really up to you!
It is not my place to be prescriptive!
But vote now!
Unless you don't want to!
!!!!
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Night I Won Masterchef
*This story was read by me last night as a guest at the wonderful Fan Fiction Comedy at Melbourne Town Hall as part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. It's a great night, there are only two more shows this weekend - catch them while you can.
It was dark when I stepped into the Masterchef kitchen that night. Filming had finished hours ago, but I had been summoned back by an anonymous note pushed under my door, reading, "Come to the kitchn. Urgent. Bring garnish."
As I looked around the empty kitchen, breathing in the aroma of capsicum, sweat and broken dreams, a voice boomed in the darkness.
"Welcome...to your final challenge."
"But I already did the final challenge! I made Heston Blumenthal's ice-cream pheasants! I made the liver parmigiana! I did everything you asked!"
"HAHAHA! No - nobody wins Masterchef without doing...the REAL final challenge!"
And with that, Matt Preston stepped out of the shadows. As always he wore his trademark cravat. As was less usual he wore nothing else.
"M-m-m-Matt," I stammered. "Your croquembouche is showing!"
He stepped forward, his spiced chorizo glinting in the moonlight. He leaned in close. "It's time...for the mystery box!"
With that he whipped open a wooden box on the benchtop, revealing three bananas, half a chicken and a riding crop.
"What can you make of this?" he whispered, his breath rich with the scent of lust and sun-dried tomatoes.
"I...I guess some sort of terrine?" I began, but I had no time to finish before I was pressed against the bench, Preston's chipolatas frenetically tenderising my sirloin.
"You...YOU'RE the hero of this dish!" Matt gasped, stuffing my fresh squab with his salted rolled pork. "The presentation leaves a little to be desired, but the flavours are all there! The bitterness of your rumballs, the sweetness of your glazed beef shoulders, and the firm filling inside your succulent creampie," he grunted. "Just needs...more SAUCE!" and with a mighty bellow, he covered my steaming platter with his freshly-made hollandaise.
From there it was a blur of baking and roasting and saucing and basting and stewing in each others' juices and the occasional random scream of "Schnitzel!" I found myself passed from chef to chef, as each one forced me to submit to their depraved culinary whims. Whether beating Gary Mehigan's eggs with all my might to produce custard for his crusty buns, delicately smearing white chocolate icing on Donna Hay's sticky date pudding, or drizzling Margaret Fulton's pungent fish pie with what she called verjuice bukkake, I did it all. Until finally, I was letting George Calombaris batter my dolmades, screaming, "We're nearly there, just ten seconds left, time to BOOM BOOM SHAKE THE ROOM!" and with a last spurt of honey mustard it was over, and I lay panting in a pool of my own foie gras.
"Now..." I pleaded. "Now am I Australia's next Masterchef?"
Matt smiled, a smile made of equal parts lasciviousness and macaron crumbs. "Not yet," he growled. "Because now...we're going to have sex."
It was dark when I stepped into the Masterchef kitchen that night. Filming had finished hours ago, but I had been summoned back by an anonymous note pushed under my door, reading, "Come to the kitchn. Urgent. Bring garnish."
As I looked around the empty kitchen, breathing in the aroma of capsicum, sweat and broken dreams, a voice boomed in the darkness.
"Welcome...to your final challenge."
"But I already did the final challenge! I made Heston Blumenthal's ice-cream pheasants! I made the liver parmigiana! I did everything you asked!"
"HAHAHA! No - nobody wins Masterchef without doing...the REAL final challenge!"
And with that, Matt Preston stepped out of the shadows. As always he wore his trademark cravat. As was less usual he wore nothing else.
"M-m-m-Matt," I stammered. "Your croquembouche is showing!"
He stepped forward, his spiced chorizo glinting in the moonlight. He leaned in close. "It's time...for the mystery box!"
With that he whipped open a wooden box on the benchtop, revealing three bananas, half a chicken and a riding crop.
"What can you make of this?" he whispered, his breath rich with the scent of lust and sun-dried tomatoes.
"I...I guess some sort of terrine?" I began, but I had no time to finish before I was pressed against the bench, Preston's chipolatas frenetically tenderising my sirloin.
"You...YOU'RE the hero of this dish!" Matt gasped, stuffing my fresh squab with his salted rolled pork. "The presentation leaves a little to be desired, but the flavours are all there! The bitterness of your rumballs, the sweetness of your glazed beef shoulders, and the firm filling inside your succulent creampie," he grunted. "Just needs...more SAUCE!" and with a mighty bellow, he covered my steaming platter with his freshly-made hollandaise.
From there it was a blur of baking and roasting and saucing and basting and stewing in each others' juices and the occasional random scream of "Schnitzel!" I found myself passed from chef to chef, as each one forced me to submit to their depraved culinary whims. Whether beating Gary Mehigan's eggs with all my might to produce custard for his crusty buns, delicately smearing white chocolate icing on Donna Hay's sticky date pudding, or drizzling Margaret Fulton's pungent fish pie with what she called verjuice bukkake, I did it all. Until finally, I was letting George Calombaris batter my dolmades, screaming, "We're nearly there, just ten seconds left, time to BOOM BOOM SHAKE THE ROOM!" and with a last spurt of honey mustard it was over, and I lay panting in a pool of my own foie gras.
"Now..." I pleaded. "Now am I Australia's next Masterchef?"
Matt smiled, a smile made of equal parts lasciviousness and macaron crumbs. "Not yet," he growled. "Because now...we're going to have sex."
Friday, April 13, 2012
Ode To Bob
O Bob where will we go from here without you there to soothe our worried minds and tell us everything will be all right?
Who will lead us from the darkness to the light?
Who will lead us from the darkness to the light?
O Bob how will we cope now that you can no longer show us the wondrousness of nature and help us understand the trees?
Who'll tell us about the birds and also the bees?
My eyes are blinded by darkness because the beacon of hope is gone
Gone from the Senate
Gone from my life
It is as if a candle burning in my bosom for so long
Has been snuffed out by a falling seagull
That is what it is like
O Bob
O Bob
Bob
Bob
Bob
Are you listening Bob?
Over here
Bob you taught us many things
How to save the earth
How to be a responsible citizen
How to tie knots and make simple yet nutritious meals on a budget
You taught me how to ride a bike and catch a fish
I'll always remember you for that Bob
For that, and for your amazing marksmanship
O Bob you killed sixteen Germans single-handed in a trench
How did you do that Bob?
And why?
How does grace and anger, poise and violence, peace and homicide
Co-exist?
O Bob
You will be missed
I will miss your voice and your laugh
Your kind words and your gentle hand
Your billowing cape and your flaxen hair
O Bob I love you
We all love you
Please don't go
Stay here and together we will stockpile canned goods
Forever and ever
O Bob
(fade to incoherence)
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Hey You!
Yes, you! I got a few questions!
Do you like READING THINGS?
Do you like LAUGHING AT THINGS?
Do you like ELECTRONIC DEVICES?
Do you like - and pay close attention here - ME?
Hey, I know you're answering yes to all those questions! But I know that YOU'RE asking a question too!
You're asking, "But Ben, HOW can I satisfy ALL these preferences of mine for the INCREDIBLY LOW price of $2.99, in a convenient manner delivered instantly over the world wide web?"
OH MY GOD I HAVE THE ANSWER!
That's right! HANDY LATIN PHRASES!
Handy Latin Phrases is the anthology of stories and poetry, known as my equivalent of Woody Allen's "Early, funny stuff" that I self-published several years ago. You can still get it as an old-fashioned dead-tree edition, but NOW! FOR THE FIRST TIME! ON AMAZON! You can get it as a Kindle eBook! For $2.99!
Only $2.99? Why you'd be cruel and foolish NOT to buy it am I right?
Haha! Of course I am!
Go buy it NOW!
Do you like READING THINGS?
Do you like LAUGHING AT THINGS?
Do you like ELECTRONIC DEVICES?
Do you like - and pay close attention here - ME?
Hey, I know you're answering yes to all those questions! But I know that YOU'RE asking a question too!
You're asking, "But Ben, HOW can I satisfy ALL these preferences of mine for the INCREDIBLY LOW price of $2.99, in a convenient manner delivered instantly over the world wide web?"
OH MY GOD I HAVE THE ANSWER!
That's right! HANDY LATIN PHRASES!
Handy Latin Phrases is the anthology of stories and poetry, known as my equivalent of Woody Allen's "Early, funny stuff" that I self-published several years ago. You can still get it as an old-fashioned dead-tree edition, but NOW! FOR THE FIRST TIME! ON AMAZON! You can get it as a Kindle eBook! For $2.99!
Only $2.99? Why you'd be cruel and foolish NOT to buy it am I right?
Haha! Of course I am!
Go buy it NOW!
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Trigger Warning: Lady Caves
This is the track listing of the upcoming album "Lady Caves" by my new band, Trigger Warning. To hear the tracks, go to www.myspace.com/shortstack.
LADY CAVES, by Trigger Warning
1. Dam My Man-River
2. Happy Birthday, Celia Imrie
3. Your Love Is The Hangnail On The Finger Of My Heart
4. Look At My Pants Please
5. Breasts Etc
6. Ode To Allan
7. Ladies Don't Gotta Be All Up In My Grill Yo
8. Stand Up Slutty Soldiers
9. Kiss On The Bits
10. Gemma The Peek-A-Boo Queen
11. Hope You Get Eczema
12. Lady Caves
"I'm here to scare the bats
Out of your lady caves
But don't worry baby
I have a torch"
- Trigger Warning, 2012
LADY CAVES, by Trigger Warning
1. Dam My Man-River
2. Happy Birthday, Celia Imrie
3. Your Love Is The Hangnail On The Finger Of My Heart
4. Look At My Pants Please
5. Breasts Etc
6. Ode To Allan
7. Ladies Don't Gotta Be All Up In My Grill Yo
8. Stand Up Slutty Soldiers
9. Kiss On The Bits
10. Gemma The Peek-A-Boo Queen
11. Hope You Get Eczema
12. Lady Caves
"I'm here to scare the bats
Out of your lady caves
But don't worry baby
I have a torch"
- Trigger Warning, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
School's In!
Why should you come see me play the principal in the Bedroom Philosopher's High School Assembly at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival?
For many reasons:
1. There will be MUSIC.
2. There will be DANCING.
3. I will TALK at some point.
4. You are allowed to THROW things at me.
5. It is in a nice THEATRE.
6. It has nice COSTUMES.
7. There are JOKES.
8. You can sit on a SEAT.
9. After the show you might get to have SEX with someone you MET at the nice THEATRE.
10. I will CRY if you DON'T.
So I'll see you there.
For many reasons:
1. There will be MUSIC.
2. There will be DANCING.
3. I will TALK at some point.
4. You are allowed to THROW things at me.
5. It is in a nice THEATRE.
6. It has nice COSTUMES.
7. There are JOKES.
8. You can sit on a SEAT.
9. After the show you might get to have SEX with someone you MET at the nice THEATRE.
10. I will CRY if you DON'T.
So I'll see you there.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
"Are Women Funny?" and other questions to ask if you are somewhat slow
OK so it seems like every year around Comedy Festival time, someone brings up the subject of whether women are funny, because if there's one thing that unites all human beings no matter what their sex, it is a total inability to have an original thought.
So I saw this brought up YET AGAIN, in TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE, and unfortunately I was driven to think about it.
The usual response for those of on the side of "yes (sigh), women are funny, next question, please", is to roll out a list of women who we think are funny to demonstrate the fact that those who claim women aren't funny actually seem to be alleging some kind of worldwide conspiracy in which the millions of people paying money to see women comedians, and watching TV and movie comedy featuring women, are engaged in a particularly deranged form of affirmative action.
But I'm not going to do that, because it's been done a million times and everyone's heard it before and everyone knows all the names that would be on that list. We are not unaware of these women's existence.
No, what I want to do is just ask a question of those who claim women aren't funny:
What do you mean?
Like, what stops women from being funny? What is the mechanism that prevents funniness in women? What quirk of biology has kept humour from developing in the female human? What genetic defect blocks the emission of comedy from a woman?
I mean, if you're going to claim "women aren't funny", there must be a reason, right?
Is it that women are allergic to jokes? Do breasts repel humour, causing funny things to reflect off the boobs and back into a woman's face so they never make to the wider world? Does oestrogen prevent the activation of the comedy gene? Is funniness secreted from a small gland which men have but women lack? Do vaginas just suck the fun out of everything?
I'm just asking, because on the face of it, given that I'm fairly sure it's been well-established for some time now that women are human beings, "women aren't funny" seems to be a patently ludicrous assertion, akin to saying "Finnish people can't brush their hair" or "redheads don't own singlets". As things stand, claiming women aren't funny appears to be not so much a talking point as a meaningless string of words randomly patched together by a gibbering ape. So I'd love it to be clarified that I may understand.
So please, if you could supply some kind of hypothesis, or research, or blood test, that might explain the "women aren't funny" phenomenon, that'd be great. I ask only for information.
So I saw this brought up YET AGAIN, in TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE, and unfortunately I was driven to think about it.
The usual response for those of on the side of "yes (sigh), women are funny, next question, please", is to roll out a list of women who we think are funny to demonstrate the fact that those who claim women aren't funny actually seem to be alleging some kind of worldwide conspiracy in which the millions of people paying money to see women comedians, and watching TV and movie comedy featuring women, are engaged in a particularly deranged form of affirmative action.
But I'm not going to do that, because it's been done a million times and everyone's heard it before and everyone knows all the names that would be on that list. We are not unaware of these women's existence.
No, what I want to do is just ask a question of those who claim women aren't funny:
What do you mean?
Like, what stops women from being funny? What is the mechanism that prevents funniness in women? What quirk of biology has kept humour from developing in the female human? What genetic defect blocks the emission of comedy from a woman?
I mean, if you're going to claim "women aren't funny", there must be a reason, right?
Is it that women are allergic to jokes? Do breasts repel humour, causing funny things to reflect off the boobs and back into a woman's face so they never make to the wider world? Does oestrogen prevent the activation of the comedy gene? Is funniness secreted from a small gland which men have but women lack? Do vaginas just suck the fun out of everything?
I'm just asking, because on the face of it, given that I'm fairly sure it's been well-established for some time now that women are human beings, "women aren't funny" seems to be a patently ludicrous assertion, akin to saying "Finnish people can't brush their hair" or "redheads don't own singlets". As things stand, claiming women aren't funny appears to be not so much a talking point as a meaningless string of words randomly patched together by a gibbering ape. So I'd love it to be clarified that I may understand.
So please, if you could supply some kind of hypothesis, or research, or blood test, that might explain the "women aren't funny" phenomenon, that'd be great. I ask only for information.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
On Cutting
Cutting
Does the service station attendant wonder, in the long hours he must have available for wondering, why that guy needed to buy a packet of razors at 10.30 at night? It’s gotta be suspicious, right? Is there such a thing as a late-night shaving emergency? Do these things cross his mind? Does he suspect the worst? Was there anything in the customer’s demeanour that might have tipped him off? I never really know how I come across to people – when I’m buying the razors I feel pale, wild-eyed, shivery: I feel like everyone within a three-mile radius must be able to see me shaking, vibrating, jittering with fear and loathing and bent almost double from the ceaseless gut-punches of panic and sadness that pound me even as I pass the razors across the counter.
But nobody sees that. I’m not pale, I’m not shaking, I’m just a guy in a service station and I doubt the attendant gives me a second glance as he swipes the packet and takes my money and says his robotic farewell. Does he even know what I bought? That’s doubtful in itself. He’s seen a million people buy a million things, and he’s probably conditioned to pay no mind to the details. If he didn’t notice which porno mag the man before me bought, why would he notice the razors I’m buying now? And why would he devote even a second of his life to caring about why I bought them?
And so I’m back in my car, sitting across the road from the servo, feeling a bit stupid. I don’t know how you’re supposed to do this. Are you even supposed to use disposable razors? I should have a knife. I have a knife at home – for work – I should make sure I have that with me next time. Yeah, definitely – because this is the kind of thing you really plan in advance, isn’t it? Idiot. I don’t know how to do this. Disposable razors feel wrong, but what else am I going to use? Service stations don’t sell straight razors. They don’t sell kitchen knives. I could have bought a newspaper and tried to give myself a papercut: but I feel like that’d be even wronger.
I rip open the packet and take out a razor, and I almost feel like laughing it’s so stupid. What am I doing? What’s the point of this?
Later on, more than one person will ask me why: why did I cut myself? What did I get out of it? What was the point, what was the purpose? And I’ll stitch together an answer, from what I remember, from what I think I was feeling, from what I’ve heard other people say about it, from what I feel like I should be saying. It was because I just want to feel something. It was because physical pain helped block out the emotional pain. It was because drawing blood felt like a release of the pressure. It was because I thought people would understand better if there was a tangible wound to show them. It was because I’d heard that’s what depressed people do, so I thought I’d go along with the crowd.
All of these explanations are absolutely true, and not true at all. Afterwards, when the fog had cleared and I was actually thinking, actually using my brain the way I knew how to and the way it’s supposed to be used, I could really only give an approximation of the reason why I did what I did. It was like trying to reconstruct a dinosaur from a thighbone and a tooth – I can do it, but I’ll never be sure if what I’ve built is really what was there at the time. And my memory of what I was feeling at the time aren’t exactly clear, because nothing was exactly clear. The closest I can come to a concise summation of the driving force at that moment is: I just need to find a way to make someone care.
And there I am sitting in my car, and the radio is on but I don’t know what it’s saying, and I’m thinking nobody cares and I’m thinking I’ve got to make someone care. And this will, right? Everyone’s got to care about blood. Everyone cares about wounds. This’ll be an injury, it’ll be real, and it’ll be a clear, obvious, blaring, broadcast-quality signal that this dude is seriously fucked-up. I just have to convince people of that, and then everything will be…
Everything will be…
I don’t know what everything will be. OK? Better? I guess so. It has to be better. How could it not be? So come on, let’s do this.
I don’t know how to do this. How do I do this? Disposable razors are not actually made to cut – that’s kind of the point. I guess I just sort of...slash.
I roll up my sleeve like I’m about to take my blood pressure. In a way I am – HA! I take the razor and I push it down onto my skin, and draw it, fast, across my arm. It kind of stings, and leaves a stark white line on my arm. I don’t see any cut though. I try again, pushing down harder. And again. And again. I can’t see any blood – it’s not working. Goddammit, it’s not working, and I’m angry, because I’m doing it wrong, and I start slashing. I whip the razor back and forth, criss-crossing my arm, hacking in like my arm’s said something rude about my mother, and it’s not fucking working I can’t –
And then.
The blood. It starts to well. The white line of my first cut turns red, and the blood oozes lazily out of it. Then the second, and the third. And suddenly the whole untidy mess of slashes is a thick welter of red, trickling across my skin, congealing and turning the hairs sticky. The sting of the cuts intensifies – they burn, and my arm starts to itch. I scratch, and smear the blood across, blurring the wounds into each other.
And as I stare at the pain angrily dripping out of my arm, I suck in air, hard, through my nose, and all of a sudden I’m less pale, and I’m not shaking, and I blink away my tears and I can see the dark shiny night in front of me. The muscles of my face are twitching, and I’m sure this is my last night on earth, but I’ve taken some decisive action.
I’m bleeding, and that’s better than nothing.
Does the service station attendant wonder, in the long hours he must have available for wondering, why that guy needed to buy a packet of razors at 10.30 at night? It’s gotta be suspicious, right? Is there such a thing as a late-night shaving emergency? Do these things cross his mind? Does he suspect the worst? Was there anything in the customer’s demeanour that might have tipped him off? I never really know how I come across to people – when I’m buying the razors I feel pale, wild-eyed, shivery: I feel like everyone within a three-mile radius must be able to see me shaking, vibrating, jittering with fear and loathing and bent almost double from the ceaseless gut-punches of panic and sadness that pound me even as I pass the razors across the counter.
But nobody sees that. I’m not pale, I’m not shaking, I’m just a guy in a service station and I doubt the attendant gives me a second glance as he swipes the packet and takes my money and says his robotic farewell. Does he even know what I bought? That’s doubtful in itself. He’s seen a million people buy a million things, and he’s probably conditioned to pay no mind to the details. If he didn’t notice which porno mag the man before me bought, why would he notice the razors I’m buying now? And why would he devote even a second of his life to caring about why I bought them?
And so I’m back in my car, sitting across the road from the servo, feeling a bit stupid. I don’t know how you’re supposed to do this. Are you even supposed to use disposable razors? I should have a knife. I have a knife at home – for work – I should make sure I have that with me next time. Yeah, definitely – because this is the kind of thing you really plan in advance, isn’t it? Idiot. I don’t know how to do this. Disposable razors feel wrong, but what else am I going to use? Service stations don’t sell straight razors. They don’t sell kitchen knives. I could have bought a newspaper and tried to give myself a papercut: but I feel like that’d be even wronger.
I rip open the packet and take out a razor, and I almost feel like laughing it’s so stupid. What am I doing? What’s the point of this?
Later on, more than one person will ask me why: why did I cut myself? What did I get out of it? What was the point, what was the purpose? And I’ll stitch together an answer, from what I remember, from what I think I was feeling, from what I’ve heard other people say about it, from what I feel like I should be saying. It was because I just want to feel something. It was because physical pain helped block out the emotional pain. It was because drawing blood felt like a release of the pressure. It was because I thought people would understand better if there was a tangible wound to show them. It was because I’d heard that’s what depressed people do, so I thought I’d go along with the crowd.
All of these explanations are absolutely true, and not true at all. Afterwards, when the fog had cleared and I was actually thinking, actually using my brain the way I knew how to and the way it’s supposed to be used, I could really only give an approximation of the reason why I did what I did. It was like trying to reconstruct a dinosaur from a thighbone and a tooth – I can do it, but I’ll never be sure if what I’ve built is really what was there at the time. And my memory of what I was feeling at the time aren’t exactly clear, because nothing was exactly clear. The closest I can come to a concise summation of the driving force at that moment is: I just need to find a way to make someone care.
And there I am sitting in my car, and the radio is on but I don’t know what it’s saying, and I’m thinking nobody cares and I’m thinking I’ve got to make someone care. And this will, right? Everyone’s got to care about blood. Everyone cares about wounds. This’ll be an injury, it’ll be real, and it’ll be a clear, obvious, blaring, broadcast-quality signal that this dude is seriously fucked-up. I just have to convince people of that, and then everything will be…
Everything will be…
I don’t know what everything will be. OK? Better? I guess so. It has to be better. How could it not be? So come on, let’s do this.
I don’t know how to do this. How do I do this? Disposable razors are not actually made to cut – that’s kind of the point. I guess I just sort of...slash.
I roll up my sleeve like I’m about to take my blood pressure. In a way I am – HA! I take the razor and I push it down onto my skin, and draw it, fast, across my arm. It kind of stings, and leaves a stark white line on my arm. I don’t see any cut though. I try again, pushing down harder. And again. And again. I can’t see any blood – it’s not working. Goddammit, it’s not working, and I’m angry, because I’m doing it wrong, and I start slashing. I whip the razor back and forth, criss-crossing my arm, hacking in like my arm’s said something rude about my mother, and it’s not fucking working I can’t –
And then.
The blood. It starts to well. The white line of my first cut turns red, and the blood oozes lazily out of it. Then the second, and the third. And suddenly the whole untidy mess of slashes is a thick welter of red, trickling across my skin, congealing and turning the hairs sticky. The sting of the cuts intensifies – they burn, and my arm starts to itch. I scratch, and smear the blood across, blurring the wounds into each other.
And as I stare at the pain angrily dripping out of my arm, I suck in air, hard, through my nose, and all of a sudden I’m less pale, and I’m not shaking, and I blink away my tears and I can see the dark shiny night in front of me. The muscles of my face are twitching, and I’m sure this is my last night on earth, but I’ve taken some decisive action.
I’m bleeding, and that’s better than nothing.
Monday, March 26, 2012
A Defining Moment For Our Generation
As you probably know because you don't suck, I am an active member of the Twitter community, where I offer political views, gentle, homespun humour, and loyal friendship to people who say nice things about me if they are good-looking. I find Twitter the most ideal medium yet devised for getting into fights, inserting the word "penis" into incongruous phrases, and telling other people how much better you are than them.
As a Twitterite in good standing, I am pleased that soon a momentous event will occur: MY ONE HUNDRED THOUSANDTH TWEET. At time of blogging I am on 99,802, and I am so close I can literally taste it. It tastes like copper. Is that good?
Anyway, a massive online milestone deserves a massive online celebration, just like the ones I had for my 18th and 21st birthdays, but not for my 30th because that was actually pretty lame. Also, not much like the ones I had for my 18th and 21st birthdays because those were actual parties with food and drink and this really isn't.
The hashtag is #Pobjie100000. The lead-up to the great moment is a fantastic opportunity to reminisce about the highlights of my time on Twitter. Such as:
- the time someone called me sexist
- the time someone called me racist
- the time Martha Plimpton tweeted to me to cheer me up
- that joke I made about Christopher Pyne
- #replacelobgwithearwigsongs
When the actual 100,000th tweet arrives of course, there are many ways you could celebrate, including:
1. tweeting "congratulations Ben! I am madly in love with you hope that's cool #justsayin"
2. tweeting "#Pobjie100000 is the best thing to ever have happened, how does Ben manage to be so great?"
3. Running into the street and firing your gun into the air.
4. Sidling behind a customer service counter at Myer and quietly touching yourself.
5. Writing to the ABC demanding I be put on the Q&A panel or you will take drastic action.
6. Eating three litres of ice-cream in half an hour.
7. Dancing wildly naked beneath the autumn moon in front of a video camera.
8. Sending me money in large amounts.
9. Naming your child/pet/speedboat after me.
10. Using your position as a television producer to get my TV show greenlit.
11. Using your position as a publisher to get my book published.
12. Using your position as prime minister to get my enemies murdered.
13. Giving me a great big squishy hug.
14. Running madly through the town screaming, "IT'S HERE IT'S HERE OUR SALVATION IS AT HAND!"
15. Having a drink and a pizza and watching Monty Python DVDs.
Whatever you choose, it will be quite a party.
As a Twitterite in good standing, I am pleased that soon a momentous event will occur: MY ONE HUNDRED THOUSANDTH TWEET. At time of blogging I am on 99,802, and I am so close I can literally taste it. It tastes like copper. Is that good?
Anyway, a massive online milestone deserves a massive online celebration, just like the ones I had for my 18th and 21st birthdays, but not for my 30th because that was actually pretty lame. Also, not much like the ones I had for my 18th and 21st birthdays because those were actual parties with food and drink and this really isn't.
The hashtag is #Pobjie100000. The lead-up to the great moment is a fantastic opportunity to reminisce about the highlights of my time on Twitter. Such as:
- the time someone called me sexist
- the time someone called me racist
- the time Martha Plimpton tweeted to me to cheer me up
- that joke I made about Christopher Pyne
- #replacelobgwithearwigsongs
When the actual 100,000th tweet arrives of course, there are many ways you could celebrate, including:
1. tweeting "congratulations Ben! I am madly in love with you hope that's cool #justsayin"
2. tweeting "#Pobjie100000 is the best thing to ever have happened, how does Ben manage to be so great?"
3. Running into the street and firing your gun into the air.
4. Sidling behind a customer service counter at Myer and quietly touching yourself.
5. Writing to the ABC demanding I be put on the Q&A panel or you will take drastic action.
6. Eating three litres of ice-cream in half an hour.
7. Dancing wildly naked beneath the autumn moon in front of a video camera.
8. Sending me money in large amounts.
9. Naming your child/pet/speedboat after me.
10. Using your position as a television producer to get my TV show greenlit.
11. Using your position as a publisher to get my book published.
12. Using your position as prime minister to get my enemies murdered.
13. Giving me a great big squishy hug.
14. Running madly through the town screaming, "IT'S HERE IT'S HERE OUR SALVATION IS AT HAND!"
15. Having a drink and a pizza and watching Monty Python DVDs.
Whatever you choose, it will be quite a party.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
To My Daughters
My Darling Daughters,
I am writing this on International Women's Day, 2012. You don't know what that means yet, but one day, you'll grow up - as much as I wish you wouldn't - and you'll understand what IWD is and what it means. It would be wonderful if by that time, there was no need for it, but sadly the world is rarely as wonderful as it should be - you'll find that out too; although maybe you already know, from how we make you go to bed every night.
And maybe when you grow up you'll read this - but even if you don't, writing this down will help your dad remember what he wants you to know.
The world is difficult. For everyone. And it's going to be difficult for you. In particular, you're almost certain to meet people who are going to try to make you feel bad, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think your opinions are less important, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can speak rudely to you, because you're girls.
There will be people who will talk to you as if you're stupid, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can hurt you, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you that you shouldn't try to be funny, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you there are things you shouldn't even try to achieve, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can judge your value as a person based on how you look, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to never be loud, or troublesome, or angry, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to lighten up, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to just accept things the way they are, because you're girls.
There will be people who will try to stop you from ever thinking you can be as good as the boys, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can do or say anything they like to you, and you shouldn't complain if you don't like it, because you're girls.
And when you meet any of those people, you will not take a backward step. You will get in their faces, you will stick your finger in their chests, and you will tell them to get the hell out of your way. Because there is no way you're going to let anyone make you feel inferior, or worthless, or stupid, or ugly, because you're girls. When you meet those people, you are going to stop them dead in their tracks, and roll over them like a steamroller.
And when you do , my darlings, I'll know that I must have been a pretty OK dad.
I am writing this on International Women's Day, 2012. You don't know what that means yet, but one day, you'll grow up - as much as I wish you wouldn't - and you'll understand what IWD is and what it means. It would be wonderful if by that time, there was no need for it, but sadly the world is rarely as wonderful as it should be - you'll find that out too; although maybe you already know, from how we make you go to bed every night.
And maybe when you grow up you'll read this - but even if you don't, writing this down will help your dad remember what he wants you to know.
The world is difficult. For everyone. And it's going to be difficult for you. In particular, you're almost certain to meet people who are going to try to make you feel bad, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think your opinions are less important, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can speak rudely to you, because you're girls.
There will be people who will talk to you as if you're stupid, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can hurt you, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you that you shouldn't try to be funny, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you there are things you shouldn't even try to achieve, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can judge your value as a person based on how you look, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to never be loud, or troublesome, or angry, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to lighten up, because you're girls.
There will be people who will tell you to just accept things the way they are, because you're girls.
There will be people who will try to stop you from ever thinking you can be as good as the boys, because you're girls.
There will be people who will think they can do or say anything they like to you, and you shouldn't complain if you don't like it, because you're girls.
And when you meet any of those people, you will not take a backward step. You will get in their faces, you will stick your finger in their chests, and you will tell them to get the hell out of your way. Because there is no way you're going to let anyone make you feel inferior, or worthless, or stupid, or ugly, because you're girls. When you meet those people, you are going to stop them dead in their tracks, and roll over them like a steamroller.
And when you do , my darlings, I'll know that I must have been a pretty OK dad.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Women - what even are they?
This week we will be celebrating another International Women's Day, which raises some very profound and troubling questions about the world we live in.
Now, don't get me wrong - I love women. My mother is a woman. My wife is a woman. My grandfather was a woman, and he fought under the Australian flag at Gallipoli for the rights of women everywhere to disguise themselves as men and attack strangers at the Dawn Service.
My beef is not with women - indeed I would consider it the height of rudeness to even have my beef anywhere near women. "Keep your beef to yourself," was the advice my mother gave to me, and as I mentioned, she was totally a woman, so there you go.
No, I have no issue with women, but here's the thing: where is the International Men's Day? It's all very well to say that women deserve an international day, even though they've already got so many advantages like abortions and vajazzling and those bras on TV that fit really well. I freely admit that women have problems that need to be dealt with - I read Sam Brett and I'm fully aware that your average women not only has to negotiate the pitfalls of modern dating, but also the inevitable headaches that come with confusing feminism and also waxing - but shouldn't we also recognise that men have problems?
Because believe me, men have a LOT of problems. Men have so many problems that they shouldn't even call us men, they should call us "Problemistas". Or "Problembots". Or "Captain Problem". I could go on, but you'd probably get bored - that's one of the problems with being a man: people get bored by you.
Other problems of being a man include:
1. People always want you to reach high shelves for you, but sometimes you have a sore arm and it hurts.
2. Other men laugh at you because you don't know how to change tyres.
3. You have to have a penis which looks stupid.
4. Sometimes you want to have sex with a lady but she doesn't want to have sex with you, which leads to sadness.
5. Underpants can be uncomfortable.
6. People keep trying to make you go into sheds and make things with wood.
7. Women are always making you look at their breasts, even when you don't want to.
8. You are responsible for all the wars and genocides in history which is a bummer.
9. Sometimes you think you might be gay but you're not sure.
10. You have to shave all the time and sometimes you cut yourself which really hurts and makes blood come and then you faint and people think you're a girl.
11. Spiders.
And that's only a few of the problems: there are literally some more. Which goes to show that being a man in today's modern fast-paced supercharged globalised online modern world is not as easy as it seems from up in your ivory tower. When do men get their chance at a bit of happiness?
So, why no International Men's Day? Because it's a stupid idea? Perhaps, but then, who is the more foolish: the fool, or the fool who lives in the fool's granny flat? I think my point is well made. It is time that men were recognised for the enormous contribution they probably make to society and for the immense hardships they have to face particularly with regard to the prostate region. It is time for International Men's Day!
Follow me, my brothers, and we need never feel scared or uncomfortable or vaguely unnerved by social progress again!
This blog post is brought to you by Cherchez La Femme's International Women's Day 2012 Extravaganza. Cherchez La Femme mistress of ceremonies Karen Pickering explains:
Cherchez la Femme returns for 2012 with a one-off extravag-anza to celebrate International Women’s Day in true femmo style. We’ll save the serious panel business for next time because I’ve lined up my all-time dream-team of singers, dancers, actors, musicians, poets, comics, thinkers and performers to hit the Grace Darling bandroom, show us their love of the ladies and tell us why being a feminist matters to them. I can scarcely contain myself as I announce the line-up here:
KATE BOSTON SMITH (Cabaret Star, Kitty Bang, Show Off)
EMILIE ZOEY BAKER (Slam Champion, Endless Lover, Crack-Up)
ANDREW MARLTON (First Dog on the Moon, Poet, Oracle)
HELEN RAZER (Writer, Raconteur, Sexy Mama)
CLEM BASTOW (Femmo, Neo-Stoner, Cosplaya)
LOU SANZ (Comic, Screenwriter, Firecracker)
SEAN M WHELAN (The Boss - of Poetry, Dream Guy)
BRENNA GLAZEBROOK (Comic, Impro Star, Hottie)
CHRISTINA ARNOLD (Lead Signer of The Perfections, Bangin’ Broad)
BEN POBJIE (Poet, Writer, Comic, Spy)
EMILY JARRETT (Singer with Go-Go Sapien, Robobabe)
BEN McKENZIE (Professional Nerd-Wonder, Comic, Fox)
JANE DUST (Singer, Love Child of Burt Bacharach & Emmy-Lou Harris)
CLEMENTINE FORD (Boner-Killer, Abortion-Enthusiast, Got Swag)
SHAKIRA HUSSEIN (Thinker, Lawyer, Activist)
JESSICA ALICE (Poet, Broadcaster, Honey)
SERI VIDA (Singer, Musician, Rad Lady)
and DJ sets from LISA GREENAWAY (of DJ Lapkat fame, Beatmaster)
Thursday, March 1, 2012
This is how I am
"Tell me I'm good" - Bart Simpson
I have never been drunk. I have never smoked a cigarette. And I have never taken an illegal drug. These things have passed me by. My addiction of choice is not to any substance. It is something else.
The reason I write and perform comedy is that I find the experience of getting a laugh the most wonderful thing in the world. The buzz derived from making someone laugh, or knowing that something you write has entertained people, is enormous. And it really is addictive. The trouble with it is that it's fleeting. You can't make people laugh for five minutes, then go home and live the rest of your life out feeling secure in your own abilities. If you want the feeling to continue, you have to keep writing, keep performing, keep getting the laughs. Because the buzz leaves your system so quickly, and it's so addictive, that the only way to keep yourself up is to keep doing it, again and again.
And that's not such a bad thing. That's probably why most entertainers keep doing it - the drive to keep getting that high is the drive to keep creating, the fuel for an artist to stick with their art. As far as my career goes, it's probably helpful that I'm addicted to the applause.
But.
What happens if I'm not just like that when I'm working? What happens if that's what I'm like all the time?
Because my addiction isn't restricted to getting acclaim for my work. My real addiction is what you could call reassurance. Or affirmation. Or just "feeling good".
OK, so who isn't addicted to feeling good, right? But the difference here is like the difference between your body being able to make insulin, and having to inject it into yourself.
I can't of course know how other people feel - maybe everybody is exactly like me - but it has always seemed that most people are to some extent able to generate their own self-esteem. Or maybe it would be better to say, to hold on to their own self-esteem. That is, if they have reason to feel good about themselves, they'll know it, and they'll be capable of convincing themselves of it. If they have friends, they'll feel they have friends all the time. If they are loved, they will feel loved.
And importantly, they won't need reminding of all this every five seconds.
Like me.
Because self-esteem is a drug to me - it feels great when I get some, but it leaves my system fast, and then I need another hit. If you tell me you love me, I'll believe you, but a couple of days later I won't be able to convince myself it's still true, until you tell me again. I'll fear that you've stopped loving me. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume that you have. And I'll just curl up into a little ball of hurt. That good feeling just won't stay. I can't generate affirmation from inside myself - it has to be applied externally. I have lots of friends - but when I'm not actually with them it's pretty easy to convince myself they're probably not that into me anymore. If I haven't heard from a friend in a while, I have to assume they don't want to be my friend. And if I haven't recently been told I'm smart, or talented, or nice, or loveable, I have to assume nobody thinks I am.
And I know it's not true. But this addiction doesn't care what I "know".
If you are a friend of mine, a loved one, or even a family member, I guarantee that my thoughts about you are dominated by the terror that you've gone right off me. I promise that at some point, I've worried that I've upset you, or angered you, or - most of all - just plain bored you, and you're sick of me. I hate it, but I can't help it - unless I'm talking to you right now, I'm probably terrified that I've lost you. And one way or another, I'd bet about 80% of my waking hours are accompanied by that terror.
And the worst part is, I know how annoying it is to be needy. I don't want to reach out and beg for reassurance. I don't want to be the person who needs to be constantly told he's good. I don't want to be constantly craving this external validation. Because it's completely lame to be that person, and I know, most terrifyingly of all, that if I'm that person, I'm actually going to drive people away because I'll just be too aggravating to deal with. And so my paranoia will become self-fulfilling - by fearing that nobody loves me, I'll ensure that, in the end, nobody will. So no, I don't want people to be always reassuring me that I'm good.
But God, yes I do.
But I don't.
But...
No. I don't. I don't want to be that guy. I don't want to be that sort of irritating burden on people I love. And I certainly don't want to make my own worst fears come true. Mostly, I want to to break this addiction, and learn how to hold on to the happiness I receive, learn how to make myself feel good, and learn how to actually feel what I already know to be true.
But I don't know if I can, or if I ever will. And it's hard sometimes. So right now I'm just saying, this is how I am. I am sorry if I'm too needy and too annoying at times. I don't mean to be. But there's a part of me that's broken, and I haven't figured out how to fix it yet. I don't want anyone to rush to my aid here, or to feel any responsibility to prop me up. But I hope it helps the people who know me to understand a bit what's going on in my head. And I hope it might help people who feel the same way to see this stuff written down and know they've got a little bit of company.
To everyone who does offer me that reassurance, to everyone who offers me friendship, thank you. I appreciate it more than I can say. I'll keep trying to hold on to it a bit longer, and more importantly, to be worthy of it.
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