The party's over but the maladies linger on

I hope you’re all feeling very proud of yourselves. It was a great party last Saturday. We all poured over to Kristina’s and trashed the joint, gave a few old no-hopers a kicking, drank all the beer and then pushed off. Whoever had the idea of putting the address up on Facebook should be given a bloody medal.

What a hoot, I nearly wet myself. Little Antony Green’s home computer shat itself halfway through the night, claiming it had never seen such big swings and something was obviously wrong. Ant had to go home early to have a lie down. Wimp.

Any of you go back next day to help Kristina and Ben put out the empties? I thought so. I couldn’t get there; I had to sort my sock drawer.

Joe and Kristina in happier times. PS: That's Verity looking like
 she wants to be somewhere else. 

And I suppose it wasn’t surprising, as I seem to remember that around 10.30 Kristina got up and said she was chucking it all in, leaving the party in the hands of that malevolent old bald bloke in the corner. Geez, wasn’t he a bore? Banging on about how he had been the bloke behind the ACTU’s Work Choices campaign. Funny, even through the haze I couldn’t recall him being other than a bit player. I thought Greggy Combet and Shaz Burrows made the running on that one. Memory, such a funny thing.

Speaking of Greggy … geez, for a bloke with glasses and a never-ending line of dag clothing off the Lowes bargain table, doesn’t he pull the chicks? I mean, his main topic of conversation is about Gouldian finches (be still, my beating heart) and still they hang on every word. Women are funny sometimes. But I digress.

Anyway, the old bald bloke went on about how he opposed electricity privatisation, then got himself into parliament and ratted on the deal and then seemed to support some sort of power privatisation. Then, just because he could, he shafted Morrie Iemma and we got Nate, that ranga who was always ready to give it a “red-hot go”. In the end, he just went.

Not the underpants dancer from the ALP South Coast but you get my drift. 

Then we got Miss America who said she was nobody’s girl. Geez, we laughed at that, cos she had already done the godfathers a few favours while planning minister.

John Stewart sums up the post below

I write 1500 words and John Stewart does it in a few minutes http://goo.gl/9HayW

The whine of the middle-class welfare bludgers

Your taxes at work. A lovely" Independent school"
 happily slurping at the public trough. 

I was going to have a whinge this week about the rise of pram parking bays at my local Westfield. They now outnumber the handicapped parking bays by a ratio of about 10 to one. There are big pictures of strollers stencilled in red on the ground and a solemn sign reading “parents with prams” hangs from the roof. These signs have no legal backing, so please please everyone park in them, if only to piss off the smug Bugaboo pushers making their way through our shopping centres.
Some of those Bugaboos cost more than a second-hand car and are so big I think people should be charged a fee if they want to infest a public area with them. We did quite happily with the old Maclaren. You know, the one that told you when you had done too much shopping by flipping backwards, leaving the strapped in inmate staring at the shopping centre ceiling lights. It was very funny and it sure stopped the little tacker’s wailing lament about being refused the lollies that had been thoughtfully placed at eye height at the checkout. 

Chariots of entitlement 

Those pushing these Bugabears look pretty fit. And why not? Generally, they dump the kid in a taxpayer-funded crèche so they can do their three-hour work out with spa, massage, holistic therapy and colonic irrigation, before setting out in the behemoth Porsche Cayenne to give the plastic a workout at the local shopping centre. And now bloody Westfield is encouraging them.
A mate who parked happily in one of these spots copped a spray from some self- entitled yuppie. She told her to get stuffed. What about us older folk pushing laden shopping trolleys? The bloody wheels never work and keeping one under control is a major exercise. Are we to be consigned to the dark backblocks of these subterranean caves? I am sure I won’t be able to help myself crashing into the Bugabears’ four-wheel drives on my way to parking Siberia.
Soon, anyone who has the resources to make enough noise will be claiming special status. As my mate said, “I have one boob bigger than the other. I should get special parking too.” Quite right, although I have to say I hadn't noticed that physical imperfection.
But the parking bays issue faded as I heard the growing whine of the cosseted recipients of barrow loads of taxpayer largesse. I am sure they are the same people who feel it is their right to get pole position in shopping centre car parks because they are pushing a pram. That wonderful noise you hear in the background is the sound of the privileged classes of this country screaming their little middle-class-welfared lungs out, having been caught with their hands in the till.
I refer to the My School Website which went live last week and showed the shocking disparity between what the wealthy schools have by way of resources and what our state school system has.