The Refugee and the People Smuggler

Refugee: I want to go to Australia. War rages in my country. My Government is concerned only with using my people as slaves to line its pockets with the rich resources of my land. The western allies are periodically bombing my people in order to expel my government, after which they will steal my land’s rich resources and send-

People Smuggler: Whatever. Got money?

Refugee: I am concerned about Australia’s new policy of sending refugees to offshore processing camps located in Malaysia and that the people in these camps are imprisoned there for many, many years and the men, women and children are treated like hardened criminals.

People Smuggler: Nah pal, that’s just an ugly rumour. How much money have you got?

Refugee: But it is all over the international news.

People Smuggler: And you believe everything you see on telly? Look mate, Australia’s a good place. There’s plenty of work and you get paid real well, nobody earns less than forty grand a year and the gap between rich and poor is fair and next to nothing. They’re real multicultural and tolerant, no forced segregation and no misleading policies that punish legitimate refugees in order to stop people smuggling. The multi-billion dollar corporations pay their fair share of tax, relieving the pressure on the working middle-class. Food is plentiful and affordable, and the public transport system is second to none. It’s fucking utopia mate, that’s why it costs top dollar. Now, have you got money?

Refugee: You guarantee that I will go to Australia and I will not be interned like a criminal in Malaysia or some other place?

People Smuggler: Yeah, yeah, of course you will buddy (fingers crossed behind back). Now for the last time, have you got money?

Refugee: I do. How much?

People Smuggler: All of it.

Refugee: But I need-

People Smuggler: Next!

Refugee: Okay, okay... here.

People Smuggler: Cheers. Now get on the fucking boat. Next!

P.S. I would like to make perfectly clear that the characters and events in this post are, hopefully, fictitious and with any luck the ALP will, in the end, take the humane, and cost effective approach of processing Australian refugees on shore in Australia. I won’t hold my breath though.

Ashamed

Sad to say that today I find myself ashamed of the Australian Labor Party. I cannot believe that Prime Minister Gillard is persisting with this offshore processing policy, the likes of which have labelled Australia as a racist nation officially by the UN.

And she is persisting with vigour. Changing the law simply because it won’t let her do what she wants!? It’s bad enough when the rich and powerful use the “I now nothing” excuse when they’ve broken the law, this is an all time low. Next time I get pulled over for speeding, I’ll give Ms Gillard a call.

I reckon we should stop worrying about the Human Rights policies of Malaysia and take a good hard look at ourselves.

These Are a Few of My Favourite Things

Something Witty I Have Said

It’s not often that I come up with just the right thing to say at just the right moment. Usually it’s half an hour or so after the fact that I come up with just the right punch-line or the perfect retort.

Imagine how proud I was of myself when, at the supermarket check-out today, the young fellow inadvertently opened the box in which my new soap was packaged and dropped said soap on the counter. He looked at me, obviously upset that he’d tainted my soap and at a loss about what to do, and said, “I’m so sorry about that.”

“No problem,” I said as casual as you please, “I’ll wash it when I get home.”

I left the supermarket beaming. I’d obviously made the register guy’s day and to date that was one of my wittiest moments.

The Politics of Farting

Maybe I’m just a bit old-fashioned but to me there’s a definite etiquette to public farting. Best case scenario is you just don’t do it. If you do, keep it quiet and pretend it was someone else when it hits. If you can’t keep it quiet, or there’s only two in the room, you say “excuse me” or “sorry” or, depending on your relationship with the parties involved, tell them how shocked you are at their behaviour.

Being polite and apologetic in these awkward situations is just how I was raised. So little wonder that it pisses me off when, while cooking up a feast for dinner tonight, Dad yet again lets one rip without a word. And I don’t buy his “I’m deaf” excuse as a viable one, after all he does have four other senses to rely on.

It’s a small thing I suppose and I guess he just feels that there’s no need for such formalities among family, and in reality, it doesn’t bother me as much as the small orgasmic grunt he punctuates each fart with.

I Blame My Father

Why on Earth did I decide to write a blog? Many reasons I guess.

For a hobby; in fact writing has been a bit of a hobby for me for years. My wife, Pipi, actually suggested I start a blog years ago and I tried but failed due to laziness, or was it ignorance...

Out of boredom; I have been unemployed for fifteen weeks now and just got turned down for a job that should have been mine! Mine dammit! Those fools don’t know what they’ve done, I was perfect for that job and their company will suffer without me… I hope.

Because I didn’t really like Marieke Hardy; since returning to Australia I’ve become a bit of a fan of the First Tuesday Book Club on the ABC TV, and after viewing a number of episodes came to the (irrational) conclusion that Marieke doesn’t like anything that hasn’t got classic printed near its title and it pissed me off. However, driven by an uncharacteristic flash of chauvinism, I was intrigued by those damn sexy stockings she always wears and had to know more, thus, 3 years after the fact, I discovered her blog Reasons You Will Hate Me. What a great read! Ms Fits gave me that little nudge of influence I needed to see how I might go about doing my own blog. I love her.

So I wouldn’t drive Pipi mad with my rants and tirades about my father; (there it is... therapy) we are refugees of the March 11 earthquake in Japan, we returned to Australia prematurely, broke, carless, jobless and, after 15 weeks of unemployment, running a little short on hope, though admittedly thanks to the wonderful support of my parents we have little to worry about. It has however been about 15 years since I’ve lived with my folks, ten since I’ve had more to do with them beyond the odd phone call here and there. Now I’ve discovered Dad's (?) possibly become more of a bastard to live with in his old age. To make matters worse he is, as ever, in his own way, a kind, generous, caring and friendly old bugger. So...

... why blame my father…? I blame Freud…