The Citizenship Debacle

This post has been reprinted from my blog Pathetic Politicians of Australia.

In recent times we have seen a number of elected politicians being forced to resign due to having dual citizenship, in many cases unknowingly.

I'm not sure where or how this absolutely stupid witch hunt started, but a smug Shorten, who is resisting members of his own party being investigated, smells pretty bad.

Australia is one of the most successful multicultural countries in the world. This multiculturalism is one of things that makes this country such a wonderful place to live. And it is not a new thing. Our country has been home to people from different countries, races and cultures for over two hundred years.

Since Federation, you can safely bet that many of our elected officials, from Local Government through to the Prime Minister, by accident of birth, have been dual citizens. Has this been detrimental to Australia? Not one bit!
If that is the case, why are we having this seemingly well orchestrated witch hunt now? Who is going to benefit from it? Certainly not Australia.

To our current crop of seriously pathetic politicians, I say, " Do the job you were elected to do and nothing else!"

If they proceed with the witch hunt, then at some point, they are going to have check the background of all previously elected politicians and, just possibly, nullify every piece of legislation, submitted by a  dual citizen, that was ever passed into law. Sadly, some of the morons we elected will probably want to follow that path.

Scary, isn't it?

Turning 70

I haven't posted anything on here for a while. This is due to achieving the milestone (or should that be the pending tombstone?) of making it to seventy years old.

The effect on me has been far greater than I ever imagined. Prior to my birthday, I really looked forward to achieving something that three prior generations in my family had never attained.

I woke up on the morning of my 70th to the usual aches and pains, hobbled off to the toilet, as usual, grumbled as I fed my dogs, as usual, grumbled and abused my noisy pet galah as I fed it, as usual and mumbled under my breath as I woke up my wife to get up and get ready for work, as usual. Nothing had changed! Except that I now felt OLD!

I looked into the mirror, prior to shaving and noticed that the few lines on my face now looked old. I'm sure that it took at least five minutes longer to brush my teeth to the same whiteness as the day before. No matter how much I scrubbed myself in the shower, I was sure that I smelled old. All the shampoo, mouthwash, soap and aftershave couldn't disguise the smell of old! Even my regular efforts in the toilet smelled older!

It sounds terrible, doesn't it?

All very negative and old. Until my birthday party! A few of my favourite people attended, plus a few others, all bearing gifts and good wishes. One of the bottles of wine the one of the "others" brought must have cost at least $3. I actually heard the bacteria scream, as I tipped it down the sink. I should have saved half and tipped it down the toilet. They say that it's the thought that counts, not the gift. I'm still not sure what they thought about my waste water system.

All in all, it was a wonderful party and made me appreciate the special people in my life.

What's more, I'm enjoying every day and stretching the boundaries of how much bad behaviour is tolerated by society towards the elderly!

The "Just Looking" Jubblies

"What the hell is a Jubbly?", you ask. I have no idea. It's just a descriptive noun that I created to describe the people who wander aimlessly around shops looking at nothing in particular. The only words that come out of their mouths are a mumbled "Just looking".

I think those words are a well thought out and rehearsed defence mechanism, used by Jubblies, to ward off sales people who may intend to sell them something, rip them off, intentionally make them look stupid or inferior or, just possibly, genuinely want to help them.

It's just possible that these defenceless Jubblies spend hours in front of the mirror, perfecting the blank, gormless look and practising intensely for hours to create the the perfectly toneless "Just looking".

I can imagine the Jubbly couples getting home after wandering up and down the aisles of numerous retail outlets wearing their expressionless faces, cheeks almost cramping due to the muscle control needed to maintain that look, hands firmly thrust in their pockets, having spent nothing. There would be a lot of mutual cheek rubbing to relax the cramped cheek muscles, vigourous hand rubbing to unclench their long pocketed fists and wild grimacing to restore some facial expression.

All that would be followed by wild rejoicing in the fact that they had, once again, outwitted all those dimwitted salespeople who were after their money. They would probably celebrate with a weak cup of tea made with a thrice used teabag, as they hadn't allowed someone to sell them a new packet of tea bags.

All hail the victorious Jubblies!

Why I Should Be The Next James Bond

Rumours abound about who will play James Bond after Daniel Craig exits the role. Some morons are even touting a woman to play the part. Are you shitting me? Who would ever quake in fear of a woman called James? Nigel, yes. James, no.

Sean Connery, the original Bond is around the same vintage as me. A few years older maybe. The differences are that I still have all my own hair and teeth and I'm also sans wrinkles. The wrinkles thing is best explained by asking the question "Have you ever seen wrinkles on a balloon?". This brings me to my next point. Chronologically, Bond would now be in his late 70s. With a judicial application of makeup, I could look that wasted.

Connery also had copious quantities of body hair which was considered sexy in those days. In addition to my full head of hair, I still have copious quantities of body hair. Front and back. Long flowing locks of it. Enough to be styled in a succession of silken, silver plaits down my back. Bond girls, now in their late 60s, if you believe their publicists, would swoon over it. Think of the Rapunzel stunts I could do with that hair! Amazing!

As for acting ability, I have none. However, neither did Connery in the early Bond movies. But his ability evolved, as would mine. Also, in my favour, I have a strong tolerance for Martinis, shaken, not stirred of both the gin and vodka varieties. As for the physical and sexual stuff, I could use stunt doubles. Especially with the sex scenes involving 60+ saggy, wrinkly actresses.

As you can undoubtedly see, I would make a perfect new Bond, possibly with a slight name change. Bruce, Bruce Oldfart.

70th Birthday In Review

I've just turned 70 and I suddenly feel old! Very old! "Why?", you ask. "It was only a day or so ago. Nothing has changed!"
Wrong! Everything has changed! Getting out of bed in the morning is more difficult. Getting dressed requires more effort. I'm sleeping less, eating smaller meals and becoming irritable over small issues.

Oh, by the way, none of that has anything to do with turning 70. It's all about the world's worst bloody hangover, after my birthday party. It was the best party in my, ever fading, memory. I laughed so hard, my bottom lip split. That's another reason that I'm irritable. It hurts.

The table before the onslaught.

My wife invited 10 people to help me celebrate. Mostly her relatives and friends, A couple of them I'd never seen before. It didn't matter. They came bearing gifts. Mostly wine. Sadly, one of them must have spent $1.95 on a bottle of unidentifiable red wine. I vividly remember taking one sip, spitting it out and pouring the rest down the sink, where it managed to unblock a drain.

Among the guests I knew were my lovely ex wife, who came bearing an amazing bottle of very good single malt Scotch whiskey, which is why I referred to her as "lovely". Other known guests included my sister in law and her husband with nice gifts and my nephew in law (Is there such a thing?) and his wife with very drinkable wine.

The kitchen antics cracked me up. At one time there were four Vietnamese women working and arguing together while concocting several mouth watering dishes. It's sad the dishes tasted better than the food placed on them! Just joking! Great food. While all that was happening, my ex wife was conducting a master class in advanced sushi making. Absolutely amazing! My kitchen isn't that big and all that booty bumping made me feel young enough to want to boogie in the middle of it all!

After the onslaught.

During this time, my Italian brother in law, my Japanese ex wife, my Vietnamese nephew in law and I were conducting a multi national running commentary on the proceedings as it were. The result was great fun, great company, great food and an even greater hang over the next day.

Which is why I feel old! Very old!

An Old Fart Living The Dream

In less than two weeks, I'll be 70 years old. Many people, including relatives, friends, co workers and customers, have said that now is the time to slow down, relax or just chill out. Are they bloody crazy?

To those people, I say, "You clowns don't know what the hell you're talking about. I'm living the dream!". We oldies all have different ideas of what "the dream" is. For some it's taking a sea cruise, becoming a grey nomad, sleeping, eating and drinking your life away, gardening or even sky diving. It is a very personal thing and whatever dream we choose is OK. It's our dream. We neither want nor need your opinions. Rant ended.

The dream that I'm living is really simple.

I work part time in a retail environment which keeps me physically active, more or less mentally alert and provides constant interaction with work mates and customers, all of whom I constantly take the piss out of. Is it a perfect environment? Does it pay a great salary? Is it mentally challenging? Does it provided scope for advancement (At my age? Are you crazy?), The answer to all those questions is a resounding NO! Would I change anything? No way, it amuses the hell out of me!

I'm happily married and even my ex wife is one of my closest friends. I spend my free time repairing broken things, building stuff for my wife's garden, playing my drums, reading, writing this inane blog and sharing my opinions with all and sundry.

Having written all this, I reserve the right to change the dream I choose to live, without notice.

Amazons In The Aisles

This is one of my favourite posts from a previous blog of mine.

I was going to call this post "Feral Female Terrorists In Our Shopping Centres" but I didn't because, if I had, I would have red flagged all the security services and agencies, nationally and internationally, who monitor the internet looking for any references to terror and those who inflict it. To those  people I say "Well done and keep it up. We rely on you".  I guess that red flagged everything anyway. Sorry guys.

I was, in fact, referring to the aggressive pushers of prams and shopping trolleys who absolutely know that it is their God given right to own whichever aisle they're pushing said pram or trolley at any given time. These Amazons are easily recognised by their resolute glare and stony faces as they unwaveringly aim their trolleys up and down the aisles while spending the family budget on necessities such as biscuits, soft drinks, chips and anything carrying a "Special" price tag, regardless of whether they really need it or not. Woe betide any luckless male that dares stand between them and a bargain. In fact, it is so dangerous that I think supermarkets and department stores should be compelled to carry liability insurance to cover injuries caused by unyielding Amazons.

I also need to warn people not to comment directly to the Amazons about their lack of manners. A quiet "rude bitch" will result in a screaming tirade that will not only be heard by every other shopper in a kilometre radius, it could also cause pacemakers to malfunction, heart attacks in the elderly, possible broken glass damage and a fast response from the store security, who will automatically take the Amazon's side and evict you from the store. This because the store security will not risk their own safety for yours. Smart people!

The answer to this potentially dangerous situation is to smile and give way to the Amazon. Apologise when she rams you with her trolley and remark on how cute her child is. Warning! Don't do the last one if you are dressed as a priest! Good luck.