Hey Nollsy ya ol ball tickler
Bet ya that’s not the first time you’ve made a misogynistic threat when you’ve had a firecracker up ya starfish, amiright knackers. Yeah nah relax cob I’m only saucing ya sanger. While I got ya, any chance of returning your outdated violent threats and I’ll Root Ya Mum gags, they were funny in the 90s but toxic masculinity has gone the way of Rolf Harris’ career. I’ll swap ya for this signed copy of your CD I found at Sanity for 30 cents whatchu reckon cob.
M8 the ol trouble n strife doesn’t want ya threatening to pork her crackle the next time you get ya knickers in a clove hitch. Hoorroo tata cya round when you’ve sorted your unchecked rage problems out ya sly shagger.
Like a million skinny-jean-wearing buffalo emerging from the Zimbabwe Savana (who haven’t yet been murdered and turned into trophies by American dentists), so concludes the deadly stampede of tryhards to the previously tranquil ethnic suburbs of Melbourne’s North.
No more can 4’11” Italian men peacefully play backgammon or that iconic wog card game 500, whilst smoking their imported 28mg tar cigars and leering at any female with a heartbeat who walks past.
For their local Preston billiards hall has just been converted into a new uber-hip bar/ gallery/ food-truck parking lot, named something cleverly kitsch like Foufounes Electrique.
Miniature Greek women draped head-to-toe in black, still mourning the death of their pet cat from 1957, are holding their cloth shopping trolleys close.
No longer is Thornbury’s Psarakos Market a refuge for bargain shopping Nonnas looking for twenty cent eggplant for their Moussaka; for the hipster is unceremoniously running them down with his penny-farthing on his one-eyed mission to acquire a kilo of quinoa and kale for his vegan casserole (but only cos Danny’s Burgers is closed).
The incursion is complete. Youz non-hipster kents iz fucked.
Even Stevie Wonder wearing a blindfold knows you can spot a member of this repugnant subspecies sashaying down Smith Street by that massive whimsical sparrow tattooed on her forehead and her long unbrushed dandruffy hair; or his black-framed glasses (lens optional, horn-rims covetable), greasy 50s hair-quiff with a perfect wanker fade that’s sprouting a man-bun that wears its own fedora; or his disgusting flea-ridden Grug-beard, dripping unpronounceable Melbourne craft beer onto his multicoloured Keffiyeh scarf and ironic glitter applique children’s T-Shirt, which features hand-sewn pocket squares for him to delicately dip his silken scarf in.
You spot the girls riding around Coburg/ Brunswick, pretending they’re cruising down the Amstel river in Amsterdam, on their oversized cruiser bicycles that weigh as much as a soaking-wet Datsun and are as cumbersome as a lounge suite from Franco Cozzo (with 700 metre braking distance, perfect for inner-city riding); wearing stupidly impractical plastic shoes and high-waisted Salvos floral shorts, which are so obscenely high, they cut into their tiny bra-less boobies, while creating catastrophic cameltoe and violating them so much that they basically impregnate them with another pair of shorts.
The boys will punch a disabled granny in the mouth at Greensborough Savers just to get to that last vintage 80s Lacoste vest, so he can coordinate it with his $4,000,000 dollar Msubi jeans and $2 fake Volleys from Kmart (always sans socks); thus cleverly demonstrating his perfectly honed niche-consumerism.
(Not that he gives one single, singular, solitary fuck what society thinks of him. Remember when that guy who looks like ugly John Farnham sang: “One Is The Loneliest Number”? Well a hipster doesn’t even give a One Lonely Fake John Farnham fuck. He gives no fucks. He gives a Planck Length of 1.616199(97)×10−35 fucks.)
Eavesdrop on their smug conversations in the dark and sticky urine-saturated corner of the Northcote Social Club band room (pre elitist wanker “wine bar” renovation), and you will hear them masticate and masturbate over Nick Cave’s latest droney offerings, even though we all truthfully know he hasn’t done anything worthwhile since he murdered Charlene Robinson with a rock in that beautiful 90s love ballad.
Pick up their latest iWhatevs, and notice they only have the most obscure and archaic music on there. Ancient unreleased Tom Waits before he sounded like cookie monster falling into a garbage truck especially catapults them to such a cool stratosphere, 16yo anorexic hipsluts wanna pash them at warehouse parties. But unless it’s on vinyl, was recorded before 1981, recorded/ produced/ shat on by Wilco, Jack White or Willie Nelson, or no one has ever heard of it, Heepztaa won’t taint their sagacious ears with it.
And the moment DJ Obscure is known to more than an underground selection of six aural connoisseurs, Hipzta ditches them like a girlfriend that got fat (from a size 8to a hefty fat-ass size 10 so she can’t fit into that vintage Missoni woollen twinset any longer).
Unless, of course, it’s such revolting post-digital Glitch/ Trap/ Dub music, that you can’t differentiate a song from a malfunctioning computer that’s been infected with malware while being attached to electrodes and drowned in piss. Because every Melbourne Scenester worth his record collection thinks he’s a DJ, and discussing bpms with his scenester friends gives him a tiny little boner in his spray-on-jeggings.
Or it’s some horrible talentless Indiepunk band who plays at The Tote on Wednesday nights, who indignantly scream such highbrow lyrics as “Fuck me, Swamp Donkey” 400 times while playing all their instruments horribly. Because Melbourne hipsters emotionally connect with that shit on some sort of ironic, sophic, unemotional level.
HipStars especially love them some obscure Gangstah rap from the 90s that politely informs The Hoes how they’re going to be molested and murdered. Because nothing says “Straight Outta Compton” like privileged white girls rapping along to Eazy-E while hitching up their Country Road dresses and browsing Etsy for kitchy knitting needles and succulents.
Melbs Poseur girl’s Instabook, Facegram and Tumble will convey, by way of exquisite subterfuge and imagery, that she’s so terribly interesting that you absolutely NEED to bask in her incandescent, enigmatic glow. She does this by listing her innocently twee interests: being polite, gardenias, my mother’s floral brooch, THEN BANG OUT OF NOWHERE!! Edgar Allan Poe fiction covered in blood! HOW CAN I NOT WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU, YOU FASCINATING GOTHIC LADY OF THE NORTH???
She teams this sociopathic charm with terribly artistic photos that have been churned through the Valencia Instagram filter; of skulls and cupcakes flying out of her hair, a preppy set of notepads set against a crisp white background to jot down her profound musings, Charles Bukowski quotes, pseudo-intellectual trollop about freeing her nipples while imitating cuntillingus with her fingers and standing in front of some rotting wall covered in Graffiti in Abbotsford, blurry snaps of her emaciated infant legs swathed in cherry Doc Martens, or a solitary photo of her anorexic back, impersonating a tortured Hunchback of Notre Dame, replete with a ridiculously irrelevant caption like ‘Potplant Cherry Lace’.
Indievag’s travel photos to Vietnam or Bali are all of her staring wistfully into the mountainous distance at nothing but her own empty, meaningless existence; with lame accompanying hashtags such as #blessed #true #authentic #fakecunt, or any lame line from the only piece of literature she has ever read (ie. cut and paste from Google) The Places You’ll Go by Doctor Seuss.
And if she’s a spritely young uni student and/ or European (two demographics who haven’t yet received the memo that smoking is stupid and causes cancer), she’ll have artistic shots of her seductively sucking on a cancer stick with the cancer smoke haloing her unbrushed cancer hair. Edgy AF.
Sometimes if Poser Femme is feeling particularly scholarly and annoying, she’ll sit on Shitbook all day, waiting with a rigidly poised finger and a finely tuned eagle-eye (induced by all that stolen Ritalin she’s been injecting into her tear-ducts), for some gormless fool to accidentally make a politically incorrect joke. So she can rip his balls off, and force-feed them to him with a fourty-seven-line condescending diatribe, propelled by her smug Arts-graduate authority and private school confidence. She’ll make sure she includes hipster buzzwords used in the wrong context, like cisgender, pangender, fenderbender and trigender. She’ll then go and let off bitch steam by knitting a tea cozy for her blind cat, and emotionally eating an entire jar of poser powerfood, Nutella, with a ruler instead of a spoon, then posting it on Instagram so we don’t miss a second of her riveting life.
Melbourne Poseur Boy’s fakebook will simply have a list of all the best burger joints from around the world, a couple of obscure YouTube clips of scenes from Adventure Time, and a profile picture of him looking moody and out of focus while riding a fixie in Edinburgh gardens and wearing his mother’s fur coat.
He may post a protracted status update explaining the subtle differences in the crema and bean roast origin of his two Triple Espressos, acquired from two underground coffee houses without signage that he visited back-to-back, before playing a navel-gazing solo gig on the ukulele at The Gasometer to nobody.
Sometimes he will have a profile photo that simply says “VOTE”, or an unexplained picture of John Cusack.
Melbourne Hip Man, has, of course, stamped his limited-edition Jeremy Scott high-top sneakers all over every important hipster cultural destination around the world.
(He suffers from an interminable existential crisis, where he is simultaneously obnoxiously proud of his native Melbin, whilst also proffering that the rest of the world is SO MUCH more cultured and interesting. This cognitive dissonance creates so much inner anguish in his feeble mind, that he needs to use being a fraudulent tosser as a virtual protective shield, lest he crumble under the weight of his own internal conflict and self deception.)
He has snorted cocaine in a sandpit at a daytime dance-club in Berlin; he has worked in the bookshop at MoMA in NYC then read slam poetry in Greenwich Village after-hours; he has pretended to be a tortured cowboy country singer in Austin, then drowned his sorrows in Mad Dog Margaritas like he’s the lame ghost of Guy Clark.
And of course he has taught English in Japan, then slept in a different Capsule Hotel every night for 6 months- a lifestyle choice he explains while updating his facebook status from his brand new Gold-Plated iPhone 9 as a hatred of being a “slave to material possessions.”
And of course, any sexually predatory Melbz heepstah male will charm the vintage Donna Karan Capri pants off the ladiez by learning to play guitar and posting his ballads about heartbreak and love and loss on the interwebs, to conceal his total lack of depth or the empty void where his soul should reside. Or he’ll post some whimsical photos on his Instaglam, of panty-dropping masterpieces like a homeless kitten with one leg, or an abandoned child’s toy on the ground (that’s been duly violated by the Instagram Brannan filter), which is as steeped in hackneyed symbolism as it is in black dirt.
If he’s a particularly ambitious wanker, he’ll have a gallery in Richmond full of his wank. He will shrewdly weaken the resolve of his mindless zombie friends; with lots of schmoozing and plentifully flowing Aldi wine.
And before they know it, they are purchasing his mediocre wank for prohibitive prices that make them secretly wish they were dead.
Stealthily stalk their Tumblrgrams like you’re Mark Chapman, and you will see a photo of a greasy, dripping, lardy burger (SEE DANNY BURGER’S REVIEW FOR FURTHER ANALYSIS); home-smoked aniseed bacon; raw vegan gluten-free-coconut-water casserole, entirely prepared in a food dehydrator; or some unpronounceable ethnique cuisine, particularly a Ramen or Pho that looks like milky dishwater (always pronounced properly. Only ignorant racist fucks are unaware that in China, it’s accurately pronounced “Fffffffffff”- get it right you Nazi); or some other slice of barely edible repetitive inanity with lame accompanying epithet.
To capture such clichés, all legitimate Beatnix own extremely cumbersome cameras (either vintage and rusted, or the $12,000 Canon EOS 1D Mark III, nothing in between) and wear them proudly around their neck for the same sort of sartorial potency that the velvet choker garnered in the 90s.
Indie wankers will boast to anyone who they can bail up at the Old Bar at 2am that they’re actually currently pouring over the heroin-fueled musings of Kerouac or Burroughs, or they will attempt to breakdown the nuanced and interweaving narrative universe of the Indie intellectual’s fictional Holy Grail, Infinite Jest. But secretly they’ve never read anything longer than Vice Magazine, or the inside sleeve of a My Bloody Valentine CD.
Unless it’s their course material from their Bachelor of Arts at LaTrobe University. Because all genuine heepsters need to be able to sit in LaTrobe’s Agora, and mindlessly quote Marx and Nietzsche while sipping on their Fijian-origin extradoublesuperstrong macchiato that’s potent enough to strip lead; regurgitating condescending quotes at lightning speed at an equally oblivious Arts Wanker comrade, who spits incongruous passages back at them.
And soon it becomes a ghastly game of zombie-hipster verbal tennis, where their mouths keep moving but their brains shut off. Neither party is actually listening to the other- because authentic hipsters are so infallibly erudite and worldly, they needn’t bother listening to anybody besides themselves.
Any athletically inclined Beatnik will spend every Saturday and Wednesday evening at the local Lawn Bowls club, dressing like he’s 87 years old whilst hobnobbing with actual 87 year olds, just so he can cycle through his entire 5,000-strong collection of tweed Newsboy Caps and bespoke knee-high argyle socks from his handcrafted mahogany wardrobe. On relaxing Sundays, he enjoys playing giant Jenga, but only when the Jenga pieces have been engraved with ironic epitaphs and then set on fire.
And any incognito hipster worth his secret tweed fedora will learn all there is to know about Test cricket, so he and his friends can discuss the subtle nuances of this drollery for 7 hours while drinking craft beer and sitting on a milk crate outside the Rose Hotel.
FILM AND TELEVISION
Of course, any bona fide Northern Scenarist wouldn’t dare watch anything on free to air TV, with the puerility of Reality TV being particularly abhorrent to any genuine heeptsa, and Kim Kartrashian being their favourite pariah de jour.
Thus, as well as obsessing over any Wes Anderson movies when they don’t actually understand them, all hipsters own the entire back-catalogue of vintage Degrassi High on VHS (when Spike was a slut and Joey a hero), so they can see a mirror of their angsty, marginalized selves. Nothing was a better portent to their dark and tortured future than Degrassi, especially when that Emo shot himself in the dunny. With one celluloid bullet, he taught all aspiring junior hipstas how to be all arty and misunderstood and introspective. Plus all the Degrassi kids from Canadia wore deadly black stovepipe jeans and jaunty woolen trilby hats.
All heepsters also claim to be infatuated with Arrested Development, even though they secretly still don’t get it, and have to surreptitiously look to their housemate’s for a cue when to laugh. And their favourite character is Lindsay. FALE. And thanks to the generous people at Pirate Bay, all good criminal hipsters own every single HBO series ever made, even though they still need subtitles for The Wire and didn’t even realise Baltimore was a real city.
And of course, anything by the Prince of Bullshit himself David Lynch makes them cream in their Vintage 501s. They are all so obsessed with Twin Peaks, that they have started to carry a log around and dispense clairvoyant visions to the townsfolk.
This insidious social phenomenon is not without collateral damage. What about the poor bogans and wogs who actually grew up in the suburbs of the North; the innocent locals of Thornbury, Darebin and Fairfield, back when it was a wholesomely povo and undesirable area where people could still enjoy getting burglarized and shot? The tragic children of the 90s who still can’t tell the difference between musician Nick Cave and his versatile actor-brother who starred in documentaries such as Con Air? Well they’re currently sitting on the 86 tram, age 36, in their oversized Piping Hot T-shirts, perplexedly scratching their bowl-cut hairstyles.
Pondering this menacing and tosseresque cultural zeitgeist that has proliferated around them. Wondering why so many people are speaking in such a foul bastardised Californian accent and dressing like they fell head-first into a Brotherhood Bin. Crying themselves to sleep every night at the fact that they can no longer wear Kmart un-ironically.
They have all been forced to move up seven tram stops to beautiful Rezza, where everything is Halal again, and Haram hipster cunts are as unwelcome as pork in a kebab.
But in my time of Melbourne hipster-watching with my enormous Julian Knight binoculars, I have discovered the one secret that threatens to derail the enigmatic persona of the Scenezta. They were all once 13-year-old country kids named Mercedes, drinking cheap goon and loitering around their local My Mate’s Pizzeria back in Ballarat, staring at the stars, and dreaming that there must be more to this life than a new Smorgy’s opening up five blocks away.
So as soon as they turned 18, they stuffed all their Hootie and the Blowfish cassettes in a Hessian knapsack and made the long and arduous two hour journey down the Western Freeway to Melbourne- first stop, North Fitzroy.
Fake wrap-around Oakleys off, genuine Ray Ban Wayfarers on.
If Mercedes didn’t manage to escape the old country by the time she turned 18, and her transmogrification into a vainglorious self-styled New Age Melbourne Traveler was slightly delayed, she would have Voted 1 for the National Party, and Voted 2 for the Racist Independent, when it was time to saunter down to the local Primary School Hall, and grab a sausage and some voting pamphlets before 6pm on Voting Day.
Mercedes smugly knew that the ALP (spearheaded by that dangerous socialist Paul Keating, his little mouthy Asian work-experience kid Kevin Rudd, and their backstabbing slut groupie Jules Gillard) were responsible for the devastating national debt crisis, the Muslim incursion from India and Arabia, crippled dole bludgers pillaging our taxes, Wogs and Gooks stealing our jobs, and the catastrophic end of White Homogeneous Australia as we know it.
Five minutes into listening to a shrill 19-yo conceited bitch wearing head-to-toe Gorman at The Retreat haranguing everybody about the necessity of voting Greens (even when any fucking idiot knows voting Greens as as useful as a one armed trapeze artist with an itchy arse), suddenly Mercedes is standing outside Thornbury Primary School, priggishly handing out Greens Voting Pamphlets with a haughty expression on her cats ass face to frightened passerby’s.
CONCLUSION AND FUTURE PROGNOSIS
Even if Mercedes et al. change their previously trailertrash names to infinitely cool ones- like Aydin into Atticus, or Dazza into Delilah, to run away from their clodhopper roots- they’re still not fooling anyone. Maybe apart from that new “Americana” band, who only play to an empty room at The Builders Arms; who so desperately needed a fifth hippztaa member to round off their très avantgarde image. One whom occasionally smacks the tambourine, or plays the wrong bass note whilst staring sullenly from under a bright-red fringe that’s as maddeningly straight as Hitler.
The inherent irony in this attempt to break the old oppressive mold, is that these recent proponents of counter-culture now look, act and sound just like everybody else around them. They don’t realise that they can still be advocates of the three cornerstones of a Greens voting Melbin hipstar: liberal thinking, progressive politics, and smug veganism- without dressing and acting like a carbon copy douchebag. And just to add insult to injury, most of these people are arrogant, elitist, fake and worse still- BORING AF.
Come on Melbun Zceenester, just admit you need three bottles of congealed Father O’Reillys milky liqueur to sprout a personality along with that pedo moustache. You, with your fire-engine red lippy, Satanic Pentagrams, anchor tattoos, coy histrionic personality disorder, rectangle Fidel Castro beard or African butt-plug earrings, aren’t original or charming. You are lame, hackneyed and predictable.
And now because the hipster has become the ubiquitous mainstream, and the wog/ bogan/ dag is the fringe-dweller, the Cult Leaders at Indie Headquarters in Silverlake, Los Angeles, have branched off into a rival faction: the elusive YUCCIES. And everybody knows what happens when a religion splits into moderate and extremist sides. Look to Kosovo or Syria as a portent to the civil war that awaits these fools.
But the worst crime a hipster can commit is writing a ridiculous, done-to-death, virtually irrelevant and rambling blog, which is as saturated with hypocritical jabs as it is asinine non-sequiturs. Because that would be fucking horrible.
Especially if that writer is a LaTrobe Arts Student drop-out. But at least I can quote Nietzsche, right?
WE ABSOLUTELY HATES IT!!!!!
At nighttime, Danny’s Burgers deliberately leave their shutters up and their lights searingly bright. This is for the sole purpose of inviting passerby’s traveling down St George’s road to enviously glimpse the rows upon rows of skinny compression jeans on the legs of emaciated posers, dangling off plastic bar-stools, whilst they dive face-first into grease piles. Danny’s has a mega-magnet under its floors, which attracts the bubonic fleas living in hipster’s beards, like the Pied Piper himself is playing them a siren song. This magnet thus leads the drunk, gormless, waist-coat wearing flea-host to involuntarily catch a cab to Danny’s Burgers on their way home from the pub.
One second, a repulsive hipster is sitting out the back of the Old Bar, smoking their 78th rollie that night, and staring wistfully into their warm 9.5% obscure-brewery Craft beer among the cacophony of like-minded tryhards; and the next second, they’re in a cab, feverishly directing the frightened driver to drive straight to Danny’s.
It’s all done in a hazy montage, taken as snapshots. First photo is of you arguing with the bar-wench with the cat’s ass facial expression, who is refusing to serve you. Next photo, you’re being turfed out of the Old Bar onto your pasty belligerent ass by the fridge-sized Lebanese security guard. Next photo, you’re standing in the middle of Johnson Street, yelling like a fuckwit at nobody, without your shirt on. Next photo, you’re in a warm cab, telling Sandip how it’s fricken awesome that Indians can get jobs in Australia, and asking him if he’s a Muslim. Next photo, you are leaning over the counter at Danny’s, exhaling hot whiskey breath onto the faces of the eternally suffering staff. You don’t know how you got here, nor do you care. The bubonic beard-flea living in your soul now owns your mind and all sense of autonomous control.
If you’re not so smashed that you’ve lost all your motor-functions, waiting in line for the other poseurs ahead of you is the perfect opportunity to whip out your iPhone 7 to tag yourself at Danny’s; to thrill your thousands of Instagram/ Facebook fakefriends. But you’re a drunk asshole, and you drop your iPhone and the screen smashes on the grubby floor. This doesn’t deter you, and you persevere through the shattered spiderweb screen. For any authentic hipster can’t miss an opportunity to post an insufferable photo of their burger cleaved in half, and lasciviously dripping grease and cheese, and then churn this photo through some shitty retro filter to give it a whimsical aesthetic. This is such a circa 2009 thing to do, but you still haven’t received the telegram that photos of burgers are as mind-numbingly dumb as your stupid handlebar moustache.
The cosmically overpriced burger is placed in front of you, and it looks ostensibly palatable enough. The three iconic pillars of Hamburger: 1) Bun 2) Meat 3) Sauce/Cheese/ Miscellaneous all seem to be present. You take 49 photos of the burger in different positions, like you are some sort of porn director, then you get ready to shove the burger in your drunk facehole like you’re a shitfaced Hoff.
BUT WHAT’S THIS!? WHY DOES MY $14 BURGER TASTE LIKE CARDBOARD ASS!?
You are so drunk that your liver and your tongue probably died four hours ago, and they’re sitting back at the Old Bar and crying while they die; but you can still taste how utterly bland this shitty burger is. Despite this knowledge slowly ticking away in your empty, greasy-coiffed head (that you paid some insufferable bitch on Smith St $85 for), you and your hipster carbon-copies lining the long bench start lying through your filthy termite-ridden mustaches about how Danny’s is the best burger in town – even while you’re secretly wishing you’d just told that Muslim cabbie to drive to 7/11 for their rancid microwaved cheeseburger.
Your spray-on jeggings vomit out your wallet from the back-pocket because they’re too tight to house anything, and you unknowingly leave your wallet on the bar-stool and walk out into the cool Melbourne night. You try to convince yourself that you’re pleased you visited such an illustrious poser destination, so you can lie to your friends about how much you adhere to the trendy cultural zeitgeist. BUT SECRETLY YOU HATE YOURSELF AND YOU HAVE A TOTAL EXISTENTIAL CRISIS. You violently pull out a Give Way sign, and drag it along Holden Street in a shower of sparks, then javelin it two feet into a bush with your scrawny twig arms. Life is fucked. You text that skinny bitch who wore vintage Donna Karan that you met at a Brunswick warehouse party, and you ask tell her if she wants to hook up. She says no, and you text her back saying she’s a bitch. BITCH.
You hate the world, and you blame it all on Danny’s Burger’s for promising so much and delivering nothing. Just like your meaningless, hollow, barren life. In your youthful desperation and petulant idiocy, you go jump off a bridge into Merri Creek, and your lifeless body floats away to Coburg. The next morning your emaciated yet bloated body is found, but you can’t be identified because some other asinine hipster has picked up your wallet and is using your debit card to pay for his Netflix registration. You are buried in an unmarked grave and no one misses you.
OR you can just get a Souvlaki on Brunswick Street and avoid all this heartache.
It was an afternoon just like any other. A simple group of obscenely good-looking friends gathered around at a picturesque suburban park; laughing, eating miscellaneous burnt meat from ALDI, and taking too many self-indulgent, self-congratulatory selfies on their iPhones under the glowing heat of the fierce Melbourne sun.
(Nothing reminds you that you’re so utterly present in that very moment; where nothing else matters, and you have achieved utter contentment and self-realization, than staring at your own contrived duck-face in the 1.3 megapixel front camera of a phone).
Suddenly, confusion set in. The dark clouds of failure obscured the once bright sun. Upon attempting to tag ourselves at our exact location, knowing smugly that all of our facebook friends really gave two shits about what we’re doing at that very moment because we are celebrities of our own creation, a particular existential conundrum struck us.
PENDERS PARK DIDN’T EXIST ON FACEBOOK!!!!
(…or my drunk and hysterical friend Chris didn’t know how to work his phone.)
Regardless, we had to do some digging as a matter of life and death, or else we’d never be able to update our facebooks. Fast forward 25 minutes of fumbling, and whiny pleas of: “GIVE ME THE PHONE YOU CAN’T WORK IT DICKHEAD”, what our erudite friend Stacy discovered next triggered a profound sense of shock and dismay in this once merry troupe of friends.
PENDERS PARK WAS A HOMOSEXUAL BEAT. A RANCID, LASCIVIOUS CESSPOOL FOR TAXI DRIVERS WHO FINISHED THEIR SHIFT, AND WERE LOOKING FOR SOME CLANDESTINE LOVE ON THE DOWNLOW.
This new information gave our entire experience at Penders Park a whole new and definitively sinister complexion. Those trees you sit under, sheltering your delicate ginga skin from the cancerous sun?? A SEX TREE
Those beautiful, pristinely maintained rustic toilets; located conveniently at the other end of the park in a dark rapey corner?? A SEX TOILET
That bush that you plucked wildflowers from, to give to your beloved so tenderly? A SEX BUSH
That basketball court, with the two backboards of vastly different heights (because it’s Preston and they’re too poor to have any quality control)? A SEX COURT
Those benches that you once sat on with your innocent families, discussing wholesome, puritanical endeavours, like religion and voting for the Liberal party? A SEX BENCH
So friends, my only parting advice is to make sure you bring the Purell and Dettol wipes next time you visit picturesque Penders Park, and wipe down all surfaces (including your face, hands, teeth, hair and mind) before and after your visitation, in case you catch some vile venereal disease. And make sure you leave the premises before dark; because after the moon rises high in that great Southern Sky, you may become Sandip from Silvertop’s bitch.
Good-looking Bitches and their Aesthetically Challenged Wing-Women. PART TWO: THE PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPETUS.
If you perused my LAST
MISOGYNISTIC AND OFFENSIVE INFORMATIVE BLOG ENTRY, you would know that a particularly bizarre and wholly tragic anthropological ritual has been irkin my jerkin.
*** MAKE SURE YOU READ THE PRECEDING BLOG TO FULLY UNDERSTAND THE CONTEXT, READER IGNORAMUS ***
WHY DO LADIES WHOM OSTENSIBLY LACK MAINSTREAM “BEAUTY”, SUBJECT THEMSELVES TO THE TORTUROUS FRIENDSHIP OF A NARCISSISTIC, SELF-OBSESSED “HOT” FRIEND; WHOM ONLY CARES ABOUT HERSELF!?
Professor Fritz M.D. aims to examine the multi-layered impulsion for this transpiration.
In my last blog, Fritz introduced the genetically-challenged young lady as the “FRUG” (an amalgam of the holy trinity of misogynistic insults – “ugly” “frumpy” and “fat”).
Firstly, what strikes Fritz as the most peculiar facet of this phenom is that SXC beb barely acknowledges poor The Frug’s existence AT ALL.
Obvs Frug is only being exploited by the vain bish for the following reasons:
- So she can make the hot chic look hotter by comparison. (LIKE AS IF THAT’S EVEN POSSIBLE, ZOMG!)
- To bail Hottie Chaquita out of a potentially sticky situation if some fat creeper tries to chat her up at the nightclub, or ask for graphic noods to be sent to his iPhone 8. No creeper wants to bother with a cock-blocking angry Swamp Donkey in order to get to the hotty he’s trying to
date rapeseduce. Thus the FRUG is the ideal deterrent wing-woman.
- To be the Hottie’s unpayed slavegirl (like poor Opera Winfrig in that documentary A Colour Papal)
and LOOK AFTER HER HANBDAG all nite…. Because everybody knows that Courtney Stodden impersonators cant twerk sexually to get the old men’s attention to a Glitch/ Trap remix of Whatta Man by DJ Drugs, when shes lugging around a fake Gucci bag BURSTING at the seams with A HUNDRED Crank cocanes, Meths, zanax and 8 shade of pearl lipstik.
So of course she leaves her druggy bag with FRUG, who sits alone in corner of niteclub; tapping her swollen feet self-consciously to the jarring sound of the tekno music 😦
The most depressing thing that Dr Fritz Zwicky Ph.D notices is that the poor resigned Frug doesn’t even cry when sexi beb is obvs moar interested in the kilojool count of her Jim Beam Martini/ scoring a Molly, than in her Frug Friend… and yet, poor Frug still sticks around, simply being ignored. 😦
But why? Lets examine.
- Maybe because infinitely more shiny orange muscleman wearing ladies V Neck t shirts look towards The FRUG’S general vicinity than ever before, when shes hanging with Bulimic Barbie. This makes the insecure Frug feel validated in some twisted, by-proxy way.
- Maybe Frug thinks one day she will go to Jenny Crag, and develop an eating disorder. And finally obtain a much coveted exposed hip bone and emaciated face, therefore becoming suddenly attractive to men; miraculously transforming herself from a 3/10, wud not bang to a 8/10, WUD defo RALLY.
- FRUG may even own her own aspirational “skinny outfit”, which she stares at longingly. Frug thinks the HOttie with the gap betwixt her thigh is her own Australian Idol, and the huge physical disparity between them causes Frug to hold onto this halcyon dream for longer.
- Maybe Frug haz a true masochistic fetish, and enjoys being treated like the vile feces-colour chewing gum you cant remove off shoe. After all, aren’t ugly ppl far less emotionally connected than good-looking ppl, srsly?
However, lets not get bogged down in the empirical sociological and psychological compulsions for this phenomena, as they are more mind-boggling and open for conjecture than the occurrence of quiescence and advection-dominated accretion flow in the formation of a Black Hole.
*Falls asleep from boredom and hits head on table*
All that this benevolent Dr Fritz prescribes for FRUG is that she acquire some pasty emo friends, who think that she’s ace company: funny, sweet, and with inner beauty, and she starts hanging around dingy bars in Northcote playing Scrabble by the firelight.
(Frug reads a lot, so she knows numerous long and obscure words, and one day she becomes a Scrabbles CHAMPION!)
And leave SXC bebe alone to get slipped a roofie by DJ Drugs and his gurning zombie groupies in some swank upmarket exclusive Chapel Street establishment. Now that’s a party srsly. A Steven Milne kind of party.
Yuk. Too soon.
Sexual assault is NEVER funny, and to keep this blog lighthearted and impervious to any attacks by that frightening omnipotent overlord Clementine Ford , let’s assume HOTTY gets saved from horrific, perverted creeps by a good Samaritan. Most likely a conscientious, altruistic FRUG.
(Perverted creeps should know that NO MEANS NO, and always respect another’s person’s autonomy, so that no woman should ever end up having to “be saved by a Frug”- but we do very sadly live within the oppressive and blame-shifting parameters of an insidiously violent and sickening rape culture. )
Fak U ALL. We Hates It!
Strait up peeps.
Fritz has noticed that people on the intrawebs are extremely poorly educated. AND THEY TYPE ALMOST INDECIPHARABLY, liek this.
SO NOW THAT FRITZ IS A TRENDY INTERCOM CELEBRITY, BACK FROM THE DEAD TO DISPENSE ASTUTE SCIENTIFIC OBSERVATIONS ABOUT CERTAIN CULTURAL CRINGES….. HE WILL WRITE ILITERATELY TO !!
So gather round Belibers, lemme tel u a story. In Fritz’s many travels down the pretty cobbelstoned streets of Melborn, skipping gheyly and creepily glaring at magestic Neo Gothik arkitecture and comely young women roodly exposing to much ankle and to much brest, one soshal phenomen has become increasing obvious to me.
Its downrite fritening, and its coming to a pretentious South Yara bar near you!!!
These Anarexic woman, with hair the color of swamp water, skin the color of neon orange fak tan, wearing size FEETUS outfit, with a frosted cat-anus mouth (this is ostensible “HOT BITCH”, she looks like Armanda Bynes befor she became racist and mentally compromised with the tenuous diagnosis of “schizophrenic”, whatever that means. Probably meant she couldn’t decide if she wanted to be blonde or brunette), being followd obsequiously by a pale-complexion frump freind.
(Waering a nylon purple dress that looks like a tent, brought cheep from Asian stall at preston market, terible sartorial taste 😦 sadface. Try to look Adorkable like Zoe Dashenel but FALE.)
K for purposes of this Scientific Journal Artical, the depressed ugly frend is called THE FRUG (this is a clever amalgam of superfishal, cruel, demoralizing and unfortunately over-utilized misogynistic insults UGLY, FRUMPY and FAT.)
The Frug is ostensibly a FREND to the HOTTIE, but I utilize this term “freind’ very liberaly heer.
Just liek an abused dog is a subservient and fearful “freind” to his tyrannical master, even when hes been CHOKE CHAIN to the backfence in Broadmeadows for teh last 7 years, and is perpetually threatened with moccasins and a shotgun, or a magical supergun that shoots moccasins, so is the unfortunate FRUG.
(This perverse power imbalance and psychological mind-game makes a hard man like Professor Fritz weep; kinda like a ninja cut an onion in close proximity to him at brake neck speed. Fritz is nothing but au fait with overused, banal current cyberweb cliches. Squeeee!)
Heer Are Some Things Fritz’s Astute Scientific Mind Observe About Hot Chix:
Firstly, Hot chik, regardless of the precarious size of her stripper platform heel from K-Mart, always manages to walk faster and more commandingly than her s0-called ugly counterpart; who wears sensible flats cos she haz bad knees.
Nobody ever knows why hottie walks so fast down the city street with cats-ass expreshon on her face. Sum ppl atribute it to the huge poll up her boney ass, while some hypothise that once HOTTIE starts lurching forward on her 46 inch platform stiletos of death, she cant stop the forward momentum and
UH OH! she keeps speding up exponenshally liek shes falling down steep hill…. Arrgggh!!! Crash!!!!
And maybe she will die?!
But I regress.
In any event, we do know that aesthetically handicapped Frug in her sensible flats, who’s not so jeanitically blessed as her SXC frend, hasn’t quite mastered the fine art of traversing 37 parsecs per nanosecond, and is subsequently always left many steps behind, trailing very slowly in the dazzling afterglow of gawjus grrrrrl.
The visual efect is one akin to that old Lunatic Tune cartoon, were this lil dog Chester (FRUG) tries so hard to please the big dog Spruk (HOTTIE), who completely ignores Chesty. It’s a tenuous comparison, but Fritz has been dead for over 40 years so his knowledge of contemporary cartoons is sadly non-existent.
ARE U KEPNG UP SRSLY?
Secondly, within the sacred confines of the Ladiez Toilet At The Nightclub, the jarringly meek utterances of poor Frug reassuring SXC that she looks really sxc have been overheard since time immemorial.
THERE IS NO NEED FOR THIS.
Hot bish is fully cognizant that she’s hot, she just wants mor attention because shes just a
exploitative moronic insecure half-wit girl .
The following are common attention-seeking fraudulent claims perpetuated on behalf of HOT BITCH, while staring adoringly at her wax restylane duckface in the public spit-splattered mirror:
“I’m having a fat day” (while caressing razor sharp hipbone.)
“Ehh, that other girl look SO MUCH more SXC than me in this hot slut bandage dress” (competing girl overweight.)
“OMG sometimes I just think my boob are TOO BIG” (haz them pushed up so much, they’re now a huge bum nuzzling her chin.)
And FRUG ubiquitous response is: “No babe, you’re perfect”… while clandestinely dying inside.
STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK, WHEN DR FRITZ M.D. examines the psychological and anthropological impetus for this phenomenon, and answers the eternal question: WHY DOES FRUG SUBJECT HERSELF TO THIS???
WE HATES IT!
I had the sheer pleasure of meeting a Fake Ass Schmoozer once upon a time, in a land far, far away (Brighton). She was a frightfully untalented, uncharismatic TV personality and former Reality Show Alumni; whose unfettered belief in her own amazingness was nothing short of delusional.
The fact that she could only land a gig on a show that mentally challenged people watched in between reruns of Wheel of Fortune from the Baby John era and Home Shopping did not seem to temper her catastrophic ego. This woman didn’t have enough neural activity in her bleached blonde dumkopf to navigate her way out of an Ed Hardy t-shirt, yet she could only lower her lofty standards to speak to moi for approximately three minutes the entire night. This was only when she decided to patronise me loudly on a wonderful selection of highbrow topic, whom only a person with the nous of a used earbud could possibly think of, such as uneven breast implants and the real meaning of “Bintang”.
Otherwise Braindamage completely ignored me and refused to make eye contact with me (perhaps afraid my sheer ordinariness would infect her), even though there were only a couple of other people present- one of them being her equally intellectually truncated Z-grade shiny, hairless eel of a boyfriend.
The highlight of my evening was when they dropped the names of fellow Z’s 4,867 times during their hour-long shared soliloquy that could only rival Shakespeare himself, and then flicked through a Woman’s Day to admire pictures of themselves.
Meanwhile, the glorious image of these imbeciles possibly spawning something with the charm and wit of one of his Von Dutch T shirts was enough to make me run off to vomit violently in their marble toilet. It’s a pity I was so distracted by all the crack cocaine rimming the toilet bowl.
We Definitely Hates It!
An epidemic of individuals suffering from a socially acceptable symptom of that divine paragon of psychopathy, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, is currently spreading like a juicy bacterial pathogen over social groups everywhere.
For all you laymen sans PhD in Astronomical Engineering like Dr Fritz, Narcissistic Personality Disorder is a psychological/ behavioural disorder, whereby an interpersonally exploitative individual only opts to associate with others [a source of “supply”], whom can advance their position in life, or provide them with some sort of transient ego boost to distract from their empty souls or total lack of intrinsic personality.
They are otherwise incapable of forming genuine human relationships.
(SPECIAL NOTE: PAY ATTENTION TO THE ABOVE DESCRIPTION. PROFESSOR FRITZ WILL FREQUENTLY REVISIT HIS MOST FAVOURITE OF PERSONALITY DISORDERS OVER THE NEXT FEW BLOG ENTRIES!)
HATING DISCIPLES, let me introduce you to
Some people may kindly or generously refer to the phenomena of The Schmooze as “networking”.
I view it as a scourge upon meaningful human interaction.
The Schmoozer will never waste their precious time associating with unconnected, non-beneficial people; even if these mere commoners are dangerously charismatic and hilarious (ie. Fritz ).
Instead, they flock like a tropical malaria mosquito to a bad smelling foot towards anyone who can book them a gig/ entry into an exclusive club/ a job on TV / nomination for an award etc, or has some sort of lofty social standing or a billion fakefriends on Instawank. Well-connected or famous people are therefore especially odoriferous.
The one exception listed in the illustrious Schmee Handbook is if Schmoozer is sexually deprived, and he’s champing at the bit for some lame, unsatisfying rumpypump and meaningless ego stroking after smashing two bottles of vinegary $3 Aldi wine and a couple of codeine or Valium-laden late night Cosby-specials .
Then you might get a call. Maybe. Just don’t keep checking your phone every four minutes all night, because this makes you look completely desperate.
But I digress.
There are a colourful array of Schmoozers:
Beguiling Schmoozer claims to recognise every wine ever made in the French province of Escargo by a mere sniff of his sublime aquiline nose. He is charming, knowledgeable, often funny, loves to cook ethnique cuisine and wine and dine his victims. But he has the emotional depth of a rancid brown puddle in the middle of an Australian drought.
He collects then discards his girlfriends like worthless stamps of Princess Diana from the 80s, to satisfy his internal little-man complex and the fathomless void that resides in his soul, and to cover up for his aesthetic misfortune.
Deluded Schmoozer mistakenly believes she is being deliciously covert when “working” a room for connections, when her targets are actually excusing themselves politely, then running away and hiding in the dunny. She utilizes her overt sexuality / extremely obvious cleavage, but she has the subtlety of a flying brick to the skull. The bossy, overbearing know-it-all at school whom nobody liked, who consistently landed flat on her face when she tried to impress the teachers with her “cartwheels” inevitably grows up to become this.
As a rule, everybody avoids her, except for the Beguiling Schmoozer, who is looking for some lame semi-flaccid action, after he doses himself on that bottle of corked Aldi red wine that he found under his couch.
And perhaps the most common of all :
Fake Ass Schmoozer Asshole is so reassured of his own utterly misguided importance, social standing, wealth, and somatic superiority, that he won’t lower himself to interact with anyone who isn’t of his apparent ilk. Horrid Z Grade celebs mostly make up this category. These people have 4 million fakefriends on Instaface, but no genuine friends in real life (RUBETH ROSE, I’M LOOKING STRAIGHT AT YOU… PARTICULARLY NOW THAT YOU PREFER BEING REFERRED TO AS THE MASCULINE PRONOUN “HE”, EVER SINCE YOU DECIDED TO IDENTIFY AS GENDERQUEER NONBINARY PANGENDER, but only when it became mainstream and guaranteed viral fodder).
We Hates It!!!
A Rambling Allegory About Aging Ungracefully (Guest written by Dini, not Fritz Zwicky who is on temporary leave for Mental Anguish)
Under the glaring halogen lights of the Norflands Shopping Centre toilets, the wrinkle on my forehead appeared 18 times wider and deeper than ever before, like I had been violently shanked in the face with a prison-issue plastic spoon. (This wasn’t unexpected, as the the entire population of Barwon Prison is granted Section 42 Leave to Northland during Christmas time).
This was extremely tragic. Being incredibly vain like Cat from Red Dwarf, and not being able to walk past a mirror without being utterly transfixed by my aesthetic fortune, this terrible development upset me greatly. That night I lay there pondering the inevitability of age, furrowing my sagging brow in melancholy contemplation. But this only made it worse. I fell asleep with the shiny angelic wax face of Gary Ablett Jnr (not his smacky Jebus father, pictured.)
and woke up looking like a decrepit, craggly Chris Judd aka The Dark Lord. My face looked like it had been living in the bottom of an enchanted toilet with an angry basilisk attacking it for 1000 years. I put the Whore in Horcrux.
So that morning, I jumped out of bed, threw on my high-top neon Aerosports, and attempted to run off my worries. Two minutes later, I spluttered, coughed and fell down dead in the middle of Thornbury like a stolen 1972 Datsun. Dead at 33. Had my partying lifestyle finally caught up with me? Could I really not pass for 20, like I tried to convince all my embarrassed 21 year old friends when we went to Heat Nightclub??
Looking to my doppelganger Christy Turlington for inspiration, I thought that if she could be visited by the emphysema fairies at 29 years old as a result of so much fabulous chugging down ciggies backstage at Tom Ford 1990s runway shows like every good 90s Superbabe, and reverse it all by practicing spine-breaking Bikrims yoga, removing her floating ribs and eating fetus kidneys, then why couldn’t I? So in my quest for eternal youth, I decided to give up drinking and smoking for a few of weeks. But this lifestyle change comes with some horrific side effects, namely becoming a Nigel-No-Friends.
I’m no qualified American TV Psychologist Dr Freud McGraw M.D., but I’m pretty sure utter loneliness is worse for one’s mental and physical health than inhaling cancer and ethanol.
But if that paragon of perfection Christy can do it, so can I.
So what does a loser do on a Saturday night at 1am when they can’t drink, and there is ne’er an eternally suffering boyfriend in sight to nag and laze about with, eating cookie dough and jelly crystals?
EXACTLY. They make Minestrone soup, with Simple Minds crooning through their enormous hair to Don’t You Forget About Me in the background. There I was, bouncing around to an 80’s soundtrack, hideously scrunching my face and tunelessly screeching to nobody “As you walk on by, will you call my name!? When you walk away??!!” while chopping and mixing; barefoot and joyous.
After I’d smashed two plates, used every single knife, fork and chopping board in the house, spread carrot peels across the ceiling, and become a psychotic Bride of Frankenstein with mascara running down my face due to the melodramatic slaying of 1000 extremely fumey onions
(“Avast ye Onions! Soon ye shalt be shark bait, whence ye meet the edge of me cutlass ARR!” I rambled, with my deranged one-shut pirate eye weeping tears of acid),
my soup was bubbling happily away on the stove. But of course! The final addition, the hallmark of any good Minestrone soup- PASTA.
So I added a little. It didn’t seem like enough. So I added a little more. Still not enough. Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. There it sat on the stove top, all red and hearty. I was pretty proud of myself, so I sat down and harvested my limited-edition crops on Farmville, looked at some LOLZ barking cats on YouTube whilst absentmindedly picking my nose.
A while later, I decided to check on my amazing creation. All that Facebook stalking of ex-boyfriends and walking back and forward to my phone to check if anyone had called
they hadn’t had left me famished. I lifted the lid, took a deep nostril-fill of its garlicky goodness, and gave it a stir. But what’s this!!? Why can’t the ladle move!!??
I tried again. FUCK ME It was stuck! I peered down, and much to my horror, realised that all that pasta had expanded to make the soup become a throbbing, pulsating grey brain. With carrots in it. Like the brain had just vomited all over itself.
Boy, was I upset. After all that effort, all of my toiling, and now the soup wasn’t just inedible, but it wouldn’t even drop out of the pot when I turned it upside down.
I crumpled in the corner of the kitchen, and mournfully sculled half a bottle of Booth’s London Dry Gin with tears running down my hideous wrinkled face. In my other hand, a stale Horizon 1mg dropped ash all over my K Mart trackydacks with a hole in the ass. Even the fact that they perfectly coordinated with my Aerosports wasn’t giving me any comfort. Even changing into my vintage limited edition Trax runners didn’t stem the tide of tears.
I WAS AN OLD, SAGGY, PATHETIC FAILURE. Waaaahhh. Not even that giant pompous frog Matt Preston could love me, on account of this monolithic culinary failure. And MasterChef was my last punt at reality TV stardom, because even old and ugly people with repugnant sartorial sense were still allowed on it.
Then it occurred to me: Christy Turlington couldn’t possibly fail at cooking, because she has probably never actually eaten anything except cold pressed Green Juices in her life. She probably doesn’t even have teeth to chew solid food anymore, apart from in her nethermouth. Same goes for that prepubescent Cabbage Patch Mole Miranda Kerr, or that coquette silk-stocking débutante Gwyneth Yoko Paltrow.
Silly unrealistic tartlets, they never need to resort to gluttonous, unhealthy stress relieving measures such as ciggies, grease and alcohol because they have much smarter and fatter lackeys doing all the hard work for them. All they need is enough energy from a quinoa grain to smile vacuously and recite the time-honoured supermodel adage:
“After modelling, I just want to retire to a self-sustaining organic farm in my giant backyard in SOHO, with vegetables and chickens and stuff, and I will make electricity from the chickens and wash my clothes with the chickens. I’m getting a ghostwriter to write a substandard book about it, all you ugly people should buy it and make me richer.”
If you don’t believe me, here are a couple of corroborating links that probably don’t work.
Never again will I open a Vogue Magazine and see their smug cats-ass faces peering back at me with cock-eyed piousness, and give any credence to their “I’m anorexic and rich and won’t ever age, because I never put poison in my body like you socioeconomically challenged plebs” rhetoric.
That night, in a flurry of chopped vegetables and failure, my abstinence from life officially came to an end. Come back alcoholic friends, I’ve missed you.
Now let’s go out, get smashed, and become supremely charismatic, hilarious and attractive versions of ourselves. And on the way home at 5am we can chow down on a delectable two-meat souvlaki with tabbouleh and extra garlic sauce from HACI’s Kebabs in Preston. I don’t even care if Vassilios Mohamed Haci has been shut down by the healthy inspectors 38 times, and he doesn’t wash his hands after he uses the toilet (which, for those who don’t know, is the bush behind the HACI van).
WE HATES IT!!!!
Fritz has been on long holiday in the Galapagos Islands playing leapfrog with Charles Darwin. So in the interest of resurrecting his Hate Blog, Fritz (posing as his stupid alter-ego Dini) attempted to test his fledgling blog’s power and cogency on a near-and-dear school mate (names have been changed to conceal the true identity of “Judas”).
The following is extremely boring and arduous, and predictably segues into an asinine cat story halfway through.
However, it empirically demonstrates that the target demographic of stupid young drunks don’t quite understand Fritz’s shtick.
And Fritz thinks that if you don’t understand his musings, YOU ARE DEAD TO HIM.
how do i save this convo…
WE HATES IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!