Same Love

My beautiful friends got married a few weeks ago but their wedding was held in Ireland. Their ceremony was held overseas because Australia refuses to recognise their union. Which sucks. It’s time we changed our laws. 

I come from a long line of God botherers on my mother’s side. My grandpa knew the Bible chapter and verse. He took me to Sunday school in a hall beside our church every week when I was little. So I remember that Jesus talked about love and not judging other people. 

There are too many bigots in the belfry for me to be a member of a church congregation any more. But I did learn important lessons in all my years of Christian indoctrination. 
For there are three things that endure: Faith, Hope and Love, but the greatest of these is Love. 



Love is love 


Straya

On a sunshiney day at an outdoor gig in a park by the beach in Cronulla, I met a Palestinian man who had come to Australia last year for a better life for his family. His wife and four beautiful children said hello but it was he who needed to talk. To a clown. There is something about wearing a red nose that makes people open up and share their stories.

I told him I thought he was very brave to leave everything and everyone he knew behind to create a life in a new country. He told me in Australia he had hope for his children’s future. He believed that they would have a better life here. He said,
In eight months we have achieved a lot.”

I told him I thought that it took a lot of courage to start life in a new country, but as I said it, I felt a dread that I’ve never experienced before. I hoped to God that dumb rednecks would not ruin his view that Australia was a peaceful place to be. I hoped that no one made nasty remarks or commented on his accent. I couldn’t bear to mention to him that racism is rife, as I could see a few metres behind him a woman pushing her child on a swing with a southern cross tattoo on her neck

I want an Australia that doesn’t lock people up and torture them because they dare to seek asylum

I want to vote for politicians who consider people in their policies before posturing politicking bullshit

I want uneducated rednecks out of parliament

I want a beautiful Australia where real estate speculators haven’t bought up and ugly-fied every building that happens to overlook a beach.

I want to live in a country that recognises that love is love.

I want aboriginal people recognised in our constitution.
I want $300 lunches to be abolished while people are homeless and kids are going to school hungry.

An end to reality renovation shows
I want to meet this lovely man’s children in 20 years and say, “Your mum and dad wanted you to live in safety so they gave up their friends and family for you to have a chance.” I hope they have a wonderful life, I hope they don’t get teased for their accents. I hope their mum and dad find great jobs and they grow old together, free of war.

And I hope his kids don’t end up voting for idiots 


Unrool nursery rhymes

As a well-known hash taggerer, disruptor slash influenza influencer slash media guru and recent graduate of The Richard Wilkins’ School of Real Good Journalism ‘n’ That, I’m very, very busy coming up with Get Rich Quick Schemes and ways to help my many readers find more ways to connect and waste time on social media. I’m hoping to motivate my huge fanbase to break through brick walls and hashtag their way to world peace, pin so many photos on Pinterest that the war in Syria will end, and sign so many petitions that Malcolm Turnbull will finally grow a spine. Whatevs.

I’m so busy being fabulous that I’m hoping you won’t notice that I’ve written a short and gratuitous blog post this week. In the meantime, here is some of my unbelievably artistic rhyming poetry stuff:

Two little dicky birds sitting on a wall

One named Peter (Dutton) and one named Paul (Keating)

Rack off Peter, kick him off Paul

Drop dead Peter, come back Paul

 

Controversial political art that is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Holy tatas 

Sigh. It’s June, cold weather has set in and I have so much to look forward to in the second half of the year; a colonoscopy, blood tests and boob squishing. I’ve just had my breasts woman-handled and squashed into a metal contraption, some people call it having a mammogram. After I breathed and tucked my pancakes back into my bra, I googled ‘who invented the mammogram machine,’ and surprise, surprise it was a man.

 

In Latin, mammography means ‘humiliating but necessary torment,’ and I’m sad to tell you that poor men miss out. Such a shame that the diagnostic tool for testicular cancer is not a machine that squashes testicles to the shape of a flattened cane toad.

 

Holy hell I can’t believe a female scientist/inventor in the last 50 years hasn’t said, “I can do better than this torture machine that renders boobs flat, I’m going to think up a method that is less arduous.” Yes, checking boobs is vital, I’ve already lost two friends to breast cancer, I get it, but when we have 4D ultrasound to look at unborn babies, why can’t we do better than this torture machine for women? Why can’t we get out of work good-looking model type people to feel us up, I mean force our boobs into the machine? That would be a good start.

 

I hope I get a good score on my boob test, but after breastfeeding three kids for many years, I don’t think my bosoms are going to appear in the next Baywatch film. Feel your boobies girls, or find someone hot to do it for you.

 

I Touch Myself