Dear Immigration Department,
Hey you guys! Yeah, you guys over there! You must have the best biceps in town, what with all that stamping you do. Oh to wield that mighty "application denied' stamp; I'd never have to go to the gym again.
Hey, I heard a little rumour, you may have heard it to, after all it was published nationally in The Australian- our last mighty bastion of media impartiality- that the "flood of asylum seeker has swollen (Christmas) Island's population by almost 60%". Holy shit balls batman! 60%! Well fuck me sideways, but that must mean there's thousands of the fuckers right? Right? Run and hide genuine Australians, run and fucking hide; there's a god damn flood of refugees coming your way. According to The Australian this flood is made up of, wait for it, wait for it, 73 "suspected" asylum seekers. 73? 73? 73 is a 60% increase? What the fuck? Hang on while I make someone else do the maths. So that mean that there were 122 before this flood, and there's 195 now? Jesus Christ on a motherfucking chariot. Immigration Department you astound me! I simply cannot fathom how you cope with your immense workload, it is truly astonishing. Big round of applause everyone for the Immigration Department! Woo! Yeah! You guys fucking rule!
On another note you'll be shocked to learn that Christmas Islanders resent asylum seekers, despite the fact that they're pretty much the only reason people stilll deliver food and toilet paper to that barren rock. Always here to help, I've come up with some suggestions as to where to put them:
1. Under the sea. Everybody want to live under the sea, right?
2. Ghettos. Australia lacks ghettos. Let's build some. After all the ghetto is the birthplace of hip hop. And, let's face it, Oz hip hop sucks balls. "I got paint on my shirt on the Beenleigh line"; enough said.
3. Canberra. Even the allure of weed and porn can't make Aussies want to live in this shithole. So let's give it to the refugees, it's not like they do anything useful down there anyway.
4. Greg Sheridan's house. Oh the fun they'll have, skipping and jumping and performing rousing renditions of 'Michael row the boat ashore'.
5. Tasmania. Given that the Tasmanians managed to kill all of their own black people, I think they could do with some more.
Send me your suggestions as to where to put the refugees and I'll send them through to the minister of Immigration. No seriously, I fucking will.
Sincerely,
Helenahandbasket.
*shit taken from Paige Taylor and Nicola Berkovic p3 "New Boat Stokes Island Tensions", The Australian 25/05/2009.
*what the fuck type of reference system is that. Didn't you go to uni you moron. Shhh, stop writing to yourself, people are starting to stare.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
today's winner is
Centrebet. Centrebet has opened bidding on the projected jobless rate in Australia. Just so we can have a little fun with the unfortunate, a group I strongly suspect I will be joining out very, very, soon. Hey, let's face it, if the jobless rate continues to rise as it is, gambling may be the only icome I have.
I'm pretty sure that this is the most Australian thing anyone has done all year. Seriously, I am nominating whoever the fuck runs this joint for Australian of the year. What a country we live in. That we can turn the economic recession into a competition is truly astonishing. I'm thinking of making team jerseys and selling them on ebay (necessity is the mother of all invention, afterall).
So choose a team: in the red corner we have the optimistic, the unaffected, the blind, go team reeeeeeeeeecoooooooooooooooooveerrrryyy! And in the blue corner with have the unemployed, the students, those permanently locked out of the property market, team impeeeeeeeeennding deeeeeeeepprrreeeeeeeeeeessssssssion! Who's it going to be, friends? Recovery's got the financial backing, but lacks the bite, impending depression's got a mean right hook, but moves damn slow through that melancholic fog.
Go on, bet on the quality of other people's lives. I've got no moral hang ups about profiting from the misfortune of others. Fuck it, I'm taking bets on Darfur: I'll take odds on instances of rape, torture, displacement, or murder. Any takers? Come on, it's the Australian thing to do.
Sincerely,
helenahandbasket
I'm pretty sure that this is the most Australian thing anyone has done all year. Seriously, I am nominating whoever the fuck runs this joint for Australian of the year. What a country we live in. That we can turn the economic recession into a competition is truly astonishing. I'm thinking of making team jerseys and selling them on ebay (necessity is the mother of all invention, afterall).
So choose a team: in the red corner we have the optimistic, the unaffected, the blind, go team reeeeeeeeeecoooooooooooooooooveerrrryyy! And in the blue corner with have the unemployed, the students, those permanently locked out of the property market, team impeeeeeeeeennding deeeeeeeepprrreeeeeeeeeeessssssssion! Who's it going to be, friends? Recovery's got the financial backing, but lacks the bite, impending depression's got a mean right hook, but moves damn slow through that melancholic fog.
Go on, bet on the quality of other people's lives. I've got no moral hang ups about profiting from the misfortune of others. Fuck it, I'm taking bets on Darfur: I'll take odds on instances of rape, torture, displacement, or murder. Any takers? Come on, it's the Australian thing to do.
Sincerely,
helenahandbasket
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dear Edward Cullen
Dear Edward Cullen,
You and I need to have a little talk. I’m sure you know why. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you somewhere dark and rainy if you like. We wouldn’t want those pesky sunlight induced crystals to ruin your “normal boy” façade. I’ll even let you bring your likewise afflicted friends, if that would make this process any easier for you. But you can leave that Bella girl at home; I know you really, really want to eat her, and I’m pretty sure you’re just keeping her around in case you feel like a tasty snack during your long sleepless nights, but she and I wouldn’t get along too well, you see I require actual brain activity in my friends, and teenage girls clearly suffering from neuro-vegetation just don’t make the cut. But from the signals you’ve been sending, I don’t think frigid virgins are on your mind either.
You can tell that I’m putting in a lot of effort to be diplomatic here, and under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree this makes me a pretty fucking understanding human being. But I think we can dispense with the niceties now, don’t you? Let’s just admit to what’s really going on here: you’re stalking me. Everywhere I turn there you are. You lurk in the gloom filled corners of my favourite bookstores, your pale face and golden eyes trying to lure me to you. You stand in the windows of CD stores, skin like marble, unmoving as a statue, silently begging me to join you. From the covers of magazines you entice me with forced human emotions, smiling here, laughing there, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette over there. You try to look natural, but we all know what’s going on. You’re obsessed with me. It’s okay, I understand, I’m a little bit obsessed with me too.
Who could resist my abrasive personality? My tendency towards the introspective, the antisocial, the offensive; these are simply irresistible qualities in a woman, I know. Perhaps you recognise a little bit of yourself in me. After all, neither of us is particularly good in social situations, you because you’d like to eat everyone, me because I’d like to kill everyone. We neither of us tolerate the inanities analogous with social interaction. The “how are yous”, the “I like your shirts”, the nodding and smiling as people tell you details of their lives that you have no interest in: stories about their dogs, their mothers, their dying siblings, their sexuality, their suicidal tendencies, these interactions drive us both practically homicidal.
I know you can read thoughts, and I don’t envy you this curse: people in general are stupid and boring; I can’t imagine their interior lives would be much different. Me on the other hand, I have a technicolour fictional world, my fantasies are accurate to the point of obsession, and they must be fascinating to eavesdrop into. I mean fuck, I’m far more interested in what’s going on in my made-up world than the real one. And speaking of fucking, I have a general proclivity towards that activity as well, unlike Miss Bella “my hymen’s still intact” Swan. That must surely be another reason for your growing obsession with me.
But you see, Edward, we’ve got a problem. You are a pretty fucking lame vampire. And I have to admit, I’ve done other vampires. I had a thirteen year relationship with the original vampire with a soul, Angel. His whinging and whining got to me too. All that crap about being a monster, atoning for sins, the trepidation about fucking in case he went all Angelus on me again, it got truly dull. I honestly looked forward to evil Angel; I mean sure people tended to die, and sure, apocalypse was never far from his mind, but man, he looked great in leather pants. That relationship was intermittently punctuated by my dalliances with the peroxide-haired Spike, who really knew how to party, and had no qualms about killing or fucking. Until that whole got a soul thing came up again, and then he got all pathetic and annoying too.
So you see by comparison, you are a total pussy. I’m sorry there’s simply no other way to put it, I've searched high and low for gender neutral expletives. You are a pussy. Sure you’re strong, you’re fast, and yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re pretty fucking hot too, but you’re not much fun are you? Lots of girls might swoon while you listen to Debussy, teach yourself French, and play lullabies on the piano for them, but not me. Uh uh. I like my vampires the same way I like life: fast, dark, and dirty. And you, my faithful stalker, are none of those things. A vampire that doesn’t kill or fuck goes against all of my morals.
There’s no future for you and I, Edward, you need to let it go. You have to stop following me like a bloodsucking, immortal puppy. I don’t want to see you anymore, not in the bookstores, not in the music shops, not in the window at Supre, not on the covers of magazines. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me get on with my life. I suggest you go home, fuck that virgin bride until your blue balls are cured, kill some irritating human beings- that Stephanie Meyer is pretty fat; she’d have a lot of blood to give, why don’t you start there?- take off your chinos, tone down the bouffant, stop plucking those eyebrows, and grow the fuck up. In short, I really just need you to go back to wherever the hell it is from which you came, and leave me the fuck alone.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
You and I need to have a little talk. I’m sure you know why. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you somewhere dark and rainy if you like. We wouldn’t want those pesky sunlight induced crystals to ruin your “normal boy” façade. I’ll even let you bring your likewise afflicted friends, if that would make this process any easier for you. But you can leave that Bella girl at home; I know you really, really want to eat her, and I’m pretty sure you’re just keeping her around in case you feel like a tasty snack during your long sleepless nights, but she and I wouldn’t get along too well, you see I require actual brain activity in my friends, and teenage girls clearly suffering from neuro-vegetation just don’t make the cut. But from the signals you’ve been sending, I don’t think frigid virgins are on your mind either.
You can tell that I’m putting in a lot of effort to be diplomatic here, and under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree this makes me a pretty fucking understanding human being. But I think we can dispense with the niceties now, don’t you? Let’s just admit to what’s really going on here: you’re stalking me. Everywhere I turn there you are. You lurk in the gloom filled corners of my favourite bookstores, your pale face and golden eyes trying to lure me to you. You stand in the windows of CD stores, skin like marble, unmoving as a statue, silently begging me to join you. From the covers of magazines you entice me with forced human emotions, smiling here, laughing there, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette over there. You try to look natural, but we all know what’s going on. You’re obsessed with me. It’s okay, I understand, I’m a little bit obsessed with me too.
Who could resist my abrasive personality? My tendency towards the introspective, the antisocial, the offensive; these are simply irresistible qualities in a woman, I know. Perhaps you recognise a little bit of yourself in me. After all, neither of us is particularly good in social situations, you because you’d like to eat everyone, me because I’d like to kill everyone. We neither of us tolerate the inanities analogous with social interaction. The “how are yous”, the “I like your shirts”, the nodding and smiling as people tell you details of their lives that you have no interest in: stories about their dogs, their mothers, their dying siblings, their sexuality, their suicidal tendencies, these interactions drive us both practically homicidal.
I know you can read thoughts, and I don’t envy you this curse: people in general are stupid and boring; I can’t imagine their interior lives would be much different. Me on the other hand, I have a technicolour fictional world, my fantasies are accurate to the point of obsession, and they must be fascinating to eavesdrop into. I mean fuck, I’m far more interested in what’s going on in my made-up world than the real one. And speaking of fucking, I have a general proclivity towards that activity as well, unlike Miss Bella “my hymen’s still intact” Swan. That must surely be another reason for your growing obsession with me.
But you see, Edward, we’ve got a problem. You are a pretty fucking lame vampire. And I have to admit, I’ve done other vampires. I had a thirteen year relationship with the original vampire with a soul, Angel. His whinging and whining got to me too. All that crap about being a monster, atoning for sins, the trepidation about fucking in case he went all Angelus on me again, it got truly dull. I honestly looked forward to evil Angel; I mean sure people tended to die, and sure, apocalypse was never far from his mind, but man, he looked great in leather pants. That relationship was intermittently punctuated by my dalliances with the peroxide-haired Spike, who really knew how to party, and had no qualms about killing or fucking. Until that whole got a soul thing came up again, and then he got all pathetic and annoying too.
So you see by comparison, you are a total pussy. I’m sorry there’s simply no other way to put it, I've searched high and low for gender neutral expletives. You are a pussy. Sure you’re strong, you’re fast, and yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re pretty fucking hot too, but you’re not much fun are you? Lots of girls might swoon while you listen to Debussy, teach yourself French, and play lullabies on the piano for them, but not me. Uh uh. I like my vampires the same way I like life: fast, dark, and dirty. And you, my faithful stalker, are none of those things. A vampire that doesn’t kill or fuck goes against all of my morals.
There’s no future for you and I, Edward, you need to let it go. You have to stop following me like a bloodsucking, immortal puppy. I don’t want to see you anymore, not in the bookstores, not in the music shops, not in the window at Supre, not on the covers of magazines. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me get on with my life. I suggest you go home, fuck that virgin bride until your blue balls are cured, kill some irritating human beings- that Stephanie Meyer is pretty fat; she’d have a lot of blood to give, why don’t you start there?- take off your chinos, tone down the bouffant, stop plucking those eyebrows, and grow the fuck up. In short, I really just need you to go back to wherever the hell it is from which you came, and leave me the fuck alone.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
Monday, May 18, 2009
I Love the War on Drugs
Battle stations! Load the torpedo tubes, man the guns, because we are at war people, we are at war. Who’s the enemy? Osama Bin Laden? No. Kim Jung Il? No. Boatpeople? Maybe. But not quite. Indonesia? No, although they’re a pesky problem. The Taliban? Getting close. It’s…Drugs. Oh… Ah, that’s terrifying. The scariest Goddamn enemy I’ve ever faced. Getting all mind altered and shit must surely be the most horrifying prospect in the world. And it’s not as though we have the capacity for independent thought that would allow us to make our own choices about narcotics. Not at all. The youth of today, as soon as we see that juicy bag of weed, or a couple of pills with a clever stamp on them (Kelly Slaters anyone? Now those were the days) our mental acuity is diminished to the point that all we can do is light up, sit back and wait for the high. Ahhhhhhhh! I’m scaring myself. Turn on the lights, quick! Check the closet! I’m shitting myself here. Drugs are in the closet! I repeat, and I do not mean to alarm you, there are drugs in my closet, and I’m scared they might attack and…and…and…make me feel really good about life. And then hungry. And then really good about life. And then tired. Ohhhhh, deadly.
So let me explain this in terms I understand. You guys are probably a couple of steps ahead of me, but hey, all this drug use has really fucked me up. There’s this war on drugs right? Right. Because drugs ruin lives, right? Right. So who’s this war against? Drugs. Right, so you’re telling me we’re fighting a war on inanimate objects? Yep, that pretty much sums it up. What the fuck? I know, I know, they’re trying to stop drug smugglers and the drug trade and shit, because that really ruins lives. Take Afghanistan. Their biggest commodity is heroin, that’s all they’ve got to sell. Why? I’d say it’s 50% Taliban 50% the Coalition of the Willing. So we’re going to stop the trade of pretty much the only commodity the Afghans have because some morons think it might be a good idea to jack needles in their arms and tune the fuck out. No offence or anything, but fuck them. If you’re stupid enough to have a heroin addiction, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I don’t give a rat’s fat arse if, when or how you choose to kill yourself. Seriously go for fucking gold. No one’s got a gun to your head saying “Shoot up, dipshit! Shoot up!” I say let them, and keep the Afghans fed.
I don’t want to talk about junkies. If you are one, I don’t care, you’re a douche. So hate me. Whatever, you’ll forget about it the next time you’re high, in 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. And the junkies have left the rant. I want to talk about good, old fashioned, recreational drug use. Why do we take drugs? Why, why, why, why, why? Why? Because they’re so much fun. You know it; you just aren’t stupid enough to put it on the internet. Lucky for you, I am.
Drugs are fun. Just like booze is fun, smoking is fun, and sometimes, casual sex with strangers is fun too. We know these things aren’t good for us, but you know what? They’re not as bad as authorities make out either. The way they go on, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ecstasy= certain death, or at least really bad teeth. Bullshit. In the ten years I’ve been partaking in recreational drug use, I’ve not known anyone to die from ecstasy. I’ve seen people fucked up, for sure, but seriously dudes, everything in moderation. But booze, fuck, I’ve seen people get the shit beaten out of them, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me, I’ve seen friends fall of the rooves of moving cars, fights, spats, disappearances, morning afters, regret, regret, regret. And this shit is legal? What the hell? The drug that heightens your aggression, disinhibits you to the point that you’ll go home with Jabba the fucking Hut if he offers, this shit is legal. Alcohol kills. Ecstasy makes things look pretty. Scary!
But surely Helen, you’re not advocating drug use? Well, this might get me arrested, but, yes, yes I am. Not the, “go get mama her crack pipe”, or the “can I use your needle after you?”, type of drug use. But the roll a j sit around, talk shit, laugh your arse off, and eat some pizza type of drug use. Or the, hey it’s new years eve, let’s have a pill and stay up all night talking about how much we value each others friendship type of drug use. Which is, contrary to popular belief, perfectly possible to partake in without: cracking your teeth, scratching your eyeballs out, attacking your mother and stealing her jewellery, or ending up living on the streets selling your arse for the money. Seriously. Drugs aren’t bad. People are just stupid. You’ve got to distinguish between the two.
So every time you see that little “Drugs: you don’t know what they’ll do to you” thing pop up, why don’t you make up your own mind, and find the fuck out. Because until the government makes alcohol and cigarettes illegal too, I refuse to pander to the arbitrary designation of these particular narcotics as illegal by not taking them. You want me on board, government? Either decriminalise it all, or criminalise it all, but until then, I’m pretty sure you don’t really give a fuck, so long as you’re making money.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
So let me explain this in terms I understand. You guys are probably a couple of steps ahead of me, but hey, all this drug use has really fucked me up. There’s this war on drugs right? Right. Because drugs ruin lives, right? Right. So who’s this war against? Drugs. Right, so you’re telling me we’re fighting a war on inanimate objects? Yep, that pretty much sums it up. What the fuck? I know, I know, they’re trying to stop drug smugglers and the drug trade and shit, because that really ruins lives. Take Afghanistan. Their biggest commodity is heroin, that’s all they’ve got to sell. Why? I’d say it’s 50% Taliban 50% the Coalition of the Willing. So we’re going to stop the trade of pretty much the only commodity the Afghans have because some morons think it might be a good idea to jack needles in their arms and tune the fuck out. No offence or anything, but fuck them. If you’re stupid enough to have a heroin addiction, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I don’t give a rat’s fat arse if, when or how you choose to kill yourself. Seriously go for fucking gold. No one’s got a gun to your head saying “Shoot up, dipshit! Shoot up!” I say let them, and keep the Afghans fed.
I don’t want to talk about junkies. If you are one, I don’t care, you’re a douche. So hate me. Whatever, you’ll forget about it the next time you’re high, in 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. And the junkies have left the rant. I want to talk about good, old fashioned, recreational drug use. Why do we take drugs? Why, why, why, why, why? Why? Because they’re so much fun. You know it; you just aren’t stupid enough to put it on the internet. Lucky for you, I am.
Drugs are fun. Just like booze is fun, smoking is fun, and sometimes, casual sex with strangers is fun too. We know these things aren’t good for us, but you know what? They’re not as bad as authorities make out either. The way they go on, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ecstasy= certain death, or at least really bad teeth. Bullshit. In the ten years I’ve been partaking in recreational drug use, I’ve not known anyone to die from ecstasy. I’ve seen people fucked up, for sure, but seriously dudes, everything in moderation. But booze, fuck, I’ve seen people get the shit beaten out of them, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me, I’ve seen friends fall of the rooves of moving cars, fights, spats, disappearances, morning afters, regret, regret, regret. And this shit is legal? What the hell? The drug that heightens your aggression, disinhibits you to the point that you’ll go home with Jabba the fucking Hut if he offers, this shit is legal. Alcohol kills. Ecstasy makes things look pretty. Scary!
But surely Helen, you’re not advocating drug use? Well, this might get me arrested, but, yes, yes I am. Not the, “go get mama her crack pipe”, or the “can I use your needle after you?”, type of drug use. But the roll a j sit around, talk shit, laugh your arse off, and eat some pizza type of drug use. Or the, hey it’s new years eve, let’s have a pill and stay up all night talking about how much we value each others friendship type of drug use. Which is, contrary to popular belief, perfectly possible to partake in without: cracking your teeth, scratching your eyeballs out, attacking your mother and stealing her jewellery, or ending up living on the streets selling your arse for the money. Seriously. Drugs aren’t bad. People are just stupid. You’ve got to distinguish between the two.
So every time you see that little “Drugs: you don’t know what they’ll do to you” thing pop up, why don’t you make up your own mind, and find the fuck out. Because until the government makes alcohol and cigarettes illegal too, I refuse to pander to the arbitrary designation of these particular narcotics as illegal by not taking them. You want me on board, government? Either decriminalise it all, or criminalise it all, but until then, I’m pretty sure you don’t really give a fuck, so long as you’re making money.
Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket
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