What would you call a fully-grown, so-called masculine Donkey who cries at the movies? Yeah, well I’m sure there are plenty of names one might use, but we will refrain from using them here for fear of substantially lowering the tone of this forum.
Now let me ask you this; what would you call a fully-grown, so-called masculine Donkey who cries at the movies … while he’s watching a children’s film?
Soft cock! Pussy! Woos-bag! Sook! Wanker! Sheila! … and the list could go on.
But I must confess that while taking my niece to the movies on the weekend to see Horton, the animated Dr Seuss story of an elephant who learns of another, microscopic world on a speck of dust and puts everything on the line to save it, that’s exactly what I did. I became a ridiculous, snivelling, blubbering fool. Quite pathetic, really, and definitely an incident which needs dissecting, ‘cause it’s a pretty disturbing scenario.
Even as a youngster, I was fairly sceptical of my mother’s ban on toy guns. I mean, I might have been young, but I fancied I knew the difference between a plastic piece of shit and a real, working gun, and I never understood or believed that there could be any danger in playing with the former, given I was not the type of foal who was inclined to want to kill anybody.
I maintained this stance for many years, and as a much older Donkey, I remember getting abused to within an inch of my life one evening by an irate taxi driver who’d been listening to talk-back radio for an entire twelve hour shift (enough to make anyone go on a shooting spree, I reckon). After settling myself drunkenly into the passenger seat, I picked-up on the radio topic at hand, which was about Power Rangers and other children’s toys which, according to late night, right-wing consensus, promoted violence. Well, being the all-round great Donkey that I am - the People’s Friend, as I like to think of myself after a few hundred beers – I decided to weigh-in and slur my opinions on the matter, saying, “Awrrr come-on ‘ere a minutsh. Dese bastardsh dunno what dey’re talkin’ ‘bout ‘caush kidsh dese daysh dey not shtupid an aren’tsh gonna fink toysh ish gonna make em do violencsh … hic!”.
What drunken Donkey wasn’t so great at reading at 4am on a Saturday morning was that the driver happened to be one of those “bastardsh” who was sticking with the consensus, and he let Donkey have it in no uncertain terms, demanding what an up-start, drunken, silver-spoon-up-his-arse, Eastern suburbs piece of shit would know about raising kids anyway, to which I responded with a contended snore; and courageously feigned sleep all the way home, just in case he decided to hit me.
Anyway, the point here is that for so long I’ve been pretty unbelieving about the effects of subliminal messages, and it is with that attitude that I took my lovely niece along to see Horton on Saturday morning.
It’s a great movie, I must say. Full of humour, colour, great images, sounds and movements. A great, fun story. Unfortunately for Donkey’s reputation as a fine, up-standing, unworldly, sport-loving homophobe, it also carried a very powerful subliminal message which had such a profound effect upon me as to transform me into a sobbing, weeping mess.
Basically, the movie brought home a lot of the issues that I’ve been dealing with (and which I am obviously far from having dealt with) over the last couple of months. Now forgive my attempt at subterfuge, here, but I have to be very careful with how I say this. Basically, Horton the Elephant, after discovering the town of Whoville, which is a microscopic world living on a speck of dust, comes to the realisation that every life, no matter how small or different from our own, is worth saving, and just because you can’t see or hear it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve to live. Fair enough! But the protagonist in the movie, an uppity Kangaroo, is so reluctant to allow that to happen, for fear of it leading to anarchy, that she is willing to allow … no, encourage out-and-out lawlessness to prevent it.
As the movie unfolded, I couldn’t help but read in that message that the Kangaroo was reminiscent of a very influential, [emerging world economic power] which I have had a bit to do with lately, and that the tiny world of Whoville, out of sight and out of mind on the speck, turned my tearful thoughts to a small [region within that emerging economic power, which is said to enjoy some self-determination].
As I blubbered through the colours and images, I watched as all attempts were made to keep this [so-called, self-determining region], like Whoville, far away from the eyes and ears of the rest of the Jungle of Nool’s animals, for fear that their new and misunderstood ways may change the order of things, resulting in anarchy throughout the [emerging, economic] Jungle of Nool, and in order to prevent this anarchy, I watched as the Kangaroo, the leader of the [emerging, economic] Jungle of Nool, led the rest of the animals of Nool on a rampage of hatred and revenge, inflicting all manner of violence against Horton and the inhabitants of the [so-called, self-determined region] of Whoville.
Some of you will know where I have come from recently, and perhaps you can appreciate that I have witnessed the animals of the [emerging, economic] Jungle of Nool, whipped-up into a fearful frenzy, inflict all kinds of atrocities on the people of the [so-called, self-determined region] of Whoville. I am afraid as I sat, mortified, in that Bangkok cinema on a Saturday morning, that the whole thing was just a little too much to hold in.
Fortunately for me, it was pretty dark in there, and my niece was too wrapped-up in the colours, images and sounds to notice my shuddering form beside her. But clearly there is a message in this film which, if it hits the right mark, can have a very profound effect. It seems that the focus of discussion around subliminal messages is usually on the negative influence they have on young people, but who’s to say that they cannot be used to do some good in the world? While the messages in movies like Horton may go a bit over the top of young kids like my niece, perhaps they will embed somewhere in their brains and hearts which may, as they grow to take their place in their communities, lead to a much better world than the one we are living in at the moment. 
The Mayor of Whoville; one of the colourful, wacky characters in Horton, which had Donkey sobbing in his popcorn. Pic: www.imdb.com
I guess I shouldda known that a hot-tempered, short, fat, Sri Lankan science teacher, who was renowned for violent outbursts at even the slightest snigger from a twelve year old wasn’t going to be the best Human Development teacher of all time. If not his nervous, embarrassed persona, then his near-fatal treatment of poor Mark Kennard who thought the 80s animation of a woman’s breasts growing through puberty was pretty funny, should have confirmed it.
Because of Mr Peters’ utterly inadequate delivery of the subject, I was completely taken by surprise when the wet dreams, curly hair and body odour arrived thirteen years later (OK, I’m a late bloomer), although I am still waiting for my Old Feller to grow, so he obviously got that message across alright - it was a triumphant night in the Donkey household that night, I can tell you! I can remember delivering victorious air punches all the way home from school … but I now realise it was just another betrayal of a pre-adolescent’s trust.
As was the complete lack of information of what was really going to happen to my body. Sure, they tell you you’re voice is going to break, your balls are gonna drop and grow to the size of footballs, that yer knob would become a raging python and that you’d get hair on yer chinny-chin-chin, but all those were supposed to make you sexy … were things to look forward to. But what about the rest of it?
No doubt some hot-shot lawyer for the Christian Brothers whose court-room skills had been honed for his clients thanks to an excess of other legal proceedings in the last decade, would say, “Well, my clients never actually told you any lies about what would happen to you”. Agreed. But what about all the info that they DIDN’T tell us?
I mean, not a week goes by now that I don’t recognise something new and unexpected about my body. “You’ll grow hair on your chest and face”, they told us – great, but what about my back, shoulders and nose? Before long I’ll have to sink to that depth where I am forced to whisper in the ear of an attractive young hair dresser, “Just give me ears and snoz a trim, too, would ya Love?”.
“Your voice and testicles will drop down”. Sure, that’s good to know, but why no mention of descending man boobs and huge, flaccid jowls?
“You’ll grow thick hairs around yer … um … thingies”. OK, that would have been a good lesson during which to have paid attention, but I’m sure I would have perked-up if someone had mentioned an Afghan carpet emerging from my arse! And why exactly does it have to have migrated from my scalp?
The lawyers may well be right; the Christian Brothers didn’t actually tell us any lies, but they certainly neglected to tell us that in a few years, we’d all be turning into our fathers! Bastids! No doubt the concealment of these many facts was some innovative form of youth suicide prevention, but just because people don’t throw themselves off a bridge on Brother So-and-so’s watch, doesn’t mean they aren’t going to try it later, when, at the age of 27, the realisation finally dawns.
Fortunately, the breakthroughs in male grooming technology and practices driven by the metro-sexual revolution can be employed to keep the wolves from the door for most manifestations of male aging; home nasal-hair kits can be used for most orifices, the front, back and crack wax, available from all good beauty salons, can have you looking like Thorpie in a matter of minutes, man-bras can be worn discreetly to the gym, and there are pills to correct those other unfortunate effects of gravity.
But this week I received yet another unexpected, crushing blow to my dwindling, youthful vigour, taking me just that one step closer to looking like my father, and this time, there’s not a gadget in Christendom which is gonna help me to stay looking young. This week my recent suspicions were confirmed when I discovered yet another change in my aging body. The change this time wasn’t my vocal chords, my balls, my willy, chest, back or arse. This time the change was in my ears.
What those bastards at the Christian Brothers school don’t tell you is that, as you get older, a blokes ears change so that every time he goes into the water; at the beach or at the pool, water gets in and doesn’t come out. So next time you’re down at the local pool, and you’ve had your swim, taken a shower, and are heading out to the car, don’t avert your eyes from all those sad old farts huddled together near the door, their torsos bent sideways so that their heads are parallel to the ground as they bounce up and down on one leg. You never know, one of ‘em could be yer old mate, Donkey!
Oh, and by the way, regarding the crappy 1980s breast-growing animation, it’s one of growing-up’s great releases to reach that age when you actually feel comfortable with saying that, “Yeah, Mark Kennard was right – it was farking hilarious!”. God rest your poor, maimed soul, Mark!
Ear hair - one of the unsung effects of male aging - very unattractive indeed. Pic: http://news.bbc.co.uk/nol/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/05/health_guinness_medical_record_breakers/img/1.jpg
I regularly slip back to the glory days when I was a rosy-faced chum strutting up and down the ancient, hallowed halls of La Trobe University*, rocking-up to lectures with a hangover every day, starting food fights in the cafeteria every lunch time ... to me, it really doesn't seem like that long ago. But every now and then I think about something which jars me into realizing just how deluded I am about my age. This happened on the weekend, when a chance remark from a friend made me think back to the first time I ever saw or heard of the internet – it was on the last day of University! Can you believe that? Fark, the world's gone mad – how would any of us cope nowadays if we didn't have faithful Google by our sides?
It’s a massive change! We're completely reliant on the internet now. It was not all that long ago that parents were denying my generation the use of computers because they were only good for playing games, and thus interfered with their child’s learning. Nowadays, at least in most developed nations, parents who deny their children access to the internet are all but gaoled for breeching the International Convention on the Rights of the Child. Technology’s like that. It forces societies to change the way they think; not just a little bit, but often to the extent of a complete 180 degree turnaround.
Take another example. Today I was wandering around the hideously inflamed, herniated shopping mall that is Bangkok, and I watched as these two young people purchased mobile phones that were so small as to actually fit into that (until now) useless little pocket that you find in the front of a pair of jeans, y'know, that one inside the main pocket? Yeah, well it got me to thinking that only 14 years ago, all the guys I used to work with carried around those Motorola bricks which, if anyone were lucky enough to be able to stuff one into their pocket, would find themselves on the receiving end of substantial community backlash against inappropriate displays of crack! ... and only 2 years before that, there was no such thing as a mobile phone at all! Back in the ‘90s, mobile phones in the workplace were banned for fear of wasting valuable company time. But just try getting a job nowadays if you’re unable to supply your prospective employer with a mobile phone number. Technology has changed society’s views so much that what was previously thought to be a bad thing, is now mandatory.
But y’know, with technology, there’re always the stragglers – the people who are stubbornly unwilling to embrace whatever technological revolution the kids are into this week. They believe they are making a stand … that their refusal to adopt the technological change will maintain some notion of how society “should be”, but they just don’t get it. Technology’s not there to hurt us, it’s there to help us … all of us. And what these selfish ignoramaii need to understand is that for one person to deny this fact, and to refuse to embrace technology, they are not only denying themselves the chance of a better future, but all those around them as well.
My case in point is the extremely traumatic impact that one man’s refusal to embrace the technological advances in male swimwear had on poor ol’ Donkey recently. But first, let’s just have a quick appraisal of where technology has brought us in that department. If you thought Donkey had been chastised enough in his youth for being short, fat, bald and smelly, for speaking in a high-pitched, whiney voice and for his penchant for the taste of his own nasal mucous, then you must understand that the social exclusion he derived from these qualities was as nothing compared with the effect of being forced by his unfashionable mother to wear a pair of stripy blue, white and grey Speedos to the beach or pool, every summer of his life for 17 years.
Speedos, Australia’s gift to the world when first released on the market in the 1960s, were designed to maintain maximum modesty, while ensuring minimum drag as they cut through the water on some buff male lifeguard.
Back in the 1960s, although shocking to the world at the time, these tiny garments were actually pretty substantial, but as the years went by, and as nylon technology improved, Speedos became considerably smaller and tighter, and soon adopted a cultural identity all of their own, assuming names such as dick-stickers, budgie-smugglers, the packed lunch, dick-pointers, sluggoes, lolly bags, banana hammocks and slug-huggers.
Unfortunately for Donkey, the 1960s were only just before the 1970s, and while the new and improved Speedos were on the store shelves by the time I needed to avail them, you could still find some of the original models if you shopped around a bit … and they were usually really cheap. As well as being unfashionable, Ma Donkey was also a bit of a tight-arse, so that’s what Donkey ended up with; a great, big, saggy pair of blue, white and grey striped Speedos which, unlike their evolving successors, actually got bigger and saggier over the following 17 years as the nylon threads grew longer and eventually gave out.
Donkey’s reputation as being the only kid in the South Eastern suburbs not to get a kiss and a grope from the blossoming Susan Evans behind the kiosk at the Waverley Pool in the summer of 1986 aside, technological advances in waterproof fabric were going gangbusters in the 1980s, and the Speedos were getting smaller, sleeker and more fashionably designed each summer, with bright colours replacing the previously de rigueur navies, blacks, browns and stripes. Athletes were happy, the telephoto paparazzi anchored 6 miles off Miami Beach were happy and the emerging gay community was ecstatic.
Governments, eager to harness some political ballast from this swimsuit-led global euphoria, poured unprecedented reserves of public funds into research and development of even more high-tech, waterproof material, and before long, the technology had become so advanced, that a new, completely unpredicted swimsuit revolution was upon us, the likes of which had not been seen since the ‘60s. Just when the Speedo threatened to get so small that it was in danger of disappearing up some perfectly curved, muscular behind, the Teflon swimsuit arrived.
Within days, athletes in the pool were slashing Olympic records by a third, and the Skin Cancer Lobby snapped to attention and rode that unforeseen, financial coup like a raging Tsunami all the way up the beach and into the backyards and school yards of the developed world. Virtually overnight, this incredible, technological breakthrough in aqua wear led to a complete 180 degree turnaround in beach fashions from showing as much flesh as possible, to being covered up like Douglas Mawson in an Antarctic Blizzard. And as you all know, that’s how it’s been on the beaches of the world, from Mordialloc to Monte Carlo, ever since.
At least that’s what I had thought, until a couple of weeks ago. I’d been bashing out a couple of kilometers down at the local pool, powering along in my head-to-toe Teflon (blue, grey and white stripes – I may dress myself nowadays, but old habits die hard) and as often happens when one is breaking world land/sea speed records, my mind had wandered off to what crap I was going to write on my blog that week, so I didn’t take much notice of the bright, red streak that passed me on numerous occasions.
When I reached the end of the last lap, in a bit of a daze from my exertions, I went through my usual ritual to slow my heart down; blowing out all the air from my lungs and laying face-up on the bottom of the pool. I must’ve been there for a fair while ‘cause eventually I was woken from my contemplative state by the rapidly-approaching red streak. As it came closer, I was horrified to behold the disgusting sight of a pair of bright, red, poorly elasticized, vintage Speedos – I mean really, in this day and age!
My innocent sensibilities were certainly confronted, I can assure you, but Donkey’s basically a live-and-let-live kind of guy, so I tried to relax and arrest my escalating heart rate. Despite my best attempts to ignore the offensive sight, however, those red micro-pants seem to hold some kind of spell over me … they were like the Mona Lisa – I couldn’t escape that mocking stare, no matter which way I turned my head. As such, I happened to be looking straight up at them when their owner came out of his tumble-turn, and as he twisted out from the wall, there they were; a great big, greasy penis and a gigantic, hairy, wrinkled testicle, hanging out the side of the flapping red pant, and bouncing back and forth with each stroke as they swung off down the pool.
In my confusion and fear, I forgot my surroundings and let out a frightened sob, which was immediately replaced with about 300mL of highly chlorinated water. I dunno what happened after that, but the next thing I knew I was lying on my side next to the starting blocks while an attractive pool attendant was wrinkling her nose at the smell of my vomit, which had somehow covered her right shoulder and most of her chest in a chunky film.
Technology is there for a reason. Just as Darwin would argue that only adaptive beings will survive, people need to learn that technology, like evolution, is there to assist and enhance that survival, and to ignore it will kill not only you, Mr Inappropriate-and-Inadequate-Red-Speedos, but a poor, mentally scarred and innocent Donkey as well.
* that’s a joke, by the way – La Trobe is internationally maligned in architect circles for its mission-brown, square brick buildings … ok, I get it, not a very funny one.
Dick-stickers, budgie-smugglers, the packed lunch, dick-pointers, sluggoes, lolly bags, banana hammocks, slug-huggers … it’s not right, is it? Pic: http://www.yenmag.net/img/news/12/speedo.jpg
After everything that Mrs Donkey and I have been through over the last few weeks, it has been very heartening and consoling to receive numerous phone calls and emails from friends and families enquiring about our physical and mental well being. Indeed we’re fine, both physically, and in terms of what we’ve been through, emotionally as well. However, something that does not seem to be understood by our loved ones around the globe, is the effect of something even more emotionally crippling than the rumble of tanks and the cracking of nocturnal gunfire.
Since being exiled in Bangkok, Mrs D and I have found ourselves living in the comfortable and welcoming bosom of my sister, her husband and their young children, the latter of whom are at that age where they have come to enjoy - who am I kidding? – have become tragically and hopelessly addicted to that relatively new phenomenon on Australian television, which features a number of idiots in primary-coloured tops dancing around a couple of would-be actors in fluffy animal suits. These singing and dancing, monochromatic acts have taken Australia (and in some cases, the world) by storm, gradually, stealthily creeping-up on our children like some destructive, mentally retarding brain cancer.
They’re all the same, following a tried and tested formula of bold, but contrasting colours on a more or less non-descript background; bouncing, repetitive movements; a couple of non-threatening, but equally colourful fluffy animal suits; and a collection of simple, catchy, repetitive tunes, all of which are designed to hypnotise or virtually paralyse anybody of a certain level of intelligence, be they young child or parent.
Interestingly enough, many of the boppy songs have a low-base, techno-like drum-beat which, when combined with bright colours and bouncy movements, has the exact same effect on children as it does on ecstasy-guzzling ravers – there’s a lesson in there for all you David Attenborough types.
Anyway, the whole point of these programs is that they can successfully send a rampaging two year old, hell-bent on destruction of every vase and electrical device in the home, into a docile, dribbling vegetable in about two seconds flat. It’s no wonder the programs have been adopted by exhausted parents everywhere as a surrogate baby sitter, however the problems begin when this helpful course of action gets abused, and these DVDs find themselves on high rotation, three or four times a day.
But for the uninitiated, let me offer you a nice, brief, un-biased DonkeyBlog explanation of this destructive phenomenon.
It all started, of course, with The Wiggles. Four washed-up, never-quite-made-it pop stars in different-coloured skivvies who thought it’d be a good idea to make up a few monotonously repetitive songs (not unlike their previous recordings) for the kiddies, only to become an instant, over-night hit, owing to their boppy tunes, saccharine smiles and muscular torsos (which succeeded in keeping the Mums very happy indeed). Their success was helped along by the introduction of a fluffy green dinosaur suit, a brown dog, a purple octopus, a red sports car and a fairly, implausibly peace-loving pirate. Their rise was dramatic and impressive. The Wiggles have now lent their images to a cartoon, and have spawned an internationally sought after merchandising franchise. They are, and have been for some time now, the kings of children’s television!
But poor old Sam, Murray, Jeff and Anthony are getting a little old, nowadays, to be still wearing those skivvies. It seems that their rapid success, having gone to their heads pretty quickly, soon bounced off their inner craniums, and headed straight for their waistlines, resulting in those slim, young bundles of smiling energy looking a little more like sad, leering, recovering alcoholics who seem to be getting just a little too close to those poor little children.
This metamorphosis, although having been missed by most parents who had stopped buying the DVDs after their first couple of releases, did not go unnoticed by entrepreneurial types in businesses suits up the high end of town, nor did The Wiggles’ rapid, multi-million dollar success, and before long, they had done their market research and introduced some new players on the scene.
First came HI-5; five young, funky things who looked like they’d strolled right out of a rave and into the studio – wearing Lycra, face paint and Indian bindis on their foreheads, they were a cyclone of fresh air, both for the kids and for the dads, who had grown tired of storming around living rooms while both child and wife sat transfixed, staring at the bouncing Wiggles with drool hanging out the corners of their mouths. HI-5 offered a little bit of titillation to the male parent, who soon became as hooked as their children on the monotonous, repetitive songs and movement of the new players. True to form, their wider-reaching appeal also spawned a merchandising success story, as the suits in glass building towers had predicted they would, and their cartoon likenesses, with their Manga-like, embellished lashes and cleavage, have also become a recognised trademark across the globe.
Perhaps a little late on the scene, but also following the formula of coloured shirts, fluffy animals and catchy tunes, were The Hooley Dooleys. Unfortunately for them, they have missed the cartoon likeness and merchandising boats, preventing their ever becoming overnight billionaires, however their delayed debut on the competitive, infant-mind-control scene has given this never-quite-made-it country and western trio plenty of time to do their homework, allowing them to produce a product which, through calculated, mental manipulation, will guarantee them ongoing DVD sales, and a very comfortable early retirement indeed. It is The Hooley Dooleys which Mrs Donkey and I have been exposed to in considerable doses over the last two weeks. I have come to respect and fear them in a way that I would any evil, criminal masterminds, and I will state emphatically and passionately right here as I massage my mental scars, that The Hooley Dooleys MUST DIE!
At first glance, such as when, as a parent, you are trolling the children’s DVD section of the local store looking for something fresh and new since Baby Grumbles outgrew twenty-odd DVDs of The Wiggles and HI-5, you would see that The Hooley Dooleys are a pretty safe bet for your little one – all the usual elements are there; primary coloured shirts, a fluffy kangaroo and a big, purple teddy bear. They sing, they dance and it’s all good. Even after you get it home, and see that the first couple of viewings result in the desired effect (ie Bubs drifting off into gurgles and a coma), you’ll be happy with what The Hooley Dooleys have to offer.
But it’s after the third or fourth viewing that things start to appear … well, not quite right. The first thing you notice is that these guys are a bit creepy; they wear the coloured shirts, sure, but they also have some pretty strange, very high pants on. One guy always wears a hat, but during one scene, he takes it off to reveal a shiny pate, and a long, flowing white mullet down his back. To make him seem even stranger, while the other two are wearing the crazy, wacky high-pants, he’s simply sporting a black pair of shorts – did you get that? Bald + mullet + shorts = keep him away from my child!
Other things, at first glance, appear normal too, but they’re not. As I mentioned, tall, fluffy animals – a kangaroo and a big, purple teddy bear. But as one gets to know the Hooley Dooleys, one learns that the teddy bear is not a teddy bear at all, but something called a Doodad. The Doodad’s name is Tickle – are you hearing this? Tickle the Doodad. Hmmm.
The Hooley Dooleys have even followed the tried-and-tested formula of multi-cultural diversity, by having one member whose country of origin is not Australia; The Wiggles have Jeff, from an unidentified Southeast Asian country, and HI-5 have the exotic, sexy and provocative Asian play-thing, Kathleen. The Hooley Dooleys have Antoine, a Frenchman who happens to be the owner of the afore mentioned mullet and inappropriate trousers. But The Hooley Dooleys go one step further than their peers by making repeated reference to Antoine’s nationality, and by performing songs which are designed to teach kids French. Why? I couldn’t imagine, but it is consistent with the French Government’s global commitment to promoting French language and culture – could it be that The Hooley Dooleys, and Antoine in particular, are a French Government plant, in order to brainwash our children into blowing-up socially motivated minority groups, embracing nuclear testing in their own backyards, smoking at the dinner table and basically being loud and obnoxious at every opportunity? It certainly makes you wonder.
But inappropriate fashion, sexual innuendo and international conspiracy aside, the real problem with The Hooley Dooleys is their blatantly manipulative, hypnotising, brain washing music and dancing. I have been exposed to this horrifying social experiment for the past two weeks, and I can barely function. In the morning, my eyes haven’t yet been cleared of gunk before I am singing that stupid We are the Hooley Dooleys song. On the bog, I find myself humming The Lunar Beat, and by shave time, I’m shaking my arse to the BOTTOM Boogie.
At breakfast, I sit comatose beside my niece (who’s halfway through viewing number one for the day) and forget to drink my coffee, and when I finally wander off to work with my headphones in my ears, I find that even the whine of Bob Dylan can’t cut through the friggin’ Jungle Boogie that’s splitting my skull from the inside out. It goes on all day! The slightest reference tips me off into more Hooley F’n Dooleys! And I’m a grown, arguably educated Donkey! Imagine what this crud is doing to a developing, moulding mind … to the minds of an entire nation of young people! We’re talking about opium (kiddie formula) for the masses (of children aged 1-3).
Something has to be done before my, and Australia’s future leaders’ minds become Hooley Dooley mush. The Australian broadcasting censors obviously can’t be trusted to prevent this kind of dribble making it through the net, and it’s now being marketed to offshore audiences. All children, everywhere are at risk. The Hooley Dooleys must be stopped, and I call on the United Nations - on UNICEF to do something about it. The Hooley Dooleys MUST DIE!
But perhaps, if death by firing squad is not appropriate for those who commit systematic infanto-genocide, an International peace-keeping force to Australia to surround the homes of the Hooley Dooleys and place them under house arrest is indicated (that is if they haven’t already fled and been granted asylum in French territory in the Pacific by Antoine’s corrupt, high-ranking Government official brother). Yes, an International peace keeping force is just what we need, and I for one would be willing to assist with selection of an appropriately diverse peace-keeping contingent, complete with military personnel from a range of nations, including a couple of trigger-happy, Chinese PLA soldiers. Antoine, you bastard. I’ll give you Bubble and Squeak every day of the bloody week!
Bald + mullet + shorts = keep him away from my child! Pic: http://15min.org/images/t_2001-11-28_03.jpg
