Archive for February, 2012

Cyclists that take cycling too seriously

In Sydney, if you cycled to work wearing Lycra shorts, you’d find yourself deliberately run over. Hell, you’d likely be run over just for cycling in the first place. Get a V8 you poof.

In Melbourne, cycling in Lycra is not just tolerated, it’s actually considered a healthy mode of transport by normal people.

Each morning, hordes of Cadel-wannabes don their ultra-short-shorts, ultra-skin-tight shirts (many with ‘sponsors’ printed), hop on a thin rubber platform wedged between their butt-cheeks, put on an air-restrictive ‘helmet’ and break into a sweat. Not that I’m implying anything…but…hmmm…

In Sydney, cyclists occupy the bottom rung on the motorist food chain, slightly lower than Asian-drivers. They’re an extreme rarity these days; most have died out due to respiratory problems or have been victims of road rage (I’m talking about cyclists here, not Asian drivers…but…hmmm…no comment).

In Melbourne, if you cross a cyclist, be prepared for a torrent of violent abuse. Although admittedly it’s rather difficult to take abuse seriously from someone dressed head to toe in Lycra wearing a crash-helmet with air-holes.

I have a theory on why cyclists are always so angry. They were the vertically-challenged guys at school. Combine that with extensive social problems resulting from being breast fed until 7. Now they’ve evolved into an angrier beast altogether – homo rageis cycliens. Even though they are still relatively few, their effect on motorists at large is significant. If Winston Churchill were alive today, he’d say “Never in the field of motorist conflict has so much anger been vented upon so many by so few“.

Many cyclists don't even give directions when asked


February 19, 2012 at 9:54 pm Leave a comment

Shakespeare translated for bogans

The lady doth protest too much, methinks

Translation: I reckon that mole complains a lot


O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Translation: Rommo where the bloody hell are ya?


It is the east, and Juliet is the sun

Translation: I’m telling ya mate, this bird Julz is a 10


True is it that we have seen better days

Translation: We’re fucked


For the rain it raineth every day

Translation: It’s been pissing down all week


Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Translation: You’re hot


He hath eaten me out of house and home

Translation: My boy’s 28, still at home and eats like an All Black. He’s gotta go


How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!

Translation: My kid is a spoilt little shit and he’s doing by head in


A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

Translation: Mate when I was younger I could go all night


A dish fit for the gods

Translation: Whaddaya call this love? Ice cream.


I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it

Translation: Castle Hill Tavern is bloody awesome


The miserable have no other medicine but only hope

Translation: So that’s why dole bludgers buy lotto tickets


Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him

Translation: Oi fellas, don’t you reckon Tony Abbott’s a dickhead?


Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow

Translation: I’ll see ya tomorrow hey


For you and I are past our dancing days

Translation: It now takes me 3 days to get over a hangover


But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

Translation: I can’t understand what he sees in that mole


I cannot tell what the dickens his name is

Translation: What was that ranga bloke’s name again?


Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?

Translation: Stop fucking with me


A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Translation: I’d love a beer right now


What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

Translation: What the hell kind of nickname is Wanga?


To be, or not to be: that is the question

Translation: What the fuck should I do?


The king’s name is a tower of strength

Translation: Wally Lewis is a living legend


The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers

Translation: The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers


Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

Translation: I love ya, everything’s going to work out fine, I love everyone, this pill’s fucking awesome

Reading Shakespeare makes you cultured and shit

February 12, 2012 at 9:45 pm Leave a comment

Why you shouldn’t apply too much fake tan

Tanorexia Nervosa

Tanorexia nervosa is a psychological disorder characterized by obsessive repeated self-tan application. The terms tanorexia and ‘female with self esteem issues’ are often used interchangeably [citation needed], however tanorexia is simply a medical term for spending over 25% of one’s disposable income on tanning products. Tanorexia nervosa has many complicated implications and may be thought of as a lifelong illness that may never be truly cured, but only managed over time.

The average self-tanning application intake of a person with tanorexia nervosa is one 400ML bottle of Le Tan Bronze per day, but extreme cases of complete obsessive tanning are common. A person suffering from this condition is commonly referred to as a Fucking Mental Nut Bag [citation needed].

While it can affect men and women of any age, race and socioeconomic and cultural background, anorexia nervosa occurs in the media and advertising industry at an alarming level of 65 times the normal population. It is a serious mental illness most common in countries including Australia, USA, Canada, Britain and New Zealand. Incidences of the condition are relatively low in Africa, sufferers are often labelled ‘Afritans’.

While tanorexia nervosa is quite commonly (in lay circles) believed to be a woman’s illness, it should not be forgotten than 3 per cent of people with anorexia nervosa are male. The rate of the disorder is disproportionally high amongst AFL players.

There are 4 known common forms of the disorder:

Tanorexia moleski is the most common form of the illness, affecting 83% of all tanorexia sufferers. After excessive self-tanning applciation, sufferers usually resemble the output of a cross pollination experiment between Oprah Winfrey and a butternut pumpkin.

Tanorexia sweatalotakis is a variation of tanorexia moleski and is most commonly found amongst exercise enthusiasts and people with a BMI greater than 30. Perspiration ‘rivers’ often trickle down a sufferer’s neck resulting in a neck that resmbles ridges and valleys on the surface of Mars if it had an atmosphere.

Tanorexia orasian is a form of the disorder common amongst Asian populations. Sufferers often commit the mistake of purchasing self-tan products designed for Anglo-Caucasian skin. A sufferer’s resulting skin appearance closely matches the colour and texture of a valencia orange.

Tanorexia rangatan is a form of the illness suffered by red heads. Let’s face it, ranga’s weren’t designed to sport tans. Just give up already.


February 10, 2012 at 4:58 pm Leave a comment

What I’ve been up to in the past 901 days

Wow, it’s been exactly 901 days since my last post. I’ve decided to start blogging again due to an overwhelming demand from my regular readers (I’m talking about YOU Nastya in Moldova).

In fact it’s my personal goal in 2012 to increase my blog readership by 20%. I’ve set the stretch goal of 6 readers a year now.

I’m sitting on the couch with a quarter full bottle of ‘white’ wine that I found at the back of my fridge. I suspect the wine has been hidden here for 901 days. Note that ‘white’ is an operative word; Dulux would describe the colour of the furry liquid in my glass as ‘stage II melanoma brown’.

Oh well, surely there should be some alcohol in this glass coexisting amongst the numerous questionable orange-coloured floaties. hmm…it’s certainly having an effect, it feels like I’ve consumed a bloody mary followed by a swig of premium unleaded.

“So Jeffro what have you been up to in the past 901 days” I hear you ask? Well, not much:

I moved to Melbourne. Yes…the land of Mexicans, a unique part of the world where people drink coffee at any time of day or night. No wonder why Shane Warne has so much energy for an elderly man.

Melbourne is also an artsy place. Everywhere you look there’s a fucking art gallery. There’s a growing trend of bored unemployed 20-somethings (i.e. philosophy graduates) to open art gallerys in their houses.

The other day I walked past an art gallery showcasing watercolour paintings of microwave ovens. On the subject of artsy, it’s socially acceptable in suburbs north of the river to wear a beret. Seriously, in Sydney you’d get beaten up for even saying the word ‘beret’. In Melbourne there’s specialist beret-shops.

Shopping in Melbourne is a favourite past-time. Many people develop a painful aching of the wrist known as ‘swipe-itis’ caused by frequent swiping of credit cards using the right hand. It’s most common in women, if a bloke said that he’d get laughed out of the pub.

I’ve visited far away, foreign places such as India, China, Spain, HK and Tasmania. Each of these exotic places taught me something new e.g. how to practice positive visualisation when crouching over a toilet bowl in extreme agony with Bombay-belly, how it’s best not to ask what category of animal you’re eating from a street-stall in China, how to save face when being robbed by two Spanish girls, how the practice of abandoning soiled underwear in a nearby bathroom is not socially acceptable after doing the world’s highest bungee jump in Macau, and how to avoid bogans.

I’ve started an MBA. No, not the ‘Mexican Bogan Academy’, ‘Mindnumbingly Boring Artgallery’ or ‘Mary’s Bloody Arsehole’. I made the decision to go back to uni part-time after my enthusiasm for various other extra-curricular activities waned. I tried my hand at stand-up comedy for a while but mostly got as many chuckles as Tony Abbott addressing a group of assylum seekers. Hosting a community radio show was fun for about a year, however when the ratings came out we finished lower than the Victorian Dyslexic Alpaca Farmers Talkback Show.

A couple of numbers from the past 901 days:

901 = number of days I’ve thought about sex

3 = number of Christmases I’ve been disappointed by my present-haul

1 = number of times I’ve been robbed by two girls in Madrid

Our forefathers fought for this

February 9, 2012 at 9:48 pm 1 comment