A call to Parent

The perfect storm of karma hit me today when my wife’s work Xmas function coincided with the girl’s Xmas dance recital. As a parent who supports his family through various positive affirmations and encouragements I was honoured to be the caregiver chosen to represent us. I cheerfully packed my outing-with-children supply bag which was pretty much the laptop, a six-pack of Daniels cans and a scarf (in case I got cold). Long ago I learned to do this when the wife wasn’t around, so it was done immediately after she left for her drunken night of debauchery. I was set and as a bonus I could document the night AND catch up on new memes. I hope they had good internet.

Initial findings

They do not have good internet.

First 2 dances

I’m not an expert, but these six year old’s on stage are pretty bad or maybe it’s just some expressionist stuff I can’t understand or maybe the first few dances were bottom rung. My wife was all about the girl’s tutu this week, it had to be laid out perfectly on the bed to find form or some shit and we had to shut the door to the room because the cats love eating the tutu for some reason. Anyway, these girls must have had parents who don’t understand that the tutus need to be shaped as they were poking out in weird directions. One little girl had the thing flung up and she could barely see over it. Also, the guy beside me keeps sighing which is making it harder to type. He sighed even louder when I offer him a can of Jack and then whispered something to his wife (I assume she was being a bitch about the whole thing).

I'm not sure Google got this

one right.

Roughly half an hour in

The girl had her first dance number, ballet, and she wasn’t terrible. Don’t get me wrong, she was terrible, but compared to the others she was Sergei fuckin Borishnikov. I think I understand now, when you send your kid for five or six hours of lessons each week there is a separation of result

between them and the kids who turn up for a half hour lesson. I started smugly looking around at everyone else in the theatre, my little munchkin was marginally better than theirs. Then I remembered that these classes cost money. Now I’m just sad.

A little bit after the last entry

The guy besides me has hairy legs. I know, because he shifted in his seat and now his leg is touching my leg. Feels weird and he wasn’t moving it either. Was this a play? I’m bad at defining social cues but whether he is making a move on me or whether he has no fucking comprehension of personal boundaries, this wasn’t appropriate. If I was normal I would I have told him to stop, instead I am just scared.

39 minutes in

I fucking love tap dancing. Tappety tap tap, and then they do this shuffle thing and it goes faster tip-tappety and they were almost in unison this time as well. I’m glad someone else’s parents dealt with all that practice though. That would end me at home.

42 minutes in

The seniors jazz troop started with a voice-over saying the piece did have choreography but most of it will be free form by the dancers. I vocalised my displeasure by groaning which helpfully made the guy beside me shift his leg away for the first time in five minutes. Two thoughts on the dance; firstly they did pretty good. I expected shitty improv but got instead OK improv that was well coordinated with the music. Secondly, I couldn’t help noticing the sheer level of makeup each was wearing. If it was meant to make them all look alike, well, working as intended I suppose.

1 hour in

I’ve finished three cans and I think I need to begin rationing the rest. Who knows how long this thing will go for. Also, the bear beside me keeps shifting his leg away and then slowly it begins falling back against mine. Each time, I freeze and just sit there, wide-eyed and staring at the stage where, admittedly, something is happening but pretending this hairy contact thing wasn’t happening to me. Sexual harassment is obviously a useful tool for making people focus on something I suppose.

But can he rock this shirt?

27 minutes later

Well the last three acts were terrible, not adorably terrible, that had been most of it so far, but more a “they are enjoying themselves so fuck it” level of terrible. Of course I added this sentence for a little drama. I really hadn’t been paying attention to the dancing as I was trying to get circulation back into my legs. The boy had told me a while ago that birds were pecking his feet which my wife translated

as the pins-and-needles feeling. He was right, it did feel like birds pecking my feet. Poetic little muppet.

Intermission

Everyone mingled around outside. I noticed there was a lot of hugging, people using real names with confidence, like they weren’t just guessing, and probably because of all the harassment that had been going on I really didn’t want to get involved in that. So, I found something important on my phone and went off by myself. Admission: I was just staring at the home screen and moving the windows around without making eye-contact with anyone.

The next bit

I don’t think it unfair of me to admit that I was running out of patience with this whole thing. More to do with the fact I was finishing my last can of Jack. In good news though the air-conditioning was getting cold so I put on my scarf – always be prepared. My bitterness was probably more to do with the fact the theatre had haemorrhaged half the people during intermission as the husbands who had seen their kid dance were released back into the wild. The guy beside me had gone as well and I was miffed, after what I had gone through a goodbye was probably in order.

Two hours in? Something close

Honesty first, Tree-cat.

Time really has lost meaning. The girls second dance, a razzle dazzle jazz affair, came and went. Being a parent makes my independence questionable, but I can confirm without bias that they 

weren’t terrible. There was a huge talent/practice gap between some of the dancers and like everything in life it sadly turned out to be money. Money was that difference. However, looking down at her happy, smiling little cherubic face I could honestly say I would give that all up in an instant for the dance tuition fees back.

17 Hours In

I had my phone balancing on my lap and then suddenly it was on the floor, somehow I had lost minutes, maybe (hopefully) even hours. I initially thought it was a glitch in the matrix and began looking around for escape points but then I yawned and figured it was more likely I had briefly fallen asleep. Also, there were tappers back on the stage, which was probably why I woke up, so I am focussing again. Tip tappety, *jazz hands*, tap tap. Fucking marvellous.

Four billion years in

The girls last dance just finished, which means second last dance of the night according to an uncanny voiceover in my mind that sounds suspiciously like my wife. Either I am hallucinating or she has learned ESP. As I am sure that we are mere seconds from the heat death of the earth, because we had been sitting here for 4 billion years, both options are plausible. In any case I got to see a horde of little midgets capering around on the stage, hip-hopping with attitude. Again, more or less the timing was spot on, everything about the routine suggested ‘practice’ and each one of them was trying their ass off. Trying and achieving. Who the hell had taught her to try?

Within purgatory

You remember when your Mum had a conversation with another Mum and you were totally bored but it sounded like it was winding up? Then they started up a new conversation and it just wrecked you? Well that’s how I felt when they began presenting awards once the whole dancing thing finished. Inwardly I groaned and in my mind I heard my Mum say the same thing she always did, “be patient”. Then I remembered my parents had come as well and I must have groaned out loud and she had given that response from a couple of rows down. Also, when I got bored earlier and begun throwing bits of paper at the bald spot on the head of the guy in front of me it all made sense his retort of ‘grow up, you are 40 years old’. Thanks Dad, but you are going bald.

As of now, it is an hour or so after the event, and the wife just messaged me from her Xmas party, she is ready to be picked up. So now I need to drive her home, which normally resolves into a wrestling match in the car as I try and stay on the road and fend off her drunken physical attacks on my man-parts. I’ve been molested enough for one night, woman.

No, Woman, I wont relax.

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Mother's Day Special

I am terrible at two important tasks: purchasing gifts and organising anything. Well I can organise things but I tend to then view each participant in the process not as a human, but as a mechanical construct that will do, say or be at a certain place at the right time. As it turns out, I still can’t grasp the concept that humans are free-thinking purveyors of chaos and discord. If anything, I want to be sowing the seeds of chaos and let someone else organise and -they- can develop the ulcer.

So when tasked to organise anything I mentally black it out and then at some point, just when the stress and sheer weight of the obligation is close to crushing a soul that is as weak as a lamington, someone else picks up the job. Which is another way of saying I tend to leave things to the last minute I suppose. Case in point: Mothers Day preparation.

I do believe mothers deserve a day where we can collectively stand back and say ‘you are awesome’. Thanks for the conception, the birth was probably fun as well and kudos for all that raising us jazz. I just have no faculty inbuilt for me to vocalise that though.

A dramatisation. But accurate.

My own mother is geographically distant. If she was local I would have taken her to golf to refresh her on the fact I have very limited physical skills and no actual golf skill but can be extremely inventive with new phrasing when that fucking ball doesn’t go straight. Since that isn’t the case, I give her a call and between the short clipped sentences I assume she can feel a sense of my appreciation. It’s probably vague but it is as heartfelt as I can possible accomplish. Soul like a lamington, remember?

The new problem is my wife is also a mother. And on Mothers Day morning, having left any preparation to the last second I found myself caught out needing to come up with something quickly. Which I did as a team with someone who also left things late and I think we pulled it off pretty well. If you were curious about the thought process, the skype excerpt below summarises it nicely.

Greg didn’t want his name showing so I ‘replaced all’ with Not-Greg.

[14/05/2017 7:44:23 AM] Not-Greg: What is the plan?

[14/05/2017 7:45:08 AM] Jean-Roge: Going to scratch myself and play Overwatch.

[14/05/2017 7:45:12 AM] Not-Greg: ….for mothers day.

[14/05/2017 7:45:26 AM] Jean-Roge: Oh. Weren’t we going to a winery?

[14/05/2017 7:45:33 AM] Not-Greg: Raining. Wet. Kids. Wolfsuits.

[14/05/2017 7:46:18 AM] Jean-Roge: So, options?

[14/05/2017 7:46:22 AM] Not-Greg: One step ahead. Melt brothers.
[14/05/2017 7:46:24 AM] Not-Greg: http://meltbrothers.com.au/

[14/05/2017 7:46:51 AM] Jean-Roge: Done. They will love it.

[14/05/2017 7:47:15 AM] Not-Greg: You didn’t open the link did you?

[14/05/2017 7:47:30 AM] Jean-Roge: I made an assumption! Didn’t I just say I was in the middle of two important tasks that required my full attention? 

[14/05/2017 7:48:02 AM] Not-Greg: It is closed on Sunday. Fuck this state. How about bowling?

[14/05/2017 7:48:13 AM] Not-Greg: https://www.amfbowling.com.au/venues/qld/amf-mt-gravatt

[14/05/2017 7:49:19 AM] Jean-Roge: OK, but let’s face it, we are going to be drinking. “Yaaaay mothers day!! Wooooooo! Bowling!” we will tell the wives at some point as they mother their asses off with angry bored midgets. While I am sure that is exactly what mothers day is meant to be about, I am also pretty sure they may view it as an obligation.

[14/05/2017 7:49:30 AM] Jean-Roge: You know, because they aren’t as good at parenting as us.

[14/05/2017 7:50:10 AM] Not-Greg: That is probably realistic.

[14/05/2017 7:50:15 AM] Not-Greg: What are the other options?

[14/05/2017 7:50:19 AM] Not-Greg: Stop fucking playing and help!

[14/05/2017 7:50:25 AM] Jean-Roge: I have been scouring the internet looking for ideas.

14/05/2017 7:50:34 AM] Not-Greg: You aren’t even trying to lie well anymore.

[14/05/2017 7:51:07 AM] Jean-Roge: Well I died and we lost. You now have my full attention.

[14/05/2017 7:51:43 AM] Jean-Roge: Send them to get lapdances, whatever they are called, the non-porn style facials from little Asian ladies at the shopping centre?

[14/05/2017 7:53:41 AM] Not-Greg: Manicure and pedicures? That could work. Bring the kids and come over, we’ll parent from home and give them the gift of free time.

[14/05/2017 7:54:24 AM] Jean-Roge: So we are going to be drinking afterall?

[14/05/2017 7:54:52 AM] Not-Greg: Yes, but under a completely honourable pretence. This way I don’t lose the moral high ground.

[14/05/2017 7:55:36 AM] Jean-Roge: Well, if the afternoon is set for drinking I may be unavailable for marital duties later on in the evening. So AFK to see if quality time can be brought forward.

[14/05/2017 8:12:04 AM] Jean-Roge: Back.

[14/05/2017 8:12:38 AM] Not-Greg: She said no?

[14/05/2017 8:13:09 AM] Jean-Roge: No, it happened.

[14/05/2017 8:13:15 AM] Jean-Roge: Quantity not quality.

[14/05/2017 8:13:26 AM] Not-Greg: Wow.

[14/05/2017 8:13:51 AM] Jean-Roge: What?

[14/05/2017 8:15:16 AM] Not-Greg: She is so lucky to have you. Happy mothers day, Leanne.

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TGIF: Savings plan

I used to write up a stirring TGIF post each and every Friday morning. This was back when turning up to work was an exciting adventure but nowadays I need some time in the work parking lot, mentally psyching myself to walk the 20 metres to my desk. Then after an hour of checking email, a solid 15 minutes in the bathroom sobbing quietly. Obviously I’m grossly over exaggerating. It’s more like seven minutes.

Don't judge us, Applejack.

My wife, who has some kind of sixth sense about the state of my mental health, texted me a picture. So TGIF today is courtesy of my wife’s bare chest. Future instalments I hope to dedicate to various other parts of her anatomy.

If anyone was looking for a reason not to have children (despite the general shit show that sometimes is) then I recommend you think long and hard about all the little costs that will be necessary over the next two decades. I was told the same thing by other parents before I began my journey but my focus was always on the immediate (getting lots of sweet tail) and not on a future possibility. You will probably be the same, ignoring all the warnings and if that is the case then here are a few little things you need to do to save your bank balance along your own journey. Anyone being charitable could refer to it as “a guide to prudent parenting”. Others may not be as charitable.

Friends

Uncanny.

My wife used to comment that she would never let her children grow up as social outcasts, sitting in front of a computer and not playing sports or going outside. Although when she eventually became lonely, up on her fucking pedestal, she deigned to look down and notice me staring, shocked at her mean but largely accurate comparison of my life up until this point. What she didn’t take into consideration was all the monetary pain that comes along with raising a child who was willing to integrate in society.

Integration means a social network (i.e. friendship) and this network creates points of comparison and the desire to connect those points. Connections almost always mean spending money and because your children don’t have jobs, any costs of integration will come directly from your back pocket. An outcast isn’t blind to these points of reference but finds them baseless and doesn’t have the intense need to make those same connections. You cannot listen to your partner and view this as a negative trait, instead view this as a long term saving plan.

Imagine a daughter who is more interested in levelling a character on one of the numerous Asian MMORPGs out there than on keeping up with her social group. Sure, she isn’t going to learn about strong female role models by wearing armour I would refer more to as Brazillian than medieval but she will learn about situational awareness, maths, appropriateness of variables and the many ways people will swear at you for making even minor mistakes. You should note of course all these are valuable life skills but more importantly, free. On the other hand a socially adjusted daughter will want continual updates in clothes, toys and technology that you are woefully inadequate to understand. You should note of course all those things are not free or important.

Now imagine a son, reading on the net, living through Youtube videos and then t-bagging someone on Battlefield. He can be Luke Skywalker in Battlefront or some bearded midget in Dragonage. I’m

Pictured: Pokémon.

not sure of any practical or ongoing benefits but these things are all fun. Don’t make the mistake of linking any of this to a nerd culture though. Nerd culture is still a social network and while they don’t have to keep up with fashion, they will want to upgrade all their manuals because Wizards of the Coast came out with a new ruleset. Hobbies by any nature are not free and you should steer them clear of anything that requires continual updates and definitely stay clear of anything that needs to be played with other people. I’m specifically talking about pokemon.

Extra-curricular activities

My wife lives vicariously through the extra-curricular activities of her children. The boy is forced to play soccer and the girl grudgingly attends dancing lessons. This is because we made the mistake of providing an environment for the children to make friends, to establish social networks and now they are making connections. The exact things I warned against in the paragraphs above. It’s almost as if I was put on this earth to make these mistakes to save you the cost later; my only reason for being is to do everything wrong, and it kind of makes me feel better knowing while I may be an incalculable screwup, the universe wanted it this way.

The problem with soccer is that it requires an immense amount of subscription cost and ongoing gear. Also, the time I spend attending training and games I would have spent in profit making activities (Concession: I probably wouldn’t have). You know what isn’t so expensive? FIFA 2017 (or any version). This costs me $40 per year and the boy happily clicks away at the game for hours and hours.

I'm allowed to have an opinion,

Mrs Walsh!

And dancing. Well even thinking about it right now, I want to pick up my chair and throw it through a window. The whole setup of these dance schools is like a Amway marketing venture, every fucking thing is about upselling. More lessons, more gear, more time spent. Initially the girl began ballet really young but due to the covert pressure from the social dance network, the overt pressure from the school and the pressure from her mother to vicarious live and something probably starting and ending with cocaine – look at how upset I am, can’t even coherently finish a sentence.

Let’s just say that one dance class leads to two dance classes, then another, then a fucking fourth and then, purely because of narcissism they ask you to join the eisteddfod team. I still don’t know how much one of their classes costs but I assure you each year, between the classes, between the costumes and between all the other crap you need to buy, this thing will run you into the thousands. Don’t kid yourself, there is no such thing as taking a single class. Dance lessons? Not even once. Be strong.

Dental plan

You know those vitamin gummies? The tablets that are provided in soft squishy form that you give to your children because you are working under some delusional belief that aspect was missing from their diet? Well if you have ever given those to your child then you are an inhuman monster. The dentist didn’t technically say ‘inhuman monster’ but as this was a kids dentist and she was dressed like a fairy, I could read between the lines. She was hot as well and between the outfit and the spray-serve we received well, it was totally doing it for me. Who’d have thought passive aggressive dentist/fairy roleplay would be my kink.

Juice has always been the go-to of the parent, adorable sippy cup in the shape of a frog and then fill it with apple juice. For the love of God, don’t do that. Juice is comprised mostly of sugar and in fact it may well have more sugar in it than a comparable sample of soft drink. The qualifier of ‘may’ refers to my basic stance of not bothering to justify any claim with factual information. The fairy, again resting back on her policy of letting us know exactly where we dun fucked up, told us exactly why we fucked up with juice while bouncing around the room in her skimpy costume.

Yes, again!

The one aspect of parenting that I have never quite reconciled myself to is the need to constantly give instructions. I originally showed them how to clean their teeth and bam, my work was done. Or should have been. Even if you put on the toothpaste and stand there watching them, it takes roughly ten seconds for them to stop actively brushing and just to begin gnawing on the toothbrush. And if you don’t stand there watching them they simply stop doing it and just lie about it later. Your children will not be better than mine, well maybe they will, ‘better’ can be empirically measured. Let’s just say they won’t be that much different, no matter what you hope, and as a fairy once told me, always brush your children’s teeth yourself, at least until they are 18.

You can’t put a price on the dental hygiene of your child. Well you can and at this point I would estimate approximately $6k has come out of pocket and they aren’t even 10 years old. Unless you enjoy not being able to afford a boat because of fucking hubris, don’t believe pharmaceutical companies who sell vitamin-lollies (even under a questionable health reasoning), don’t let them drink sugar and make sure you brush their teeth yourself. Also for around $300 you can get your wife her own fairy outfit and some surgical face masks. Luckily for me, the spousal passive aggressive comments I get for free.

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Sometimes I Get Nice Things

Saturday was a day of rest, relaxation but also a day of debauchery and hedonistic pleasures. If this was on TV there would have been a warning about frequent coarse language, sex scenes, drug use and adult themes. Of course I am talking about the freedom gifted by grandparents looking after our offspring. Free from parenting, we took off our badges and joined the throngs of people who have an unhealthy (and very limited) combination of money, time, and an inclination to waste what little there was of both.

The wife only had one rule for the day: We were not to turn this into a pub-crawl. Luckily an official crawl appears to need six different establishments. We got to five and retired to a friend’s house.

Anyone rolling their eyes and wondering why I appear to be running through what sounds like a normal mundane weekend for them, firstly, fuck your excess time and money, secondly I have no intention of relating the minor aspects of the day so calm down. To other parents hopeful of perhaps living vicariously through the journey, sorry, it just wasn’t enthralling enough to list again here. Sure, we drank too much, we ate all the wrong foods and then spoke adulty stuff with other adults. We had become people again. This isn’t about any of that though.

Just add cats.

Also more wine.

My wife wasn’t too drunk, she could walk straight but was really festive and at one point during the day had messaged our land-lord to ask if we could get a cat. So if we were labelling it, I would say singing-cat-lady drunk. This was setting the tone and if it helps, imagine reading that using the Wonder Years voiceover.

I’m picking this story up right after I ordered a Uber and then almost immediately received a phone call. Lots of static and then a woman screaming that she was at church or in her words, “I church. You wait some?”. I was about to agree that was fine, I wasn’t in a hurry anyway, when she qualified, “This second time. I do for laughs.” And then hung up. I didn’t know how to take this, should I order another? How does this even work? We watched the status in the Uber app anxiously but within five minutes the little car symbol began moving towards us, so win.

A 40ish year old Asian lady greeted us as we got into the BMW SUV. “This is second time, “ she told us and then she gave us a big smile and because of that big smile but probably more because I was in a real happy place right then, I thought we had a connection. “We going here?” she asked and pointed at her phone, connected to the dash.

“Sure, follow the little voice. “, I advised, noting that she had not started her phone app and my wife had opened Spotify and was in the early stages of drunkenly rocking out. Before I could back that off a little we had reached an intersection. “Which way?”, was her predictable question. I told her left and then we proceeded to have long conversation (loudly because my wife had found Sir Mix-a-lot and was singing happily about enjoying big butts) about which side of the car was left. Because apparently, “Yes”, “That way” and “No, the other way” are all synonyms for “Turn right”.

At least she had told the phone app to start directing her at that point. Which it did, loudly and in another language. But apparently was unrelated chatter because she never used or listened to it any further in the trip.

“You give stars?”, she asked during a break in the singing from the back, referring to her Uber rating I assume. “Two times.” She added proudly, holding up two fingers and looking back at us and thereby veering down the centre of the four lane road.

“Sure, all of the stars”, I returned, gesturing intently at the road in front of us and also struggling with the wife who had got bored with the original song and was looking for a new one. Which is annoying, pick a song and stick with it.

“Which way?” she queried a little further along, continuing to ignore the voice from her phone which obviously wasn’t giving directions home. I found her question strange as we were along a straight strip of road without any turns required for some time. In any case, forgetting her question she proceeded into a long monologue that I found hard to understand and even harder to hear because the wife was now into a Sting, Rod Stewart and Bryan Adams anthem.

No, no.

You sing like an angel.

When the incessant babbling stopped, I took a moment to process and it seems our driver was a working mother and was using her time and her BMW to reconnect with the world. Having sort of done the same thing today myself, I felt we had a special bond. The wife turned her phone up louder and tried to drown our conversation with a new song, “I’m going oooooooout!” she sang, not quietly.

“Go out?” our driver interjected, now agitated and pointing at the screen of her phone.

“No, that was Bon Jovi.” I tried to calm her and then poked my wife who ignored me and stepped up her rendition of Blaze of Glory. Our driver, obviously confused with that response, turned in her seat and asked again, “Going here?”, once again pointing at her phone screen.

“Yes, right there. You’re doing great!”, I lied but gave her a thumbs-up and she turned back.

Now sitting at a set of lights, in a car taking up two lanes (because fuck the road I suppose) I got to thinking. A stereotype in the front, beside me someone who was now covering the first verse into Right Said Fred’s ‘I’m too Sexy’, I could only assume I was being punked. This was some sort of gameshow and I got the impression I was losing.

Bugger it, may as well enjoy the ride. “Put Bon Jovi back on” I told my wife, then leaned back and let nature, karma and a middle aged Asian lady direct me the rest of the way home.

“Yes,” I interrupted our driver before she got too far into her next question, “All of the stars."

Proud Sponsor.

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Certification for Health

So, I learnt about a new online nutrition course and became immediately excited. I was also eating pizza for breakfast which added to the luminous hum in the air. Obviously I need Nutrition Certification now that I know it exists and I assume the credentials of David “Avocado” Wolfe are impeccable. I can’t see any reason I shouldn’t become immediately certified.

Until I read the price. $639.20 (normally $799). So, wow. Fuck. Nutrition is obviously important but no, I can’t justify that to myself or my family. So the age old question “Can you put a value on your family’s health?” has been answered. A resounding “Hell yes I can.” before adding to whoever was listening, “something less than that.”

I’m left with two options if I plan to take advantage of the current nutrition bandwagon and the ready abundance of superfoods in the world:

• Begin a GoFundMe for the purpose of establishing sufficient funds to become certified; or
• Become the Nutrition Guru I always thought I could be and begin my OWN certification program.

I began setting up my GoFundMe account but the front page was full of people needing support through sickness, cancer treatment and some lady needed help burying her son. I’m not sure my desperate need for a healthier lifestyle really is warranted in comparison. Now I know people would have supported me and I would have reached my target but, I don’t know. Should they have?

Fuck you, Travis.

It was rhetorical.

So, with only one option left, I’m headed out today to find something sufficiently Guru-ish to wear in the promotional material. Everyone should begin saving, my certification won’t be as expensive as the Wolfe but nothing is free. Even health.

And can you put a value on the health of your family?

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Truth Media: Plastic

I remember when it became common to see people walking around with plastic water bottles in the mid 1990’s. I didn’t understand it, there was a water bubbler every ten fucking metres, however it appeared carrying plastic water bottles around had become fashionable (so of course I missed that memo). This, on top of our love of covering all types of foods in plastic, meant virtually nobody could avoid being exposed to this petroleum derivative in some form or another.

Human nature.

We are drinking from it, eating out of it, covering our food in it and plastic is the basis for most of the sex toys we use as well. We are simply the worst as a species so obviously it was only later we stopped and asked ourselves, is this healthy for me? And then much later, is it healthy for our babies and children?

This Truth media exposé will put to bed the myths, isolate the dangers and put you in an informed position to make healthy decisions for you and your family. Unlike earlier Truth Media articles there wasn’t sufficient time to research appropriate source material or include links to peer reviewed studies on the subject. I did however briefly scan a Choice article, something from the Dailymail and also got some really good information from the person sitting beside me who knows all sorts of stuff sourced entirely from Facebook. So ‘informed’ may be a poor choice of words but at least this won’t be long.

Becky aint going to be

happy about this.

The answer as to whether plastic has any negative health related consequences on humans is a categorical “No”. But in some circumstances, “Yes”, but far less categorically. Also that “Yes” is sort of trailed off, the person raises an eyebrow, shrugs and follows up with, “Under certain conditions and depending on a lot of circumstances”. Both the Dailymail and Choice agreed that plastic likely isn’t the issue, it’s the additives used in construction of certain types of plastics that are the concern. The sole voice of dissent was my Facebook using colleague as her niece, Becky, had posted a picture about plastic being deadly.

Now that is pretty fucked up in my opinion and obviously Becky isn’t happy with the situation either. But without a Chemistry Degree (or a Degree in Applied Science which, despite assertions to the contrary, isn’t the equivalent of a Bachelor of Arts) how would the common man or lady on the street know the difference between plastics? It’s not like they are named or anything.

Applied Scientist.

Sciencing.

Well, yes, they are named. Choice even has put together a table that separates out the respective plastic groups. However, it is really long and a deep into the article so anyone would be forgiven for not getting that far. On the other hand, Dailymail had a far more succinct commentary and then put up pictures of scantily clad people. My colleague, resolute in her stance, just reiterated that it makes you sick. Then like 15 minutes later, when I had almost forgotten having the conversation, told me it also causes cancer. So that isn’t good either. Or probably at all accurate.

So assuming you are a common man or woman on the street, possibly struggling your way through an Applied Science Degree, here are a list of ways you can ensure you live a healthier life in a world of plastic:

• Don’t have children. They take up so much time, vomit on you repeatedly and at some point you will get shit on your hands. In addition, almost everything we do in the world causes them to catch cancer or get sick in some way.

• 

  Thanks, Becky.

  I won't be.

  Before buying something made out of plastic, and assuming you were going to use it in some way connected with food, or connected with sexual gratification, or a combination, make sure you check the label and crosscheck against that Choice table
• When you have finished using plastic, for fuck’s sake do not re-use it. Burn it. The black smoke is a symbolic representation of a healthy cleansing
• Alternatively, just add Becky on Facebook and let her guide you through life

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Discipline

Tone it down, Egghead.

So, I should or shouldn’t spank naughty kids anymore? It isn’t clear, and the comments on the net aren’t making it any clearer. And don’t quote your science at me, there are older, crustier people in lab coats who laugh at your fucking science. They have a little thing called credibility which you sadly lack – I’m not picking a side here, stop having stupid opinions, both sides.

Just admit you stand there, naked, without reason, on a soap box of dogmatic assumption and biased reasoning. You aren’t alone either, the only different between you and me is that I get paid for it. Because shame is a currency.

So with the conjecture and the uncertainty the only thing I could do is come up with a viable alternative that made it seem like someone was being beaten even if it was figuratively. It was like serving gluten free sausages to someone even though they were not strictly speaking gluten free sausages.

No, that's OK. I've

got this.

So in short the kids were being little pricks and I put Limp Biscuit’s Nookie on in the car eleven times in a row on the way home to reinforce parental dominance. It broke the boy, the girl and me kind of got into it by the end. I wouldn’t call it a win exactly, but then again I stopped scoring a long time ago. So let’s just call it a thing that happened.

Also, I know how to spell the band’s name. I just refuse to. Like a chump.

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Pick Your Battle

It has been brought to my attention that I overuse a comma and in quiet reflection I can’t argue with that. However, in my defence I’m generally drinking, Foster the People are pumping up their kicks and things, just, move, slow. If you don’t believe a comma is situationally relevant, then just read it with the appropriate context; imagine I am in the middle of one big monologue and every comma is where I hold up a whiskey glass, swirl and drink before continuing.

So, kids and homework, eh.

As crusades go I’m not sure this is one I either want to run with or defend against. It feels like we are stretching and as I’ve said many times, I really want to join your bland inane offensives - the more pointless, the more excited I become. I mean really, really excited.

This time though I heard a ruckus, I heard the communal outcry and I was the first to douse my keyboard in fuel, light it up and put on my indignation pants. Then when I turned up and asked someone what we were angry about this time, instead of becoming aroused with righteous passion, I kind of felt let down. Also my indignation pants are a misnomer; I actually take off what I am wearing.

Righteous passion.

So let me get this straight, we are angry that schools give homework to the kids and there isn’t any proof the homework is useful? I had a boss once who constantly referred to the smell test. I know what he means now, if stupid had a smell, this would be it.

This opens a whole new science of….Science I suppose. The science of using lack of proof as evidence when almost certainly the only thing this evidences is the lack of science itself. I should have used more commas. However, I’m feeling better about it now, passion righteously aroused and indignation pants back on.

Let’s map this out: school teaches stuff, homework and study reinforces that stuff and compulsory testing determines your rate of retention on the stuff. Unless you are specifically studying rocket science, it isn’t rocket science.

The crux point though is that final method of determining retention; focus on the, fucking, testing. Decreasing homework is going to reduce the ability for a child to succeed in a world where exams aren’t even trying to find out what you know, but only what you can regurgitate. Fix that system of testing and then worry about the homework, you wacky bastards.

I’m no leader so I feel terrible about even attempting to direct this pitch fork wielding, indignation pant wearing, horde of internet denizens but can’t we focus on root problems?

Not a stalker.

Bad people are in prison. Prisons are made from bricks. I know, lets burn down a brick factory!

This isn’t even an exaggerated comparison anymore and I’m done. There is no “we” anymore, I’m not coming to the rallies and stop calling me.

Obviously I’m joking, ‘still love you internet. You keep being misguided and I’ll stay passionate. And aroused.

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