Avocado free zone

Lucky me! I’m househunting again. I’m a professional Sydney real estate agent stalker. My kids and I have moved about 20 times. Months without buying avocado toast mean that one day I may be able to move to a home within 50 kilometres of an area I’d actually like to live in.
I have so many questions to ask a real estate agent:
Where is the step father accommodation?
Where is the step sibling spare bedroom?
Is there a sibling fight room away from the main house?
Can the main bedroom detach from the house and move 10 metres into the garden when the teenagers get too much?
Can the cat annexe the house?

Back in 1995, when I was drunk every night and kissing girls because boys asked me to and wearing absurd feathered dresses and talking shit until 4am with guys with ironic facial hair, I could have been buying a house for $250,000 and set myself up for a much more comfortable cranky middle age.

But now, thanks to negative gearing and government greed, I’ll never buy my own home. The only way that anyone earning under $250,000 i.e. single mothers, students, commies, pinkos, leftos, nurses, ambos and waiters will be able to buy a house is for one of these miracles to occur: 
Winning the lottery

Overthrowing capitalism 

Conducting a scandalous affair with a billionaire

Or the most ridiculous:

Voting for politicians who have the bollocks to help workers afford vermin-free housing in big cities 

Jokes. They don’t exist


Thank you for your time

We hope you enjoyed your stay in our hotel. Please fill out this survey so we can judge your level of customer satisfaction and we can annoy our staff with ridiculous statistics about their performance, even though you had one conversation with them that lasted all of two minutes. These surveys will take longer to answer than your actual stay in our facility. 

In a few days we’d like to call you to discuss the results of our tedious marketing logarithms. 

No!

Don’t call me when I’m feeding my kids

When I say I don’t have time for your idiot questions, I don’t have time, fuck off

Don’t call or email me when I buy a new phone, change my plan, check out of your hotel, buy groceries, fill up the car, change a frigging light bulb!

And stop paying idiots with dodgy marketing degrees to come up with new buzz words du jour:

#disruptor

#influencer

#worldclass

If you have to use the hash tag #authentic then perhaps you’re not

Please join our social networking channels, which have content about as interesting as having a pap smear. Enough. There are too many places to waste time already, I’ve lost track of the names:

Opportunity

Referral Key 

DoYourHeadIn

LinkedIn

Snapchat

Tinder

eBay 

GetYourHandOffIt

How about we all go to a party down the road and argue in real time. I’ll bring a pie


 


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

 


Losing my organised religion

On her 11th birthday, my baby girl put on a sparkly dress, her sister’s makeup and a floppy hat, and went to see her first concert. Her ticket was paid for by her best friend. He wanted to make her happy. She was cross with me as she sauntered off because I told her that 11-year-olds don’t need to wear foundation. She told me I didn’t understand how much she needed to look lovely at the show. She was busting to scream, sing and be carried away with her friends by the music of Taylor Swift.

Whatever adults think of Tay-Tay or One Direction or Take That or Bay City Rollers or the Spice Girls or Metallica is not the point. At your first concert, you get to feel the live magic of your hero, your crush, your superstar; the artist whose tunes helped you through your heartache, with other people who feel the same devotion. For 90 minutes we forget that life can be shitty, that people disappoint, that friends let us down. We sway and dance in the dark and hear our music. Sinead O’Connor is my woman, I spent my grocery money on buying a ticket to her show two years ago, because I knew I had to hear that voice live once in my life.

This week young adults and kids in Manchester said goodbye to their mums and dads to head off for the night of their young lives, seeing their girl Ariana Grande sing songs for them. Some of them were just old enough to leave their parents at home. Those innocent kids won’t be coming back to tell their families how happy Ariana made them on the last night of their brief lives.

22 white Westerners die and the world is outraged, but more than 55,000 children have died in Syria, 7% of Catholic priests in Australia have been accused of child abuse and 200,000 aboriginal people massacred by ‘Christian’ settlers. This week I’ve had enough, I’m blaming righteous god botherers for the world’s problems, and the hypocritical males who run these archaic institutions. I can’t see what is attractive about your religion, what you believe in is bullshit if your beliefs dictate that you hide people who bomb babies, cover for men who sexually abuse children then deny it, and steal land from indigenous peoples in the name of an imaginary god. Your books preach love and your actions show that you hate your fellow humans, particularly the smaller ones. No wonder people are losing faith.