Room for rent: would suit idiot

Remember that feeling of freedom that swept over you on grade four camp, after the teachers had declared lights out, when you and your classmates scoffed snakes, played truth or dare and smoked crack by torchlight? On offer is an entire sharehouse bustling with that same childish excitement that comes with knowing your parents aren't watching.

You'll share this responsibility-free wonderland with a mixed bag of misfits and social retards, each boasting their own unique quirks that are amusing and infuriating in equal measure.

The room is big, the walls are thin and it borders onto not one, but two other bedrooms, significantly increasing the chance that you'll be woken by the awkward fumblings of drunk, careless, idiot sex.

The house comes with a stringent dish washing policy of do-it-only-when-you-can-be-fucked ... once a week, once a month, whatever. Feel free to leave your shit around the communal areas, where it will more than likely be used by a drunk random who's helping form the impromptu house party on a week night. Expect those same randoms to burst into your room and angrily slur "this isn't the toilet."

While there are vague noise restriction rules in place, they're more accurately described as guidelines. Something you should loosely adhere to, kind of like not wanking on an aeroplane. You kind of shouldn't play gothic screamo music after a reasonable hour, but if you've got friends to impress, go for it.

If you're the kind of sad loser that enjoys wargaming, you'll fit in well. Before you know it, you'll be holding LAN parties in the bedrooms and fapping off over a sexy WoW character that's more than likely a sniggering 60 year old man.

Bills are split in four but rarely paid. There's one bathroom and one toilet, the cleaning schedule of which often turns into a standoff of who can endure the filth the longest.

In short, the weirder, the more sociopathic, the more irritating, the more irrational, the more inconsiderate you are ... the more likely you'll be to fit into this shithole that is dingier than a two dollar whore.

Apply within.

Occupy the shit out of somewhere

The Occupy Wall Street protests have a point. Income inequality in the states has exploded and the volatility of the economy means social equality is up shit creek.

They are an organised, articulate group of lobbyists who have a specific objection that is relevant to the country they're protesting in.

But what would happen if you removed the articulation and organisation, shifted the group to a country whose issues are similar but not as dire, and added a few tabs of acid?

You would get Occupy Brisbane ... a group of jobless, hippy wannabees yearning for some kind of conflict to eat into their whimsical lives, whose demographics are a bizarre cocktail of the rebellious, the self-proclaimed free thinkers, the melodramatic attention seekers and the homeless.

Occupy Brisbane has fallen victim to the same brainwash mentality associated with cultish church services. Protesting looks fun, and the cause is general enough to translate into whatever language you want, even fluent dickhead. You can even add a long list of your own beef with society. And if anyone questions it, shit bro... they're part of the machine. To someone with a mental age perhaps slightly younger than their physical age, with more than a little time on their hands, an appetite for civil disobedience, and a general defeatist attitude about participating in society in some kind of meaningful way, the Occupy movement is like crack to a hooker.

Added to that is the negative reaction from the police and political figures, which has reaffirmed, in their own minds, that they're onto something.

It could possibly be the most disorganised, disunified, mixed bag of a protest in history.

Just don't make the same mistake of too many journalists have already this month, by asking them what they're protesting about. Unless you've got a spare five hours to stand there with nothing to do but stare off into the distance while your sense of trust in authority is unnecessarily raped by an earbashing that Fred Phelps would consider over the top.

Every person in the group has a different take on it. For some, it's about the greedy corporate hand. For others, it's about climate change. Some rant about the illuminati. Others believe it's about Aboriginal land rights. And some think it's about Gina Rinehart.

I would argue that for most, it's about getting attention, but not quite knowing what to do with it when the spotlight is switched on.

It strikes me that the group has presented us with a microcosm of what would probably happen if the world they aspire to create, ever came into being. It's like democracy on steroids, where there are no leaders, but 'organisers' ... yet, all power corrupts.

Arguments broke out, in-fighting fired up, many grubby hands started reaching for the megaphone all at once, and it became difficult to reach a decision about what park to squat in next. In a group that is unhappy with the social order and presents themselves as a better alternative, they sure aren't arguing the case very well.

In a climate of job cuts to the state's police service, where the police union is constantly warning us of how thinly their front line is stretched, this group sure did waste a fuck of a lot of resources. And as the officers struggled to boot the group out of Queen's park, and I watched as a young protestor yelled "this is NOT a policeman ... THIS is a corporate employee!", I couldn't help but scoff.

Maybe he was just a policeman, trying to deal with time-wasting fuckwits without agitating the situation and giving you what you so desperately wanted ... resistance to your ridiculous whinging.

Sticker Family

Ever feel the uncontrollable urge to advertise you familial demographics to complete strangers on the back of the unnecessarily large 4WD you use to get around the city?

Before you go posting the answers to your Census on your car window, think about the more generic option that endorses the artistic ability of a four year old. There's no better way to boast about how unique your close-knit unit is than to plaster the back of that petrol-guzzler with stock standard stick figures that represent each member.

According to The Sticker Family's website, stock is moving fast, suggesting the number of fuckwits in the general population is on the increase.

And while the site rightfully points out "families come in all shapes and sizes" ... I fear there may be some shapes and sizes they may have overlooked, and I've taken the liberty to fill in the blanks.



Sticker Family - Cat Lady Edition



Sticker Family - Catholic Church Edition



Sticker Family - Obesity Edition



Sticker Family - Journalist Edition

Google+

Are you looking for the next big platform you can use to turn yourself into a z-grade internet celebrity?

Still got some time left after you've checked into the venue you made for your own house on #Foursquare, posted something self-important about what you're making for dinner on Facebook, live streamed footage of you EATING that dinner on UStream, responded to the questions about what that dinner was like on Formspring, had you pretentious pseudo-political tweet published on #qanda, and organised the next meetup of your internetelligent bunch of friends on #dickster?

I made that last one up, I got excited okay? Shoot me.

But if you've still got time after checking off the long list of tasks to fulfil your internet presence, why not join Google+? Because if it's crossed the alphanumeric-symbol taboo, God knows it must be edgy. Just ask Prince.


But before you go bashing out the URL in a frantic attempt to jump on the cool new thing to do bandwagon, hold up. The reason Google+ is so edgy right now, the coolest new thing to do, is exclusivity. That's right people, it's invite only. Just like a pretentious, decrepit inner-city hipster bar with a strict yet undefined dress code, you have to know someone to get in.

Until that time, you'll just have to experience it cathartically, through the tweets, status updates and blogs posts your more connected friends upload when they're not, y'know ... sucking their own genitalia.

Planking


Are you a daring internet hipster with little to no regard for your sense of dignity and self preservation? Does the world of fleeting internet memes have a cool new thing for YOU.


Planking, an offensively simple, grammatically incorrect and somewhat self explanatory term, describes the passtime of lying face down on your stomach, with arms and legs as straight as possible, in obscure and quirky places.

It sounds simple, but not only does planking require the motor skills and attention span of a retarded baby monkey, there's an extreme label of idiocy that goes with it which only the most esteemed category of dickhead can manage to shrug off.

Never before has the world seen such a stark parallel between the stupidity of humans and animals than in current times with the uprising of planking. Everybody's doing it. Your friends are doing it. Your mum's doing it. Your great great grandmother has been unknowingly doing it expertly for decades.

While it's true that planking is fun for the whole family, like any here-one-day-gone-the-next trend, there's a planking elite destined to cement their place in the record books for taking it to a new level. If you're looking to join the planking elite, you'll need to think more about the most obscure place to participate in the anti-sport. A moving car or a balcony is a good place to start.

If you're one of the lucky few within the planking community with an IQ of above 60, you might be asking yourself, what's the point? Well, there is no point. That's what makes it so fucking cool. Just like having a polaroid app on your smartphone to defy the point of having a 20 megapixel camera.

It's just an obscure, edgy, waste of time used by people to fill a few minutes and some space on their camera when they're not thinking of really important things. Like the due date of their next Arts degree assignment. But if you're not sold on the idea simply because you can't see the point, maybe you should open your mind, lighten up and have some fun.

The kind of fun you can get only from lying face down in a stationary position.

Bastardise your number plates

Are you adopting an irresponsible and selfish approach to driving with the hope people will translate your recklessness as carefree disposition, struggling to think of a more subtle way to broadcast your ridiculously overestimated self importance?

For the bargain price of $2295, you can shamelessly illustrate that self importance and make sure everyone knows the nickname of your rusty shit-heap’s owner.

Granted, some may interpret your decision as a clumsy, overpriced grab at Z-grade celebrity status, but there’s always the select few who will look at your quirkily incorrect aphanumeric bastardisation of common spelling and think “wow – they totally have enough disposable income to spend more on their number plates than they did on their car, maybe I should have sex with them.”

And yes, there’s continuing debate about whether the opinion of easily excited, easily impressed and easy-to-bed teens should count for anything [in the world, ever], but don’t let that discourage you from shelling out the two grand.

Now when people see you weaving recklessly through a handful of lanes simultaneously and trying to beat the 5pm crunch, they’ll no longer be thinking “Gee, that asshole sure is inconsiderate,” – they’ll instead be thinking “Gee, that B3CKY asshole sure is inconsiderate.”

Be an overly proud ‘strailyan (read: racist)

Whether it be your Southern Cross tattoo, Australian flag boardies or bold bumper sticker statements of “Fuck off – were (sic) full” and “If you don’t like it – then LEAVE,” wearing your national identity on your sleeve with all the pride of a primary school student who’s just won a grammar prize for differentiating between were and we’re is something that you can never quite do enough.

Once a year, there’s a special period towards the end of January when it becomes not only acceptable to display such thinly veiled borderline-racist patriotic hyperbole, it’s normal. Take the opportunity to roll around in it with the same joy you’d see from a dog rolling around in a tasty rotting carcass.


It’s a time when every red-blooded ‘strailyan experiences that fuzzy feeling and your heart beats a little faster as you hear the echoes of a national anthem whose words you can only manage to vaguely mime. The closing verses trigger an overflow of water in the lower eyelid, an unfamiliar sensation you’ve heard others refer to as a tear, but on this occasion it’s safe to quickly wipe it away and take another swig of your VB before you’re labelled a fucken’ poofta.

From time to time, you may come across someone who has the audacity to draw the connection between your love for your country and your barely disguised hatred for anyone who doesn’t share your nationality. Indeed, the line between blind patriotism and racism is a thin one, but if someone does happen to call you a racist, it’s easy enough to to scoff at their blatant lack of Aussie pride and pull out that great bumper sticker line, “if you don’t love it, fuck off.”