Once a
month I try and catch up on current events outside what is offered by the Daily
Mail. It’s not that I’ve found a saturation point of tits and ass, it’s that I
sometimes become upbeat, almost optimistic, about life. The only way to curb
that is to review mainstream media and in particular what they believe I should
be indignant about. Invariably they will take a topic out of context, pick a
villain and then attempt to put into a few short, fact-lacking paragraphs
exactly what I should be feeling about this. Then I track down my indignation
pants and begin blowing steam.
So I know
in theory the articles about Australia’s new English tests for migrants don’t
offer much in the way of thoughtful analysis. The difficulty I am having is
that I’m a little unsure which particular group I’m meant to be indignant
about. The government? The southern-cross-tattoo-wielding bogans? The migrants?
Fuck knows. We already have an indigenous race to Australia and every time some
white person tells a migrant that unless they toe some arbitrary line they
should get out of the country, all I can do is visualise the original
Australians rebutting to everyone with: you first.
To fix
everything, I contend that everyone should take these tests; native, migrant
and established European settlors alike. Anyone who fails them should be
immediately sent to New Zealand. Then we do the same tests with maths, science
and health care. In one swoop, we collect the people lacking writing skills, an
ability to do simple maths, the anti-vaccers, all religions and as important,
the people who don’t eat gluten when they haven’t been diagnosed with
anything. Put them all on a boat and make them New Zealand’s problem.
As with
all my suggestions, an ulterior motive exists. I am fully aware I would fail
these tests so to me this will be a free overseas trip to where Lord of the
Rings was made. I never look ahead to future consequences, so I have that going
for me as well.
Getting
back to my readings which aren’t from the Daily Mail, these are two questions
an article said were a part of the new migrant testing. I’ll reiterate again,
they probably aren’t, and I would imagine only vague parallels exists between
the topic, the evidence and the conclusion. But it wasn’t from Daily Mail so in
the interest of living in the shoes of migrants, and without really putting
myself out too much, I’m answering the questions and submitting to the
Government.
Dear Sir
or Madam
I live in
room 2-22 and share the room with Kevin McAllister. Initially our relationship was
excellent however over time it has deteriorated and my work, study and personal
life has been effected. I cannot focus or concentrate, have trouble sleeping
and I am concerned that my grades will soon begin to slip.
The
problems stem from Kevin’s continual need to masturbate, like all the time.
Initially I got it, we all enjoy a healthy night out with Mrs Palmer. But at
some point, it became clear to me that Kevin’s habit was an obsession. I offer
these examples where Kevin’s need to bash the bishop crossed the line:
- Kevin sprained his wrist, he said from tennis but he doesn’t play any sports, and one night he was eating a burger with his sole useful hand while watching porn on his computer. He noticed I was studying and asked me to ‘help out a brother’, nodding towards his exposed genitals and then further insisting it wouldn’t get weird.
- I was showing my mother around the college and then came back to the room to find Kevin, naked and covered head to toe in a thick layer of lard or grease of some kind. He had dressed his pillow up as a horse it seemed and was ‘jousting’ against another pillow-horse using his, well, you can appreciate what he was using as his joust. He stared at us for a while and then asked my mother for her number. Right in front of me.
- Just last Tuesday I asked him to be out of the room for a few hours because I was studying with my girlfriend. He touched his nose and gave me gun-fingers so I thought he had agreed and was fully aware what studying was code for. It was only a fair way into our session that we noticed Kevin sitting on the edge of his bed, watching us and beating the meat. We stopped and just stared at him, he noticed and stopped as well, then pantomimed throwing something on the ground before shouting ‘smokebomb’. He didn’t move though and then after a few seconds continued his five knuckled shuffle even more vigorously. It was as disturbing as it was hypnotic. I am now single.
This is
but a drop in the figurative ocean of ejaculate I could provide in the way of
examples.
I can’t
study without him being there, playing tug of war with cyclops, and my
performance at work is terrible because I can’t focus knowing what I am coming
home to. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is the strange facial
expression that he uses before climaxing. All day I continually hear in the
background a soft, insistent and repetitive thwacking and I can only sleep with
loud music. I fear silence. God help me, I fear silence.
Move him,
or move me, I need a single room, you must help me. But do it soon, because he
lied.
It got
weird.
Initially
I was a little confused with the word ‘often’ as it implied there were options
involved. This was a surprise as I thought there was some age where you just
become old and were forcibly removed from society. Kind of like that old movie
where people had the light in their palm that designated their lifespan, I’m going
to say Running Man, but I don’t think it was called that because Running Man
was an Arnie action flick. In any case, the fact old people have choices
literally blew my mind.
However,
I then read the rest of the question and realised that I wasn’t even being asked
whether old people should be able to make decisions. This is a little
disappointing as during my planned response I had determined a kick ass answer
and also designed a software proto-type for old people dating, a
geriatric-tinder if you will. Patent pending.
So,
should the British government pay for old people to be put in a home? I’m
siding with yes, because for one, and I’ll expand on this a little more, fuck
the British government and for two, why wouldn’t we make what is a large and
complicated problem for Australia, the large and complicated problem for
another country entirely.
Firstly,
when I was 10 years old we had very little to watch on TV. I remember one day
it was raining and my sister was watching EastEnders for some reason. I wanted
to watch the movie Ice Pirates but no, lets watch a British soap Opera (that
last bit was sarcasm). I had to sit through the entire fucking thing and right
after, another fucking episode. Some 10 years later, when email was invented, I
recounted the event to the British government and asked for a review and
compensation. I received no response to the first seven emails but on the
fourteenth, some lady named Caroline told me to stop and further confirmed she
had neither the power to order a bunch of redcoats to flog the entire cast of
EastEnders or to arrange for an Ice Pirates remake. So, fuck the British
government.
Secondly,
imagine going to pay for a beer. You have the cash ready but someone offers to
pay for it for you. At no point should the answer be anything but yes – this is
because pride is a terrible sin. There are so many old people wandering around that
of course we need to put them all in a communal home. Preferably one with big
walls. But should we pay for it ourselves? Of course we could, but if the
British government is offering to round them up and take them back to Britain,
all on their dollar, well I say let them. I’ve never studied economics, but I
believe this is referred to as the marginal propensity to save beer money and is
both prudent and rational Keynesian fundamentals.
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| I'm sensing awe from this guy. |
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