A speech by Tim Minchin that is simultaneously terrifying, depressing and incredibly inspiring.
Today we participated in democracy and rewarded mediocrity. So tonight, lets sit back and prepare to learn the results the only way Australians know how; with copious amounts of booze. The rules are pretty simple:
Take a fair dinkum suck of your sauce bottle every time:
-K Rudd is seen taking a ‘selfie’
-Tony Abbotts daughters are on screen. One drink per daughter
-Indi, Eden-Monaro or Griffith are mentioned
-Kevin Rudd says ‘folks’, ‘mate’ or mentions that he’s from Queensland
-The phrase “democracy in action” is used
-Christopher Pine is on screen
-An anchor stalls awkwardly for time
-Western Sydney is referred to as a “key battle ground”
-A seat is considered “too close to call”
-Julie Bishop stares at something
-The carbon tax is mentioned
-A three world slogan is used
-Clive Palmer tells us he’s Australian, twerks or mentions dinosaurs
-Someone at your election party threatens to move to New Zealand
-Malcolm Turnbull looks like he still can’t believe Tony Abbott is his leader
-A poll is mentioned
-Bob Katter tries to say something smart
-K Rudd gives a speech that goes 20 minutes too long
-An animated representation of the house of reps gives us no new information at all
-Annabel Crabb makes a cooking related pun
-Nobody from the Liberal party remembers their six point plan
-Do a shot when a former Prime Minister weighs into the debate and offers absolutely no relevant insight.
-Do two shots when a Palmer United Party member wins a seat.
-Do three shots when the final announcement is made. Hopefully by then you’ll be too drunk to care that we either have a Prime Minister who refers to the conflict in Syria as “baddies v baddies” or one whose own party consider him to be the ultimate ‘baddie’.
Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you mildly suicidal.
That is the lesson I learnt this week after being sent to rendezvous with my deathbed by the all-debilitating flu. For the first time in a long time, the sick day I took was actually due to sickness. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but I assure you it’s very serious stuff.
Every time I get sick I take it as a personal insult from the Gods. Basically, me catching a cold is a little less devastating than Hiroshima, but certainly worse than 9/11.
In contrast – and I need to make this very clear – when someone else gets sick I honestly and truly don’t care.
I’m not alone in thinking this way. My mum also thinks that me getting sick is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to humanity-at-large.
Falling ill was fun when you were little. You got to stay home from school, eat mashed bananas and watch how Blue found his clues. But now falling ill involves melodramatic groaning, grave thoughts about morality, and summoning the last of your energy to write an ill thought out will and testament (in my fever haze I left all my prized possessions to my puppy).
Essentially, I have learnt a lot about myself in the past week; namely that at the ripe old age of 22 I have become an illogical-attention-craving-hypchondriac-crybaby and that my conspiracy theory against flu shots should obtain ‘law’ status.
I cradled my mothers lap, forced to her make me chicken soup, continuously emitted faint groans, nearly overdosed on paracetamol and sobbed whilst telling anyone that would listen how I’m too young to die.
Then the thermometer beeped and I realised just how high my fever was.
That’s when I really proceeded to put on a show – kind of like a crucifixion, but with songs.
If I was going to whinge or groan, I wanted everyone in the room to be able to hear it. I utilised 18 adjectives to describe my excess phlegm and carried on until I was brought soup and treated like a fragile diamond. The more people that knew my suffering, the better I thought my chances of survival were. Evidently, when I’m sick, I like to drag people down to my level. A sentiment that is clearly shared by the succubus who gave me the flu in the first place.
But alas, 5 days later and I’m all better now. It is with that knowledge that I’m quietly reassuring myself and quite loudly telling everyone else how sick I was. Thomas Fuller famously said that ‘health is not valued until sickness comes’ and I feel like he was onto something.
In the end, I think the Gods chose me to bear the burden of the flu and tell everyone about my experiences for the same reason they created paracetamol: because they’re in cahoots with the big pharmaceutical companies.
It’s been the week that’s just kept on giving in Australia. Politicians, sporting stars, commentators and shock jocks all entered a competition to see who could best serve up a plate of misogyny with a side of offensive asinine comments. The winner of the competition is still being disputed, but the losers have unanimously been identified as both women and political discourse in this country.
The masterclass started rather predictably with Holger Osieck, the Socceroos coach claiming that “women should shut up in public“. Thankfully Osieck cleared the matter up by saying he’s not actually sexist as he been “married to for a number years” and is “pretty happy” about it. His inspired words came from an old latin saying that Osieck often says to his wife, so really it’s okay.
When I however took initiative and put the expression ‘mulieres taceres in ecclesia’ into google translate, I found it actually meant “soccer coaches should stick to talking about soccer”. Something clearly got lost in translation here.
Moving right along and not to outdone with mere words, Mal Brough, a prominent former Liberal party member physically wrote up a menu describing how seriously the Coalition takes the issue of sexualization of women – which is to say not seriously at all. The now infamous menugate incident involved a menu at a Liberal National Party fund-raiser which offered up the Prime Minister in the form of Kentucky Fried Quail – Small Breasts, Huge Thighs, and a Big Red Box. Appetising don’t you think?
It has since come out that the menu was in fact the brainchild of Joe Richards, the restaurant owner and had absolutely nothing to do with Brough. If this is in fact true, Brough’s apology for the menu came before he was even supposed to know it existed. It’s fascinating that even with his magical powers of premonition; he couldn’t see that the menu was a bad idea.
Just as we all thought that Brough and menugate were sure to win gold in the weeks idiocy contest, Howard Sattler came along and demonstrated that we were all just wildly optimistic. Sattler, a professional announcer asked the Prime Minister on air if her partner Tim Matherson was gay. Sattler then went on to justify his question by stating that Matherson was a hairdresser and “it wasn’t him saying it” therefore the question was valid. The conversation when further when Piers Akerman went on the ABC’s Insiders program and supported Sattler by again bringing up the rumours of Matherson’s sexuality.
Guys, just a heads up, the problem isn’t the question or where it came from, the problem is how you both thought it was appropriate to ask it. Now that we’ve cleared that up please take the time to step out of your retro-sexist time machine and join us back here in 2013.
Next cab off the rank this week were various sporting personailities putting in time in building their reputations as disrespectful chauvinistic pigs. Firstly we had Blake Ferguson, the NSW State of Origin player who was charged with assaulting a women in a nightclub. Then the Stephan Milne story broke whereby the St Kilda star was charged with 4 counts for rape for an incident 9 years ago. There has been much talk during the week as to whether he’ll play for the rest of the season. On The Footy Show, Nick Dal Santo, Milne’s teammate, stated that the most important factor in the decision was Milne’s welfare. Then Sam Newman weighed into the issue by labelling rape as a ‘misdemeanour’. Why the Channel 9 legal department ever let Newman open his mouth is beyond me but the comments made are endemic of the patriarchal boys club the footy world is run by.
Naturally, Milne has a right to the presumption of innocence however in the multiple articles and news reports I’ve read about the matter, not one has mentioned the victim in the situation or her potential feelings (or that of other rape victims/women) towards Milne returning to the field. If he is allowed to play before the charges are dealt with, what message does that send about the seriousness of rape? We’re quick to forget that this isn’t just about Milne’s welfare, it’s also about the welfare of the young woman involved and those like her.
The latest development in the story is that Milne is expected to be allowed to play in round 15, after Women’s Round in round 14. Because you know, the AFL is sensitive to this issue and if they let him play in Women’s Round that might cause controversy.
And as for Newman’s comments; with the threat of global warming upon us, the Amazonian basin simply cannot afford enough paper for me to explain just how hurtful and idiotic they are.
Add to all this the Australian Defence Force sexism scandal, Nigella Lawson’s strangling photographs, the continuing tragic Jill Meagher story, and Serena William’s blaming of the 16 year old victim in the Steubenville rape case and you have yourself a smorgasbord of sexism and a very sobering week when it comes to women’s issues and our progression towards equality.
At the beginning of this week, Julia Gillard (prior to all these incidences) made a speech about misogyny and women’s rights. For her efforts, people who didn’t even bother listening to the whole speech or understanding the context it was given in went into an uproar about the mention of ‘blue ties’ and then dismissed her ideas as ‘using the gender card’. Cue the outrage and booing.
It’s no wonder sexist incidents continue to happen when that’s how we greet a speech delivered by a Prime Minister.
Everyday, ordinary women experience misogyny and sexism; yet when women raise their voices in protest they get labeled as femi-nazi, man-hating, whinging, shrill witches and bitches.
We need to remember that playing the gender card isn’t a game or a desperate measure. Proclaiming it as such or mocking people for using it only serves to further justify the ongoing inequality we experience. If we accept the things that have transpired in the past week without discussion or reflection, then this cyclone of retro-sexism will continue to gather force.
Many excuses, apologies and explanations have been given up in the past week and many times I have read or heard people suggesting that they’re only words or single instances not a reflection of society. But how many sandwiches need to be thrown or how many cases like Jill Meagher need to come to light for us to realize that maybe they’re not just single instances and are reflective of how we view and treat women.
They may just be words. But the words hurt. The language used to depict Julia Gillard is one no other Prime Minister has ever had to endure. And the language that’s been used this week to discuss domestic violence and sexual assault seems to flourish in society where women are less valued than men. Australia simply isn’t the utopia of equality people seem to think it is. Just today the World Health Organization released a study showing that one in four women in Australia are victims of intimate partner violence whilst one in six have experienced non-partner sexual violence. On a global scale the number jumps to more than one in three women.
We have to reflect on the past weeks events and realize they form part of a continuing problem both on our shores and in the world. We have to stop pretending it’s not real and all just in women’s heads. We have to develop a basic level of respect towards all women irrespective of the power or position they hold. And we simply have to stop accepting such blatant misogyny and sexism from our politicians, commentators and sportspeople.
In response to the ADF sexism problems, Lieutenant-General David Morrison eloquently stated “the standard you walk past is the standard you accept”. Accuse me of using the gender card if you will; but I am not going to be one to ever accept such a low standard. Frankly, you shouldn’t be either.
I realize that being a 7-month old Golden Retriever, the chances that you will both read and properly comprehend this letter are slim; but at this point I’ve run out of ideas for communicating with you and am pretty much willing to try anything.
So please consider this an intervention and a place where we can talk openly and share our feelings without screaming or throwing poop like usual.
Basically Tesla, what I’m trying to say is that your recent behaviour has been less than acceptable.
Not that your track record is anything to brag about.
I know it’s not completely your fault, and I have to share some of the blame. I acknowledge that naming you Tesla was a mistake. It placed unrealistic expectations on you. Ones you couldn’t possibly live up to. You have to know though, I never expected you to speak 8 languages or invent a new type of electricity. I just expected that it would take you less than 4 tries to pass the 1st grade of puppy school.
I know you tried though, so there’s no hard feelings about puppy school. Sitting on command can be hard, especially when you get distracted by your own tail every 8 seconds. We can’t all be academically smart, I respect that. You’re more about street smarts.
Rather than being ‘friendly’ or ‘obedient’, your teacher described you as being ‘unique’ and ‘having a quirky temperament’. There’s nothing wrong with that. Individuality is something to be proud of.
What’s more Tesla, it’s obvious you’re a social butterfly and a natural born leader. You used puppy school as a place to socialise and master your escaping skills.
You quickly realised that you were the common denominator, the puppy everyone else compared their puppies to. I think when you realised this, you really upped your game. You no longer just ignored a command, you learnt to do the exact opposite. ‘Sit’ meant ‘run away’. ‘Shake’ meant ‘eat your own poop’. The other ‘parents’ were so proud of their puppies when they saw you. I admit this was a little disheartening and embarrassing for me, but I knew you were just doing the other puppies a favour.
Still, I think we should talk about another one of your ‘quirks’ that became apparent in puppy school; your distaste for sharing. I’m an only-child too, so I understand how hard the concept of ‘sharing’ can be, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil.
Tesla, why is it that every time we give you a new toy to play with, you run off, dig a hole the size of a small European country and then bury the toy? I know I initially found this behaviour endearing (and it did wonders to accelerate your digging skills) but now it’s becoming a little annoying. The yard looks like a large family of wild badgers inhabit it and every time we want to play a game with you, like fetch, we have to buy a new ball.
Speaking of fetch, what part of that game don’t you understand exactly? The idea is that I repeatedly throw the ball and you repeatedly run off and and bring it back to me. I know you understand the principle concept as the first time I throw the ball you manage to bring it back. So why is it that the second time I throw it you just sit there with a look that says “You threw it, you go get it?”
These are all little things though, and I can live with you never learning to fetch and even with your desire to spend your days digging to China in the yard. What I can’t live with is some of the bigger ‘incidents’ you caused.
Need I remind you of the morning poop incident? That time when you did a poop on your puppy pad, then proceeded to roll you body in said poop, and then made it your mission to touch every surface in the house with your poop covered body? Do you really think I had nothing better to do than clean the entire house and bathe you that morning? And did you really think I didn’t have better things to do the second time you did the same thing!?
Now, I think we should also talk about the wooden stairs you systematically ripped up and ate (how is still beyond me!) And the countless pillows, blankets, flowers and brooms that have all gone to heaven due to your teething (all whilst your numerous teething toys remain buried in the yard). That being said, I still think the 8 piece dining set that you single-handedly turned into splinters is to date, your biggest achievement.
But despite all your exploits Tesla, you and your cute puppy dog eyes have a power over me. You suffocate the life out of me, yet I still love you.
Thus Tesla, I’m sorry I yelled at you when you ate my socks. I didn’t mean the things I said, it’s just that they were my last pair of uneaten socks.
It’s unfair that you’ve learned how to open a draw but not to sit on command.
I’m sorry I threatened to take you back to the store when you woke me up at 3am for the seventh consecutive night because you’re scared of a possum. It’s not like I would ever actually go through with it – you were very expensive and I can’t get a refund.
I’m sorry for actually enquiring if I could get a refund.
I’m sorry for punishing you when you stole and ate the steak I had defrosting on the kitchen counter. It’s just that that was my dinner, not yours.
I’m even more sorry for yelling at you when you vomited that steak up. But I still would have been less upset if you chose to vomit it outside rather than on the carpet.
I’m sorry I put you on a stringent diet when the lady in the park called you fat. It’s not your fault you’re big boned.
And I’m really sorry I googled “puppy + sedative”. Twice.
You’ve got to understand that you’ve grown so much that you can’t jump around and go crazy like you could when you were little. Now when you jump on me, it literally knocks me over and it hurts.
Tesla, I know you’re currently hellbent on destroying as much property as you can, but I really hope you outgrow this stage soon. Or at least stay as cute as you are so I forgive all the death and destruction you cause.
The hand that feeds you.
Of all the phenomenal and impressive things my iPhone Archibald (giving him an aristocratic boys makes me feel better about my life choice to spend 23 hours a day cradling him) can do, making calls and contacting people doesn’t seem to be high up on his list. Which is a little concerning considering that is the primary reason for which I have him. Another fine example of a woman giving her life to a man and getting nothing but disappointment back, but I digress.
You see Archibald’s main problem is that during a task I’ve asked him to do, such as accepting a call, he gets bored and then stops doing his task half way through. Basically, Archibald just ceases to function, as if Philip Nitschke had caught him in a bad mood.
Take for example the incident that occurred to me this past Tuesday. Whilst at Uni I ran into Joel the grad student, who upon seeing me, frantically bowed his head down, pretended he didn’t see me and started waking away at the speed of light. Given my mild penchant for schadenfreude (or masochism, depends which way you view the situation) I called his name out. He awkwardly stopped and even more awkwardly started explaining why he hadn’t called me back yet.
This whole situation was unfortunate for obvious reasons, only one of which included the fact that my phone started ringing somewhere in what I can assume was the middle of Joel’s monologue. I answered the call only to have it cut out 5 seconds in. Archibald was clearly preoccupied with his desire to continue listening to Joel’s excuses.
To be honest, whilst the phone call came as a well timed distraction and exit strategy from the situation I found myself in, it did leave me wondering why there was a lack of reception given I was standing in the middle of a large University in Melbourne as opposed to say, sub-saharian Africa.
I quickly concluded that in these harsh economic times, telecommunications companies have realised that they can significantly reduce their overheads if they just stopped wasting money on providing phone coverage.
And in the case of Tuesday’s incident, the telecommunications company obviously concluded they didn’t need to provide service to rural parts of Australia, such as the Melbourne CBD.
Now don’t get me wrong, this lack of coverage is often a good thing. But there are also times when it’s not your mother calling, and you want to speak to people.
I should also clarify that this post is in no way an exercise in blame and I am not going to name and shame my provider, Optus. The same way I’m not going to complain about iPhones with whom I’ve had a long and tumultuous relationship.
You see, I used to have an iPhone 4 which meant that phone calls used to drop out whenever I did something dramatic, like stand up. But fortunately, my new iPhone 5 has fixed that problem by rarely being able to make phone calls in the first place. These days I’m just grateful if the battery lasts long enough to even allow me to attempt to make a phone call.
We’re living in an incredibly technologically advanced society; can we please find a way to make and receive phone calls? Can we please just be able to communicate and share joy with one another? Can we please just be able to send drunken text messages at 2am and know they’ll arrive before we get a chance to regret them in the morning!?
As for Joel, maybe he did try to call but just couldn’t get through…?
Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m a character on Suits. A kick-ass forensic accountant wearing a suave outfit and shooting fast and witty comebacks to all the lawyers around me. Naturally, in this fantasy Donna is my best friend, I get paid a lot to do very little and a miracle occurs where I manage to wear high-heels all day without dying.
A quick look around my surroundings is all it takes to violently spring me from this fantasy and back into reality. Every surface in my room is covered with textbooks, readings, cue-cards, post it notes and hand made calendars with wild scribblings of all the dates my assignments are due.
Post-grad life isn’t nearly as glamorous as my Suits fantasy. To be honest, the only occupation post-grad life is more glamorous than is being a dole bludger; but they earn more money so even that’s disputable.
So with my mind firmly in reality and assignments looming, I’d like to
procrastinate list (yes, I don’t actually have time to write a full column, so a list will have to suffice) the fun things I have learned and experienced about post-grad studies.
I like to call it the post-grad boogie. It’s kind of like the greenback boogie only with less money and fame and higher rates of unemployment and daytime drinking.
1. Despite what you learned as an undergrad, Thursday night is a weeknight. You’re expected to be productive Thursday night and wake up before 9am Friday morning.
2. You’re expected to refrain from drinking Sunday through to Friday afternoon - including day-drinking. Seriously.
3. Post-Grad is triple the work of undergrad and only half the fun.
4. I’m lying; it’s none of the fun.
5. Your monthly calendar looks less like the responsibilities of one person and more like the responsibilities of a small country.
6. You become obsessed with efficiency. To the point that you break down and publicly abuse people if their way of doing things takes even a minute longer than your way would.
7. Your main life survival skill is multi-tasking.
8. You have no idea where anything is on your campus except for the 2 buildings you have classes in.
9. During the start of semester you drink coffee. Obscenely large cups of dark coffee.
You shout “Thank God for caffeine!” at complete strangers whilst nervously attempting to conceal your involuntary facial twitches.
Towards the middle of semester you realise that drinking coffee is an inefficient process as it requires time to order, make and drink. Thus you develop a mildly concerning addiction to caffeine tablets.
11. You seriously worry your relationship with the library is becoming too intimate so you swap libraries. You then worry about how your initial library feels about you cheating on it.
12. Lists begin to turn you on. Everything that can be written should be done so in an efficient list format. You then put your lists up on every wall to ensure all you ever see, think and dream is lists.
13. You have vivid hallucinations of attaching the 10 weighty textbooks assigned to you per semester to your torso and then jumping out a high window.
14. You have absolutely no school spirit. You’re pretty sure your university colours are a light colour and a dark colour but can’t remember which ones.
15. Your to-do list is organised by chapters.
16. If you’re not in a serious relationship, you’ve started to feel really really self conscious about the extremely high percentage of classmates that are in a serious relationship.
17. You’ve gotten to know your professors a little too well, including a lot of unnecessary details about their personal lives. You’ve become a little concerned by this fact.
19. You’re pretty sure that ‘graduate student’ is an oxymoron but you’re too tired to care.
20. You’re excessively worried about your thesis and exams, but you shouldn’t be. Given the rate you’re going at, you’ll be dead long before then.
Belle up for bestiality charges?
Jasmine fighting the CIA to get Aladdin back?
Ariel losing her sight due to BP?
Pocahontas becoming a little too trigger happy?
Basically, I think you should just stop whatever you’re doing and watch this video.
I currently have a obscene economics assignment where I have to ‘critically evaluate’ various papers that discuss the economic impact the current situation in Syria will have on both the Middle East at the World.
It’s thrilling stuff.
However, actually researching the assignment seems like a productive use of my time so instead, I’m going to critically evaluate ‘22‘. A song by Taylor Swift that I feel is rife with inaccuracies that simply must be rectified.
So from someone who is 22 and actually has the ability to hold a boyfriend for more than a week before writing a song about him; here are the more accurate lyrics:
It feels like a perfect night to
dress up like hipsters watch girls in our pyjamas
And make fun of
our exes, Tony Abbott
Uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for
breakfast at midnight assignment writing
To fall in love with strangers To cancel on our friends, eat ice-cream and google Ryan Gosling
Uh uh uh uh
happy free confused and lonely overworked, poor, exhausted and confused at the same time
It’s miserable and
Tonight’s the night when we forget
about the deadlines, our looming Hecs debts
It’s time to call our parents
I don’t know about
you real adults
But im feeling 22
Everything will be alright if you
keep me next to you give me an assignment extension and a loan
don’t know about me
But I bet you still want to keep reading my mildly incoherent blog
Everything will be alright if we just
dancing complaining like we’re 22, 22
It seems like
one of those nights a uni night
This place is too
cool kids hipster students
It seems like one of those nights
We ditch the whole scene and end up
dreaming instead of passing out from far too much wine
happy free confused and lonely poor, unemployed, exhausted and confused in the best worst way
It’s miserable and
Tonight’s the night when we forget
about the heartbreaks, the ever growing graduate unemployment rate
It’s time to accept we’re going to live with our parents until we 30
I don’t know about you and your tendencies to want to be a real adult
But I’m feeling 22
Everything will be alright if
you keep me next to you I stop comparing myself to you
don’t know about me
but I bet you want to You saw me at the pub worrying about the state of our country
Everything will be alright
If we just keep
dancing complaining like we’re 22, 22
I don’t know
about you how I’m ever going to finish my economics paper, 22, 22
It feels like one of those nights
the whole scene our theory that we’re actually sane
It feels like one of those nights
won’t be sleeping with our insecurities
It feels like one of those nights
You look like
bad news someone I wouldn’t find attractive without a lot of wine
I gotta have you, I gotta have you
I literally don’t
know about you have any revenue
But I’m feeling 22
Everything will be alright if
you keep me next to you world leaders start being better people
don’t know about me
but I bet you want to You hear me constantly rant about socialism, feminism and kindness
Everything will be alright if we just keep
dancing complaining like we’re 22, 22 Dancing Worrying like 22, yeah, 22, yeah yeah
It feels like
one of those nights every other night
We ditch the whole scene and start appreciating our lives more
It feels like another one of those nights
We won’t be sleeping because of assignments
It feels like another one of those nights
You look like
bad news procrastination
I gotta have you, I gotta have you
Disclaimer: This post will not explain the whole world to you. It will attempt to explain different types of twenty-somethings living today. But given we’re so incredibly self-involved and self-obsessed, the whole world really centres around us anyway.
Being young is exhausting work.
Everyone knows that teenagers and twenty-somthings are a different species. Media outlets today are rife with articles analysing and complaining about Gen Y and then subsequently trying to categorise and fix us. Clearly, we’re a complicated case that needs to be studied to ever be
successfully eradicated understood.
So in the interest of science, I will thus seek to provide an insight into the mind and culture of a twenty-something. This will hopefully fulfil the twin functions of expanding the horizon of human knowledge and clarifying the questions my mind has about a culture I belong to, know absolutely nothing about yet claim to be an expert in.
So let’s start by confirming that everyone is indie.
I see the confused look on your face so I’m going to stop right there and clarify:
According to urban dictionary Indie is:
1. (n) An obscure form of rock which you only learn about from someone slightly more hip than yourself.
2. (adj) Indie is cooler than emo.
This begs the question, what is an emo?
1. (n) An entire subculture of people (usually angsty teens) with a fake personality.
2. (adj) Like a goth, only much less dark and much more Harry Potter.
Now just to clarify, not everyone who falls under ‘emo’ is actually an emo. There are wemos, which are wannabe emos, and memos, which are mistaken emos. The latter is someone who is not an emo but is confused for one. I can’t personally explain how this happens but apparently it does.
Moving on, there are also lads:
1. (n) A lad is a male who specialises in creating and distributing exquisite banter.
2. (n) Males who like polo shirts and have a penchant for exposing genitalia and being a douchebag.
Now just for the record, ‘chavs’ are young lads.
And to complement the chavs, there are teeny-boppers:
1. (n) Stupid girls of ages 10-14 who squeal and giggle so much that Satan is willing to drag them back to hell.
2. (n) Females who wear small denim shorts no matter the season, are obsessed with pop-punk bands, are desperate to grow up and are unable to structure a sentence without using the word ‘like’ 5 times.
3. (n) The ethnic group Hitler would focus on instead if he were alive today.
There are also modern day hippies:
1. (n) An overgrown child who may occasionally abuse drugs and alcohol to cope with their impossible ideals in the modern world.
2. (adj) An urban hillbilly.
And who could forget the gym-junkies:
1. (adj) People with a Hulk like physique and intelligence level.
2. (n) Members of a society driven by the slogan “get shredded or die trying”.
3. (n) People who use the terms ‘looking ripped’, ‘nice rig’ and ‘do you even lift’ at least once in every sentence.
Now I can’t possibly write an academically sound piece about sub-cultures without mentioning the following:
There are wiggers (white guys who think they are black), chiggers (Chinese guys who think they are black) and hasians (hot asians).
There are skinny guys, who suffer from manorexia, and browned up girls who suffer from tanorexia.
There are stoners who smoke the sacred herb and look like Jesus and there are coke-heads who are people fortunate enough to have enough money to support a devils-dandruff addiction.
Devils dandruff is cocaine, and how this comes up in conversation is beyond me.
There are geeks, whose IQ’s exceed their weights but they’re not to be confused with nerds who are people you’ll end up working for when you grow up.
There are also punks who are rebellious hooligans with funny hair and gangstas’ who have street cred and are unable to find sweat shirts that aren’t 5 sizes too big for them. They’re also not to be confused with thugs although I struggle to understand why.
Now this educational and mildly nauseating journey through sub-cultures leads us to the Hipster: the ultimate sub-culture enigma.
1. Definitions are too mainstream.
2. (n) Someone who listens to bands you’ve never heard of, wears ironic tee-shirts and has a hair style that can only be described as ‘complicated’.
3. (n) An individual who hates corporations and everything mainstream, yet still buys Apple products.
4. (n) A mainstream label referring to someone who rejects mainstream labels.
5. Everyone in my masters program.*
My head hurts too much to even begin making an assessment on what it means to be a hipster. Basically, if you walk round my University, everyone you see will qualify under this label. And no one will actually know what it means.
So there you have it. My contribution to society for the week. I am more confused than when I started. Labels are gloriously vague, unnecessary and potentially damaging. For todays’ twenty-somthing’s, life is confusing enough and everyone is just trying to find a way to fit in.
The roads that we take are merely kaleidoscopic images that shift with every turn of the head. Everyones either lost in the rat race or lost somewhere outside it. I think it goes without saying that it’s easy to make fun of lifestyles and subcultures, but truly understanding them is a different matter. And maybe the reason society can’t understand twenty-something’s is because we can’t (or don’t want to) understand ourselves either.
*Admittedly, this may not be a very descriptive definition – but it’s true nonetheless.