Tag Archives: sarcasm

I’m so excited I got my first Troll …

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… I think that has to mean I’ve officially made it, hit the big time, right?

Seriously, if someone is taking time out of their presumably “busy” schedule to stalk me about how crap I am at everything literary related it would have to mean I’m someone of (somewhat) importance.

Either that, or the you-know-what head has got seriously nothing better to do with their life than leave unassuming, try-hard jibes peppered across my Twitter account.

I’ll take the first version because you know, I’m working on my positive affirmation.

Just so you know, they ended up blocking me which I guess makes me a Troll in return.

If I’d only known Troll training was as easy as it turned out to be, I would have received my certificate ages ago.

You know what they say – it takes one to know one 🙂

Slam bam, thank you mam!

Gandhi & Indian Flag

Be the Change You want to See – Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

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I tried this the entire day today; I lay on my back looking up at the heavens and saw, in my mind’s eye, that it was Saturday instead of Monday. I was being the change that I wanted to see.

My boss came to me and needless to say, he was not impressed. Turned out he couldn’t see the change I was being.

I think we need a mandate to make quotes come with guidelines and disclaimers attached.

Let’s just have a referendum, it’s not like Australia needs much convincing for one of those, right Turnball?

When did Knowledge Become Uncool?

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Or did I just miss the memo or something?

I mean, I get it, I’m well versed with nerd-dom, I think I could probably successfully argue (in an international debate no doubt) that I even conjured up the whole kingdom but really, when did being aware of basic general information become an illness?

For those of you who have been blessed by being spared the entire campaigning activities and have managed to save yourself (quick run and do NOT look back no matter how much I scream for a saviour) from being aware of our approaching July 2nd Federal Election, this story will probably mean little to you though I do sincerely believe you will understand my gobsmacked utter confusion.

Australians were asked to name our current, yes, you heard me right, as in living in 2016, current Prime Minister and some had absolutely no idea.

Granted, we do change our PMs more than a Hippie would change his underwear but seriously? How are you even alive?

I’d ask if you lived under a rock but I’m sure your humble abode even knows the current PM! And unless you’re not on talking terms, I will never believe your excuse.

It’s Malcolm Turnball people, good ol'(well maybe not because he is really unrecognisable from the time before power went to his narcissistic head) but It’s Malcolm Turnball.

If this type of knowledge is uncool, someone just kill me now before I forget where I need to stick a carrot. In my mouth. Most of the time unless you give me a smart-aleck comment, then use your imagination.

Dear Writer’s Block … Again

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I hate you … let’s just make that clear.

I don’t know what I’ve ever done to you.

You always seem to strike at the most inopportune times, like my weighing machine just before a gorgeous date with an ice cream binge.

You mock me in your silence with your evil partner in crime – that dreaded foreboding cursor as it blinks at me flirtatiously always giving me just enough hope to think I may make it to the end and then you snatch it away. Oh, so torturously cruelly.

I hate you. I think I said that already but I feel like I have to say it twice so you know just how much agonising loathing I have for you within me.

That’s not very nice is it? But I don’t care.

You keep me away from my one and only friend, you are the very core of a disgusting, omnipresent nemesis.

You take pleasure in tearing apart two lovers, ripping one soul into pieces and then you ridicule me in all your powerful glory.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. It cannot be repeated enough.

It has been said in all its finality. Know that one day I will get the last laugh even if it is just to write down those eight precious letters …

I hate you.

Child Peeping

You Peeping Tom, you …

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Firstly, if you are a Peeping Tom, let me officially reprimand you. It’s not good.

Now that my civic duty has been adequately fulfilled the way all “civic” duties are in the 21st century (i.e. pretending to give a s#@t when I clearly couldn’t care less because it’s not affecting me – shameful I know, but another blog post regardless) , let me clear this title up for you a little. I can’t promise I’ll do anything of the sort but I’ll give it a shot anyway.

I got to thinking why Tom was such a sleazebag the other day. Was it his mother’s complacent rearing or his father’s lecherous late nights at the office. Could it be that poor little Tom had fallen in with the wrong crowd when still an innocent babe and had his mind welded into corrupt caricatures on how to pick up women? Or did Tom just happen to be lost in space, thinking about the ways he may escape Mr. Shufflebotham’s wrath when he admitted he had forgotten to complete his maths homework,  while peering into his next door neighbour’s bathroom when Mrs. Roly-Poly was you know, doing what people do in the bathroom.

I even got to thinking about whether it was actually Jack who had pulled a reluctant Tom onto the old Pears Soap Cardboard Box the local grocer had thrown away as he shifted himself onto his tiptoes to do his lewd work on Mrs. Roly-Poly instead. Poor Tom, if only he had been as quick to run as Jack had, perhaps we would have associated the lack of a suitable moral compass with Peeping Jack instead.

As you can appreciate (I’m sure), the endless possibilities were doing my head in so I brought up my trusted Google and set out to solve this complicated and pressing mystery. For once, I must admit, the actual literal version of how Tom came to be prefixed with Peeping is actually much more interesting than any of my versions. I know, it sux but such is the way of life.

Damn, I hate not being the most intelligent person in the Universe but I console myself by believing it’s someone else’s fault instead of mine, like many of my generation living in these times. But that again, is another blog post.

Indian Allergies – Part Two

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Firstly, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise for my unusual, shocking ability to remember what I’d promised more than 60 seconds ago this one time when most of you probably wished I hadn’t!

I come armed with Part Two of My Indian Allergies Post secretly ecstatic that no tomato stains will inflict my pristine veneer when you smash them in desperate agony at your computer screen, because washing up more than twice a day is a serious bore for me. So here goes:

7. Indians are genetically allergic to anything below 100%. We like the look of a skinny “1” followed by two fat rounds “O’s”. You get 97% in anything in life; everyone around you is going to be disappointed. It’s as simple as that, which is probably why I am constantly struggling with my weight, unless it’s 100% fat free I’m not going to be un-Indian and ingest that “try hard”, “wannabe” fat free chip right there shamelessly celebrating its underachievement.

8. Indians are by nature allergic to any outdoor activities, which is why camping is such a BIG No-No for us. If I absolutely have to camp, like in the heat trodden majestic outdoors of Rajasthan’s Ranthambhore, my tent better be a five star accommodation like this. Complete with electricity, running water, a television and the absolute imperative power point to plug my laptop in. Indians and IT, we’re inseparable.

9. What the heck is a “DIY” apart from an absurd juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated letters? What in the World would possess anyone to do something themselves when there are clearly other options? Indians just don’t get it. If we can find someone (and we know we will) to remove that transformer toy car wedged between the kitchen counter and the wall with nothing more than a spatula that was designed (or at least reworked) for this very purpose and some used chewing gum, you know we will. We just need to find the one of many “LIT” (learnt it themselves) potentials on the street outside our home.

10. Indians are highly, toxically allergic to personal space and talking in what we consider to be inaudible soundwaves (by this, I mean saying anything that can’t be physically heard by everyone within a 50 metre radius). We’re the second largest population on the globe fast becoming the first. This is not a choice; it’s a survival mechanism that would put Charles Darwin to shame. Getting heard and a space to call your own, now that is near to impossible.

11. Indians are allergic to most professions unless it has taken us at least seven years to complete them. If you’re not in Information Technology, Medicine, Engineering, Finance and a few choice others, we’re going to be looking at you sceptically if you tell us you’re an Indian because we’re not going to believe that your family gives a crap about your “achievements”.

12. We’re distrusting of any Indian family that doesn’t have a clear boundary that would put the Indo-Pak border to shame between their normal family stuff and those reserved for the guests that may or may not be worthy of bringing out the new stuff (namely bed linen and bath towels along with other toiletry essentials). The very thought of this ever occurring is enough to induce excited champagne popping dreams by all the kids in the family if this does in fact, ever happen. This dream, just so you know, is hardly ever realised and is instead passed down the many, many generations to come.

13. We do not understand the idea of different genres in movies?! Why would you ever restrict yourself to just one? An Indian cinema experience involves everything jam packed, Van Damme crammed into one movie – romance, fighting, tragedy, action, musical, dancing, singing and that’s just in the first five minutes. You want it, we’ve got it!

Because my computer has started steaming at the abhorrent, unjust onslaught I am pounding away on my keyboard at the moment, I’m going to stop. I promise that my intentions were noble and that I did think that this would be over by now, but it turns out that Indians are allergic to a lot more than I had previously thought. I know, poor us. All sympathy baskets and donations can be sent to the following address:

Indian Allergy Donations Headquarters:
The first Indian family you find (NOTE: Just mention these words in the following order “we’re sorry for the allergies inflicted upon you courtesy your DNA”) and they’ll know what you mean. They’ll probably invite you in with their “come, come” and force feed you till you’re on the verge of requiring an ambulance.

See you later my adorable peeps 🙂