Long Live The Lizzies

Who's excited about HM the Queen's Diamond Jubilee in London this weekend? I am CAPSLOCK EXCITED. I should be there to rejoice with my people, the Royals; no-one knows how to wear a crown or a union jack or indeed eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato and black pudding quite like myself, if I do say so myself. What, you don't know how to wear it? Well that's what I'm talking about.

That's well smart

I can't wear my very arresting (see: not sexy) union jack t-shirt in Australia, because in the past few years British memorabilia has become a fair bit trendy and hip in a kitschy manner of speaking in this country, by way of everything from clothes to toilet paper to bogus British accents.

I have be known to engage in a bit of the latter from time to time.  I think it aggrieves people, which has resulted in its swift elevation to one of my favourite hobbies. I like to think that it makes me sound like the Bond girl that got away, but w'ever. I also do a fairly unconvincing Texan, French and South Australian.

Back in the day, not so long ago, my main purpose for wearing my union jack was to proudly show off my large, voluptuous monarchist credentials. They are very generous. It's okay, I'll give you a few minutes to roll your Republican eyes and whinge into your Twinings tea and plate of scones. *Note to self: totally need to do a whole post on Twinings teabags. Shame on you for not doing so earlier.

HM the Queen has been chief cook and tiara washer of the British monarchy for sixty years.  And apparently she has a cracking memory, and can recall most of the conversations she has held with the eleven Prime Ministers she has seen since the dawn of time, or since the bling bling crown was placed on her head; whichever came first. A meeting every Tuesday, and she remembers, which must be some type of Gingko Biloba memory trick.

I like all the Royals; yes I do. And then there's the commoner turned winner-of-the-bachelor-prince-lotto, Kate, who is so abundantly bestowed with all the various qualities required of a King's consort that one can barely stand her. But, yes, I like her too, although she did wear a red jacket once that irritated me. Oh look, I did a blog post about it. Shocker.

I can't bear the thought of Her Maj passing on to Buckingheaven Palace, and I'm really not sold on the idea of King Charles. King Chuck. Hm, no. I’m quite fond of Charles, but not in the role of Lord of the Royal Things. But I think the Poms have realised that they have a better shot at being Best Monarchy if they have a better King, so there might be a revolution in them there Wills.

Long live the Elizabeths.

Witch Bank and Cardboard Smiles

It recently came to my attention - when I say recently I mean about two years ago - that I have be holding three cheques that need to be deposited into my bank account. Several of these cheques date back to antiquated times, when I had bleached blonde hair, but let's not dwell on the great depression era.  Why do we Australians write ‘cheque’ with a fancy French spelling anyway? I mean, what the heque? It's a bit of a pain in the neque.

Only one of these bank-approved pieces of paper in my possession was worth much - a tax refund - and who knows why it came to me via my real, non-virtual, spider-infested letter box. Perhaps my pen slipped and I accidently ticked the glacial mail rather than the lightning bolt electronic mail when I was taxing myself.

So last Saturday morning, evidently in the absence of anything more practical or sensible to do, I went into my bank to cash these random cheques. Has anyone been into a 21st century bank? They are totally spooky. A young woman in a fancypants bank suit meets you at the door and smiles at you and enquires of your general wellbeing and then asks "and how may I help you today?"

I know, right? Totally freaked me out, mainly because I thought she was one of those generic, photogenic smiling cardboard cutouts that banks, insurance companies and government departments use as a doorstop to lure you into their establishment. But she was real.

I mean, who does that? Smile in a bank? What sort of bank ponzi scheme is this? After my shock discovery that the smiley cardboard cutout was in fact a real human with real human teeth, I decided that she had to be a virtual humanbot; a mirage created by politeness, smiles and rainbows, that's beamed off the walls, right into the path of your face.

If it wasn't completely inappropriate I would have tried to poke her head to see if she was issued by an overhead projector.  Maybe then I would get to see the virtual bank manager and then the real-life police officer with real-life handcuff accessories.

Or perhaps this bank welcomer / helper is a white witch, whose motus operandi is to take money from the rich and then deposit it into the same person’s bank account.  The most pointless witch strategy ever, but that's white witches for you.

You see, this is nothing like the bank service that I used to know.  Banks used to be a great place to enjoy waiting in queues for hours and hours, sometimes weeks, and that's before you even got to the cash cow counter, where you were generally addressed by a uninterested, grumpy bank teller without a real or fake cardboard cutout smile.  My bank trip the other day took about 8.3 seconds.

I imagine the reason the service in banks is so tremendous these days is because they have no customers; only cyberbot clients who login remotely. Praise the lord for the interweb.

Emergency Bogan Plan

I was sitting at the traffic lights today, minding my own business, as much as I ever mind my own business, when a rogue teenage hooligan (is there really any other type of teenager) ran from behind my car toward the car in front, apparently engaging in some type of ritualistic car musical chairs at the traffic lights.  As you do.  And it occurred to me that I really was not prepared for a potential carjacking.  It happens, you know.

Like any self-respecting girl-about-town or femme fatale serial killer, I tend to carry a bunch of things in my car that can be used as weapons, just in case one of life's bogans decide to Toyota-jack my little red car, channel their delusional road rage in my direction, or break-in to tag their name in the dust on my dashboard.  The latter is a bit of a stretch; how many bogans know how to spell their own name?

I've carried a concealed hockey stick under my passenger seat for years - and an old blood-stained hockey ball - for security and, let me tell you, I sure as heck know how to use them.  I played high school girl's hockey, during high school girl's hockey's Underbelly years, and I often practiced selective hearing when it came to the referee's whistle. 

So it has been brought to my attention that I might need to get in some practice of my emergency bogan plan, which will involve whipping out my hockey death stick and shoving it into the adam's apple of a six-foot tall hypothetical bogan with four teeth and a brown mullet who is standing at my window yelling random, unintelligble bogan slogans at me.

I think I will need to rehearse this.  At the traffic lights.  In peak hour.  You can never be too careful about which direction the loonies are going to come from.  Safety before sanity, I always say.  I might pop over to bogan-filled Charnwood to see if there are any volunteers to stand-in as the lone carhacker/jacker.  I can't see how that plan can go wrong.

I've recently added a jar of Aldi's Bockwurst to my collection of vehicular self-defence weapons.  Yes, I have some German sausage in a jar, in my car.  I found it rolling and carouseling under the driver's seat.  I think someone gave it to me ages ago.  It may save my life one day.  One can apparently boil them in five minutes for eating purposes, or chuck them at the very temple of boganism, for the purpose of serving the local community. You're welcome, Canberra.

Macbeth's got Shakesappeal

Today I watched a theatrical interpretation of Shakespeare's McGyver. No, Shakespeare's Matlock.  No, Shakespeare's Macbeth.  Ah yes, Macbeth.  The english speaking world spent hundreds of years trying to invent an easier language than that of Willy Shakes, and then along came the Bell Shakespeare Theatre Company and Translation Service and ruined everything, what with their spooky 16th century whisperer skills. 

If it wasn't for Mr Bell, I most definitely would have endured three long hours of what the fuck.  I caught Bell Shakespeare's excellent version of Julius Caesar last year, and I can safely say that any future dealings I have with Willy Shakes will be through their interpretative channels.  In fact it's a constant struggle for me to refrain myself from travelling back in time and whacking Mr Shakespeare with his era's version of a tazer gun.

I don't completely despise his sonnets, its just that the speech is so polite and deferential and neverending as to make no sense whatsoever.  Bell Shakespeare maintain the exquisite use of language, but cut much of the excessive wordiness for which Willy Shakes is famous, and which usually, unfortunately, put me into a voluntary induced coma.

It's interesting that the arts world have a desperate desire to maintain the historical significance of ye ole Shakespeare playeths, yet the only way they can do this is by creating theatre companies as a means of translating the playwright's brilliant yet mostly incomprehensibly complex verbal diarrhoea for the world; most of who couldn't care less either way.

The ancient Egyptians also heavily cached what they had for breakfast and tedious descriptions of how they weaved cloth and what style of sandal they wore to beat up their slaves, Bell Shakespeare, so why you not translate their hieroglyphs?  I suppose the answer is fairly simple: where for art thou marketing opportunities for an Egyptian kid patting a gazelle?

That's right - there aren't any.  If the ancient Egyptians wanted to be lauded they should have spent far more time having rampant sex with the king's consort and engaging in unbridled class war murders and dirty little regicides.  Oh wait, they did.  I think they built some stuff too.

I must admit, the only Shakesappeal for me with the old bard is that he wrote of murder and manipulation and psychological torture, minion versus minion, and death and lying and cheating all over the place, and most characters possess a minimum of around eight personality disorders, so it's right up my alley in terms of entertainment.

The Tragedy of Macbeth reminds me a lot of Australian politics.  A Red Queen receives a prophecy from three witch-like Independents that one day she will win the next election?  A storyline ripe with tyranny, bloodbaths, arrogance, madness, guilt, violence et cetera et cetera?  The backbenches are alive with the sound of people screaming?  Who says Julia doesn't have any Shakesappeal.

With Ms Gillard's current push to fan the flames of a non-existent class war in this country, of which she is desperately trying to construct, I am surprised that she isn't trying get the kindy kids reading Shakespeare sonnets rather than wasting their time learning how to finger paint.

I Bought a Zoo

Well I may have misrepresented myself when I said I bought a zoo, because I didn't sort of do that at all.  But I did buy a zoo pen, because a zoo pen is mightier than a zoo sword.  And I'm a writer, not a fighter.  Please keep reading - I know it doesn't look promising right now, but I assure you that this post might possibly improve.  No guarantees though.

Canberrans! And other people who might randomly come to Canberra for reasons I cannot fathom!  Make hay and raw meat while the sun shines and get your collective bottoms to the National Zoo and Aquarium to take part in their Zooventure Experience.

Why? Because how often do you get to willingly give licence to a white lion to completely scare your pants off and stare you down like the contemptible, collectible human trophy that you are, and where you can have your boa constricted by a cute little reptilian creature called Betty? Go do it. Do it right now. Or maybe tomorrow, during the day, when the zoo is actually open.  Probably best.

Speaking of nighttime at the zoo, it really is a spooky, enlightening, trippy little experience. The Zooventure affair finished after nightfall, and all the animals were engaged, excitable, and roaring or *insert random, intriguing, scary wild animal sound* their little lungs out. Carry on a treat, they did, for some inexplicable animal kingdom reason.  Just because they can, I imagine. 

According to the zoo's website, the Zooventure is a 2 hour behind the scenes guided tour that offers participants the opportunity to feed a variety of amazing animals, and experience a bounty of rare and close-up encounters. Yes, I quite concur, Zoo.

I am a massive animal lover and a massively big lover of big cats. I'm actually quite average in size, but my love for animals is somewhat immense, and far surpasses any concern I may show on the odd occasion for your run-of-the-mill members of the human race.

Over the two hour experience you get to feed the white lions, a Bengal tiger, otters, a Big Friggin' Bear, giraffes, antelopes, cougars, and a boa constrictor called Betty, who gracefully wraps herself around your chest in a fairly tightly-knit fashion.  Maybe she's just an immensely big human lover.  She was very beautiful, and surprisingly comforting, although my picture seems to tell a different story.

One lad was asked by our guide to make eye contact with one of the white lions (a boy lion, a very dominant boy lion) while holding empty tongs - sans raw meat - to demonstrate how Mr Crankypants likes to assert his dominance over everything and everyone.

The lion found this empty gesture fairly annoying and stamped his basketball-sized paw while barely subduing a roar which sounded something like this; "screw you humans with your twisted little food games. Don't toy with me; don't you know I am a goddamn lion." 

The poor kid, along with the rest of us, nearly peed his pants, and then everyone spent the next five minutes trying not to make eye contact with His Majesty, who was justifiably cranky, but very pretty. But I don't think they are ever that congenial.

I know that some people whinge about zoos and cages and captivity and et cetera, but it seems to me that man, man and more man (I'm looking at you Africa and most of Asia in utter disgust) is killing off all the scary, dangerous, cool animals, so it appears captivity is the safest and wisest place for these beautiful endangered creatures. 

Some of the stories I heard today of how animals suffer in the wild, and in captivity, in these countries at the hands of man make me sick to the stomach.  After the Zooventure, I know the animals in Canberra are completely pampered, spoilt rotten and really don't care to eat meat that has dropped into a spot of dirt, so all is well for these lucky ones.

'How DARE you ask me to work' - spurious bullying claims

Apparently bullying in the Australian Public Service is totally rife, with a Greens survey finding that 75% of us poor tortured souls have been bullied in our cubicled workplaces, that hallowed universal space where the soul-sucking fairies live.  I would hazard a guess and say that spurious claims of bullying are the real epidemic here.

Have you been bullied in your workplace?, asked one of the survey questions.  Yes or no.  Often one man's claims of bullying is another man's incessant campaign of whinging and complaining against the system.  But a simple yes or no will suffice for the Greens.  I guess it doesn't matter how you ask the questions if you have already commissioned the findings.

I know a fair amount of workers in both the public and private sector who would have ticked the yes box.  A lot of the stories I've heard over the years come from friends - fair and hardworking people - who have been anxious, lost sleep and have been sick with worry about what comes next because someone has made a spurious claim of bullying against them. 

It makes me quite ill when I hear these stories, time and again.  Where's the yes box for these bullying victims?  Perhaps some of the people who ticked the yes box in the Greens survey are victims of spurious claims of bullying, but the Greens don't care about that.

I'm pretty sure that your supervisor asking you to action a piece of work when you'd rather just Google all day does not constitute bullying.  And I'm also fairly sure that your supervisor telling you that your work might need some more work is also not a case for bullying; it is your boss doing their job.  Having a reasonable and robust conversation with a superior or colleague is not bullying.

Unless the whingers are talking about the pain they feel when an endless stream of forms that must be filled out in triplicate is extracted from their backside. Yes, that hurts a lot, but it's not bullying; it's called doing your job.  It may be unpleasant to one's personal tastes, but it absolutely is your job.  Mindless paperwork is simply our punishment for never winning the lottery.

I think they key problem is that many public servants have not resigned themselves to the fact that they actually have to do some work for their pay cheque.  They become completely outraged when they are asked to do anything more than just enjoy the free computer for eight hours a day.

They can't handle this type of personal attack, and when asked to complete a simple task they become feverish and nearly completely die.  And then they call Human Resources in a total huff, loosely tossing around the B-word to highlight the outrageousness of it all. 

To be clear; since making the tactical error of joining the public sector, which became necessary after I was curiously rejected by NASA's aeronautical program based on some ludicrous reasoning that I was not smart enough (bullying!!!), I have found that the people who routinely complain about bullying are generally the same people who believe work is beneath them.

My first, second, third, fourth, fith, sixth and seventh red flag regarding the credibility of this survey commssioned by the Greens is that it was commissioned by the Greens, who 'self-selected' about 100 public servants - I speak roughly, approximately - who are likely of the same crop of public servants that are currently earning the big bucks over at the Department of Climate Change.

These people are currently paid to twiddle their thumbs and tweak their computerised weather stations while they wait in vain for the climate to disastrously, cataclysmically alter because of man and his tsunami-stirring, hurricane-inducing wicked ways.  What else are these people going to do but surveys produced by the Greens?

The final red flag was that the story was 'broken' by those renown newshoundsmen WIN News.  'nough said.  FFS, I am sick of the breed of public servant - any worker - that is so pathologically narcissistic that they complain about their conditions, their wages, their supervisor, the colour of the walls, the Schindler's lifts, and the fact that they don't get to sit on the internet all day without being rudely interrupted by someone requesting - bloody REQUESTING! them - to do some work.

As Cold As Ice

I'm having serious issues with Canberra's weather at the moment.  Whenever I throw major spacattacks over the stupidity of our species, my sister always harps on about how seething with anger, rage or just general perturbness hurts only you, which is all very well, but I am not going to let ye old Southern Tablelands or whatever geographic area we fall into get away with this cold shite, cos it's not winter yet. 

This is a gross breach of the weather terms and conditions and must be addressed forthwith.  And if only I had a crowbar for every time someone said to me, "well, isn't this weather just lovely? It's so nice and frosty." Completely fucking loopy, these people are, and we should set them on fire, if for no other reason than to keep the rest of us nice and toasty. 

A big bonfire of stupid people.  Marshmellows are a possibility. Foreigner sung I'm as cold as ice, and I'm willing to sacrifice you to make me warm.  And I'm inclined to agree with them. I imagine this is why they invented reverse cycle airconditioning.

No, Foreigner didn't invent reverse cycle airconditioning; I think it was the Ice Queen from Narnia.  Five years ago global warmist Tim Flannery told us we'd be warm by now.  But he also said that the dams would never be filled again, so... 

Could it be that Flannery is just your typical leftwing environmentally friendly garden variety lunatic with no evidence base for his hysterical, histrionic weather predictions?  I for one am shocked by that.

Well, this post is a little awkward, and has possibly shown my serial killer tendencies that I try to hide from all but a few, concerned that I will be judged harshly and villified by society. 

Craig "Shaggy" Thomson

The on-going brouhaha involving Labor MP, Craig Thomson, his credit cards and his not-so-cheap hookers reminds me of Shaggy, the one-time musician rapper person, who rose to fame on the back of hits like It Wasn't Me, a charming ditty about randy musicians and loose groupies.  So profound, those rappers.

Douchebag Thomson told Federal Parliament last week that he would be making a full statement about the allegations of impropriety that have been levelled at him by his former employer, the Health Services Union (HSU), in the coming weeks, after the Opposition called him scankypants and other parliamentary insults of equal vigour.  In the red-light corner is Thomson and his trashy hoes, and in the blue corner is everyone else.

I tell you, this explanation better be good.  But whatever he professes to be the truth about his seedy past, he has already told us that "it wasn't me".  Oh, well that clears up everything then.  I give the guy some credit for lying in the face of absurdity.  Personally I think Thomson is nowhere near as creepy as Mr Skankypants himself, Peter Slipper, but you say potato, I say potahto.

The allegations against Thomson include using his union credit cards for facilitating acts of prostitution - which sounds far less sleazy than it actually is, using the cards for some type of ponzi scheme and for funding his own election campaign.

Caught you dialling the hookers (It wasn't me)
Through your work credit card (It wasn't me)
And your other work credit card (It wasn't me)

I can't decide if people like Thomson should never be allowed to have a Mastercard, or if they should be given 500 of the darn things and let them make their own skanky king-size futons and be made to lie in them. I blame the banks. Clearly Thomson is a victim of their bullying tactics.  It's so blindingly obvious that this is the problem.

Those little pieces of plastic ruin lives, particularly if you are a low-life, union head moron, or anyone and everyone who thinks it's a good idea to whinge to Today Tonight about personal credit debt and other things that are their own stupid fault.

Who knows, maybe there is an entirely acceptable explanation for why Thomson was caught red-handed with his hand in the skanky jar.  Perhaps his wife works at the brothel and he was just calling her at the office to ask if he should pick up some pizza, a couple of tarts and a few STDs on the way home.  I mean, we don't know.  Stay classy Craig.

My dodgy genealogy

It's fast approaching our Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee.  I imagine you're not very excited by this event, but that's really not my problem or concern.

Speaking of Britain, I've long been convinced that there should be a vast castle somewhere on the sweeping, pebbled British coastline in my bloodline that I should be able to inherit.  I actually feel completely and utterly jipped that this is not the case. 

But if the Australian Government ever decide that the only people in the world who are allowed to inhabit Aussieland are the ones with 18 different types of multicultural leaves in their family tree - but no British ones - then I'll be as safe as castles. 

The last time I was in Britain, the local Immigration officials were all like, "you need to go back to the country that's written on your passport", and I was all like, "w'ever".  I live in Australia, so I guess they won that Battle of Heathrow.  This all happened a fairly long time ago, mind you, when I was younger, stupider and rocking hideous peroxide blonde locks.  Perhaps the latter provides a vague explanation for my illegal immigrant behaviour.

For the record, I do not condone, endorse or recommend debating with immigration officials ever, but I suppose most rational thinking people already know that.  I imagine even people who live in Queanbeyan know this is a very bad idea.  I know that's a stretch, but sometimes they surprise you.

Speaking of towns that are located near a 'metropolis' but pretend their economy can stand on their own two caravan parked feet, I have recently been dismayed - DISMAYED! - on two occasions to find that the local Queanbeyan Coles supermarket has somehow deemed it appropriate and necessary to pose one of their humanly named delivery vehicles next to the trashy caravan park (their trucks are called Xena, Kevin, William and so forth). 

My hysteria is due to the fact that the aforementioned truck is called Elizabeth.  Can you even imagine my horror? And what would my namesake Her Majesty think?  On behalf of the Palace, one is rather unamused and feeling slightly slandered.

WHAM! to The Cold

I've long been convinced the weather was invented to give boring people something to talk about.  If my theory is correct, and let's be frank, they usually are except when they're often not, that makes me quite the bore, because I spend a bit of time harping on about tropical depressions and cloud patterns and so forth.

I bought a book about clouds a few years ago after my mum bought the same book and wouldn't give me hers.  It's a little pocket-sized dynamo on cloud formations.  Don't judge me - you're probably not smart enough to understand it anyway.  Which is your own fault. I leaf through the book from time to time when a peculiar cloud catches my eye.

I write of clouds because they go hand in hand with the most horrid season of them all. Winter.  I completely despise the cold, mainly because I'm not a polar bear.  

The only thing more annoying than the cold is people who like the cold.  Every single time someone defends the indefensible - winter - I pout and pretend they are being thumped in the mouth with the Zok! or Kapow! sound effects a la the original Batman television series.     

Winter is also a challenge issued by nature to see how sexy you can look when covered in layers. Challenge accepted, winter. Fortunately I will miss a portion of the winter brouhaha in Canberra this year as I venture to la la land of Hollywood, DISNEYLAND!!!!, and Hawaii, which is completely perfect in every darn way.

Wikipedia and other Wild Animals

I'm always looking for interesting things to write about, so it's always an excellent plan to not divulge too much information when engrossed in a juicy but trivial conversation with me. Think of me as the antithesis of a clinical psychologist, and nearly exactly like a Wikipedia.  That's just a handy tip, you know, between cyber friends.

Tarongo Zoo's Jumilah

What other variety of friends are there in this daring new world of the interweb? I'm not sure, but I imagine my soul mate Wikipedia could tell me the definition of friend, with or without disamiguation. I recall some of my lecturers' disdain of Wikipedia when I was at university.  Like or hate Wikipedia, you can argue with it, and that's kind of the point.

It rather confused me until I realised that academics were so distrustful of the Wiki medium because it rudely offered other arguments on a particular issue, which counteracted their delusional, one-sided, left wing opinion and delusional, one-sided, left wing textbooks.  And, more importantly, they had to undergo some scrutiny from a source that hadn't passed their stamp of approval, which meant they weren’t able to freely indoctrinate us poor sods.

You think I'm exaggerating? My Political Science lecturer refused to even acknowledge the existence of Ronald Reagan when we studied the Cold War, let alone the fact that he ended it, which involved me storming out of the lecture in disgust.  DISGUST!  I was TOTES CAPSLOCK ANGRY.  Unbelievable little sheltered world these academics reside in. Often crazy smart, but usually crazy delusional.

I remember one occasion when I went to my PolSci tute and counteracted a different but typically left wing tutor with, "well, Wikipedia mentions other arguments too", knowing full well the glare and indignation I would receive from the sanctimonious twat. The horror on his face. Ah, memories. They were good times indeed.

Hm, I didn't want to write about Wikipedia or academic brainwashers.  *sigh* I'm still working on that going-off-on-tangents disorder that so afflicts me. Anyway, so last Christmas I was blessed with a gift voucher to attend a Feed the Animals thingy at Canberra's National Zoo and Aquarium, and I am taking up the kind offer next weekend. Should be amazing, unless of course I have my arm mutilated by a wild animal.

I've been completely besotted with big cats since a very young age, particularly tigers, because they are just so darn terrifying, yet so photogenic. It disheartens me that they are so endangered that they need to be protected from man via cages, but it is for the best, and they lead extremely pampered lives in the zoo clink, so all is well with that in my mind. I just hope the lions and tigers and bears will get off Wikipedia for long enough to say hello.

Classes of Reality Televisual Drugs

As nauseating as all reality television programming may be, I separate them into three distinct categories for my own ease, in the way that lawmakers and law enforcers grade drugs through a class system; bad, badderer and baddest.

Class C reality programs are the least harmful of all.  But like Class C drugs, you have to be pretty dopey to engage with them, and even more dopey to want to guest star on them. The key players of Class C reality are good people (and dogs) doing good things for the benefit of the community. Customs officers, lifesavers, random breathe testing and police dogs, amongst many others.

Good eggs and canines who can save your bacon, or your luggage, at any point in your life.  The most effective means of making a guest appearance in an episode on one of these shows is to just be yourself, providing you are a drug-taking, law-breaking dickhead caught in a serious intelligence vacuum.

The only real talent these guest stars possess is that they are dense enough to want to be seen handcuffed on national television. Taking Class C drugs of the likes of anabolic steroids and minor tranquillisers may be where the problem started.  Or maybe I am being too kind and they are just morons.

Watching Class B reality is marginally more serious that watching Class C, and includes Australian Idol, Australia's Got Talent, Masterchef and My Kitchen Rules. While the guest stars of these shows may possess some hidden talent like flame throwing or horse whispering, it's still not that interesting watching someone cook a souffle, even if you were taking Class B drugs of the likes of amphetamines, codeine and cannabis.

Watching Class A reality is serious and will cause dependence and constipation. You must seek professional help as soon as the current season of Ladette to Lady is complete, because as rivetting as it is watching a bunch of skanky hoes turn into a bunch of skanky hoes who miraculously learn how to use a fork, you are effectively addicted to crystal meth, heroine, cocaine and/or esctasy.

Other Class A reality includes The Amazing Race, The Farmer Wants a Wife, Four Weddings, Dating in the Dark, Survivor, Conviction Kitchen, The Block, Please Marry my Boy.  That riduclous Big Brother started it all.  Seriously, why are any of these people on television?

And if you are inclined to watch this trash, can I suggest that - if you record an episode - you do not supply it to another person.