Please, Let Me Kill You – Or At Least Get Angry At You a Bit

A newly formed habit gradually creeps up on you. You wake up, pick your nose, roll it between your thumb and forefinger and drop it over the side of your bed. It’s only when you vacuum and it sounds like you’re sucking up scattered sand that you realise you’ve been rolling snot and dropping it next to your bed for pretty much as long as you can remember.

‘You can relax, little one. The chiwawa is gone.’

Of course, probably, when you become aware of your new lazy-arsed, snot rolling and dropping habit, you’ll stop – although there will always be something satisfying about mining out a booger the size of a small cockroach. But what if you’ve formed a new habit that you just can’t shake, like wishing a stranger would outrage you enough so you can kill them?

Men, Get the F##k Off the Couch and Do Some Housework

The majority of guys are lazy, sooky, mummy’s boys. Don’t believe me? Have a conversation with any woman in a relationship with a dude and you can bet pretty much most of them will say their man does absolutely nothing around the house. And they mean nothing. As in doesn’t lift a God-damn finger, nothing.

How does this happen? How do two people get to the point where it seems totally normal for one to do every piece of housework while the other doesn’t do any? To me, it sounds like utter insanity.

Diary Of A Scared Kid

Damn! The Little Mermaid is scary shit!

A while ago whilst driving through the outback on the way to a wedding, I passed a little hotel with a sign on the roof stating ‘Grey Nomads welcome’. Now, I can be a bit naive at times and my first reaction conjured up thoughts of bikers piling in at sunset to bathe in Jack Daniels and watch their skanks pole dance on the pool tables. ‘Shit, we must be in biker country,’ I said to my girlfriend while studying the road behind in the mirror. It wasn’t until my much smarter and streetwise girlfriend let me in on the secret that Grey Nomads were actually elderly people travelling around Australia in camper-vans making the most of their retirement, that I started to relax.

‘Are you scared of motorcycle gangs or something?’ she asked. ‘No’, I replied maybe a little too quickly.

I Do – But I Don’t Do Your Name.

This is a debate I know can get ugly. After writing, I’m going to be looking over my shoulder expecting to be dragged into dark alleys by high-powered female business women and academics. I’ll be tied up with their slimming Shapewear, beaten with iPads and left as a warning to other men who foolishly dare broach the subject.

This subject can get ugly.

After watching a movie the other day called Hot Tub Time Machine – seriously hilarious, there’s a drunken dude dressed as a bear, freakin gold. I began thinking about the traditionally slippery slope of working out what happens to your surname after marriage.

Whacking Day – Who will save us now that Barry’s gone?

Whack slow, or whack quick.

Oh Homer, I love you dearly. Not only have you helped to raise me from a child through countless re-runs but you’ve taught me how to become a man. You’ve taught me that as long as my heart is pure, being clueless and happily naïve is socially acceptable behaviour for a thirty year old. You’ve even taught me about how wrong it is to bash in the skulls of defenceless animals, even though it’s a completely legalised government initiative.

Yep, whacking day has come to Queensland.