A squittering feminist bimbo is upset that she's not allowed into the changeroom to ask questions of rugby players. This certainly begs the question: are male journalists allowed into female changing rooms after the game? I doubt it. Sounds like the purest definition of sexual harassment to me. (Even if they are I suspect that most -- if not all -- male hacks would steer clear of the opportunity. They'd obey the age-old deference to female modesty that blokes get thoroughly thwocked into them all their lives.)

And check out the hysterical, misandrist bias in the title: "The male-only domain stinks". Would the Herald (or any paper in Oz, for that matter) run the title: "The female-only domain stinks"? Of course not! If they did, the cowering simps in Editorial would be pussy-whipped to an inch of their lives by foam-spitting twisted sisters. Every retarded harpy in Oz would be out with with the scissors yammering, "'I'll have yer balls for bolognaise!"

Even if you finally decide that the gripe is morally valid, you've got to ask: in this period of looming war, is such a petty squawk really worthy of inclusion in the opinion section of a major newspaper? And is it an injustice so significant that it's worth settling in the hallowed halls of Fluffy Wuffy Central, as the article informs us it should have been 8 years ago?

If you answer yes to either of these questions, then please kindly stick your head back up your arse.

 
Sad to hear that Senator Helen Coonan is in hot water with some grouchy mental health activist over her comments that nutbars and misery-gutses shouldn't be compensated. He reckons the comments were horribly insulting and that she should be sacked.

But I disagree entirely. As someone who is seriously mentally ill (as this blog amply demonstrates) I don't find her comments remotely offensive. Being perennially pissed-off (or even borderline psychotic) is no excuse for giving up the gig entirely and asking the taxpayer to pick up the tab. Okay, if you're severely retarded and in a vegetative state
-- well that's another story. But mild depression and lunacy are pretty much the norm for most bald monkeys, and have been since the beginning of time. You've just got to learn how to channel all that negative energy -- without picking up a gun.

Anyway, how can someone this gorgeous possibly offend anyone? She's an absolute spunk, and the mere vision of her cheers me up immensely!

 
Just a thought on the function of the fluffy wuffy "demo". I always wonder: what the hell is it that they're actually demonstrating?

Well, here's my theory: apart from the obvious -- that they are a smelly, dirty pack of dribbling no-neck yokels -- they are demonstrating their allegiance to the tribe.

It's kind of like soccer. That's a tribal ritual. You go along, watch people kick a ball around, get pissed and generally enjoy being in a pack. Hence the face painting and uniform appearance.

See, here's a soccer fan. Here are a couple of old fluffy wuffies. The soccer fan is demonstrating his tribal allegiance by painting his face red. The fluffs are demonstrating tribal allegiance by wearing identical hats and t-shirts. Tribalism, pure and simple.

There's another similarity: Here are some soccer fans getting out of control. Here are some jackbooted fluffy wuffies getting out of control. Hardly any difference between the two, don't you reckon? It's just dumb violent pack behaviour.

(Well, there is one difference: the fluffs are often much more violent.)

 
More arts bashing tonight.

Look at the list of sponsors for the Perth International Arts Festival. Run by pinkos, but funded by gambling and booze. Why do they bother?

One of the prime movers is the WA Department of Culture and the Arts. Oh, that title just creeps me out. It's kind of reminiscent of the Taliban's Ministry of Information and Culture (closely linked to the Ministry of Vice and Virtue). Gawd, we might have to get the Seppos to come in and bomb Perth as well!

(On second thoughts, I shouldn't have made that comparison. It was very unfair. The Taliban had a greater respect for creativity.)

 
What's this? Gawd, I'm not. Still on the bones of me arse, actually.

 
I just got a fright, dear readers. Wanting to check out that great Pomgolian intellectual magazine The Spectator, I typed in what I thought was the correct address. But I got this. I thought, crikey, those fusty fighters have really loosened up a bit since last I logged on. What the hell's going on?

Then I remembered the correct address.

Thank God for that.

 
More rorting in Artsville. Of course the organizers want volunteers. They get all the hard work done for free, while they get paid damn well for sitting on their arses doin' sweet fuck all.

(Gawd, what's happening! I'm starting to sound like a unionist. Must renew my commitment to the movement by re-reading the handbook.)

 
If anyone is still stupid enough to believe that Australia's theatre scene is creative, vibrant, and based on merit, then cop an optic of West Australian company Deckchair Theatre's 2002 season.

It's like a parody of political correctness. It includes the obligatory ethnic humour, then several excruciatingly worthy shows based on the following subjects: teenage sheilas dropping sprogs; mad sheilas; mad old sheilas bringing democracy to East Timor; and mad Marxist sheilas with moustaches. About the only thing that's not jaw-droppingly, head-fuckingly PC is the event featuring heaps of boofheaded ball-bouncing beefcake (cleary there just to fill the coffers).

It's hilarious. But this is the bit that really cracks me up: a Chardonnay-slurping, Brie-guzzling soiree for audience members to mingle with the stars -- obviously for a hefty fee. Yet the organisers are all bloody socialists! Considering the poor theatre-goers have already suffered a combination of shit-house writing, mediocre acting, and sloppy direction (not to mention the puerile dinner party conversation) I'm surprised that most don't just hurl all over the table. (Maybe they already have, and the Pollock-like mess will be proudly presented as an after show exhibition later in the year.)

No wonder so many people in Freo are dribbling bong-sucklers. It's the only way they can cope with all the dreadful theatre that's been inflicted upon them over the years.

PS: Why do they call the season a "journey"? It goes frigin' nowhere; just chucks dumb-arse bog laps in a dusty little ideological cul-de-sac.

 
Nice to know the feminist bimbos in India are becoming as petty as the ones here in Oz. In this case, they're pissed off with the fictional portrayal of women when in some parts of the country their very real -- though less privileged and educated -- sisters are still regularly being burned alive. You'd think they'd put all their energy into righting this much greater wrong, wouldn't you? In this they mirror the middle-class molluscs of Australia's universities and media, who bitch and moan endlessly about the use of incorrect suffixes in the workplace while remaining almost completely silent when it comes to politically correct pack rapes.

 
Having been a resident of Artsville for quite some time, I'm constantly amazed at how retarded most of its residents are. I used to think this was due mainly to their sheltered middle-class backgrounds, and the mind-numbing effect of the Salinist ideology that dominates the joint. But I think the drug ecstasy may have something to do with it. It's still quite popular with the squitterati, and was all the rage a few years back. Here's an interesting article backing up my hypothesis.