Help I'm being stalked by frangipani stickers

For some retarded reason I decided to go and get myself ill earlier this week. The biggest pain about being sick is not the "I can't move and I think I spat out my lung" part, but going to the doctor. I'm sure I'll cover that in more detail soon (I HATE WAITING ROOMS) but I'm going to have a little informal chat to all my readers about something very close to my heart.

Shitty little cars that have their rear windows plastered with frangipani stickers.

If you're guilty of this, DO NOT LEAVE THIS WEBPAGE. You're going to sit your Boost Juice sipping ass back on that chair and you're going to get EDUCATED.

Nobody thinks your car is "prettier" except you. You're absolutely not original, and in 25 years time when you've successfully figured out how to breed you're going to hate yourself for it. And your kids will probably hate you too.

This is one of the less severe cases I've seen. Even still, my rage knows no bounds.

It started off innocently enough a few years ago where you'd only see the average beach-going blonde girl driving around with one. You know what? I was kind of okay with that. It might have been because I was harshly accelerating to get a better look at the driver. But then it started spreading at an alarming rate. Every Excel, Echo and Barina I saw on the road had massive yellow frangipanis on the rear window. AND THEN THEY DISCOVERED THE OTHER COLOURS! It was well and truly on like Donkey Kong now. I can now head out and see cars with multiple coloured frangipanis, in rainbow patterns. Frangipanis in each corner. Spreading to the other windows of the car.

You know what else I could be describing here? SMALLPOX.

Here's an actual conversation I had at the pub one night with a girl that admitted to having smallpox frangipani stickers.

Me: Wait. You have SIX frangipani stickers on your car?
Girl: Yeah! Why not?
Me: They're tacky and unoriginal. I'm also being incredibly polite about this.
Girl: But they're cute!
Me: How is a tacky vinyl flower 'cute'?
Girl: They're... I don't know, they just are!
Me: No, PUPPIES are cute. The Easter Bunny is cute. Putting an over-priced frangipani sticker on the rear window of your car isn't cute. It's posing.
Girl: You can't buy puppy stickers! Besides, I got them for like $35.
Me: Wow! Look at all the money you've saved!
Girl: My car's cute. I like spending money on it.
Me: Give me a contact number for your father, he needs to know what's happening to the car he's paying off.
Girl: Whatever. I'm thirsty. Want to buy me another vodka and lime?
Me: No.

If this was feudal Japan, you'd all be committing seppuku for this.

I am a picky eater and so is YOUR FACE

It was at my local chinese mess hall on the weekend when I was getting spattered by fallout from my Sizzling Beef. I'm pretty sure it was then, anyway. I was having fun, throwing white hot strips of cow onto my plate of rice, picking out the prawns from the bits of egg. As I heaped another mouthful onto my spoon, one of my friends asked me why I wasn't eating the prawns. I simply looked back at her and casually said "I don't like 'em."

You could not have cut the resulting tension with a chainsaw. Everyone looked at me in disbelief. "WHAT? You don't like PRAWNS?" was the reply. I would not be suprised if people AT OTHER TABLES stopped their lunchtime coversation so they could listen in to this apparent AFFRONT against ALL THAT IS HOLY.

Whenever I tell people I don't like prawns, they are taken aback as though I just cancelled Christmas. If I mentioned that I didn't like cauliflower (and I DON'T) that would be okay. You might even get a few compassionate nods from across the table. But prawns? Don't even fucking go there, hombre. At no time is this seen clearer than during summer lunches when everybody is shelling and eating prawns, watching television and feeding a few wayward crustaceans to the cat. Why can't we go back to what the Vikings did and skin rabbits around a campfire?

A quick Google Image Search revealed these people may also hate prawns.

While tearing something's head off and throwing it's nervous system into a bowl invokes memories of Mortal Kombat, the actual taste of the little bastards is something I can't stand. If it didn't die screaming in a field somewhere, I CAN'T EAT IT.

Oh! Oh! Hang on! Did someone mention beetroot? Get the checkout chick on the PA system because there's about to be a cleanup in aisle three.

I know plenty of people who like beetroot, but they constantly whinge about it. It's like a porn film full of bipolar nymphomaniacs. The ultimate love/hate relationship. They somehow love the taste, but those stains are a bitch, aren't they? My opinion of beetroot is this:

a) It tastes like dirt. 'Earthy' is never a good way to describe food.
b) The aftermath looks like a fucking murder scene.

'Get SWAT on the line. The killer had a hamburger with The Lot.'

No matter how delicate you are with food, add beetroot to it and it will never be good enough. Trying to finish a burger with beetroot on it is more stressful than defusing live explosives. The slightest case of the shakes will end up with several people covered in claret and a stampede towards the nearest chemical bath to DE-CONTAMINATE themselves. How is that fun, nutritious or even legal? Time to call my solicitor. We have history to make.

Cruelty to animals: IT STOPS NOW (either that or when the steak's cooked)

Now you're going to have to believe me when I say I'm not some kind of bunny-hugging hippie (Rabbits carry diseases) and that I'm not one to burst into tears when a tree gets chopped down. I'm sure if you regularly read this page you'll have somehow formed the opinion I'm a pretty easy-going guy (Besides well, most things ever). Well allow me to crush your opinions like the hopes and dreams of the Australian Cricket Team.

This is my spot to say that if you're cruel to animals, I'll break your face in twain like a twiggenbottle.

Don't get me wrong, I love steak and if I could eat it 24/7 like the cavemen did, I would, but there are things that push me over the edge. Things like being poked repeatedly, being called "tiger" by the elderly, and shit like this:

This is my dog, Blake. Say hello, Blake! Oh wait, you can't because you're too embarrassed to exist. Years of intensive training to be a heartless killing machine and then it all gets thrown out the window because some clown thought it might be cute to put a Christmas hat on him. I can guarantee the only reason this happened is because I wasn't there to give him the green light to rip everyone to shreds. I only got sent this photo yesterday and to be hone-OH WAIT HERE'S ANOTHER ONE

They're not looking at the camera because they're plotting their revenge. By scoping the building for weak points. For the demolitions team.

Don't they look kind of... sad? The other labrador probably had a temporary indentity crisis and thought she was a reindeer. Speaking of mental health issues, do you know they have animal psychiatrists? How the hell does that work? And don't ANYONE mention dressing dogs up in little t-shirts either or taking them to some kind of fucking dog hotel. Cats are okay. Fuck those guys.

Dogs are supposed to be dogs. They roam the countryside, take down wildebeest and hump your girlfriend's leg when you're introducing her to your parents. They have the perfect life. If I was able to do that and not get caught by your parents I probably would. Pretending they are something else entirely is demeaning and a downright disgrace.

Also I'd like to thank William Shakespeare for the whole 'twiggenbottle' thing. Mad props Bill. If you hadn't been dead for centuries, I'd buy you a beer.

'Concentrated' is the new Black

So last week when I was out being awesome, I realised that I was out of laundry powder. This is a big thing for me because not only do I do my own washing (oh my god), but I get to browse the aisles of my local supermarket and attempt to get the finest laundry powder available. I usually fail.

Why, you ask? Well because if you haven't figured it out yet, the laundry powder section is pretty much the same goddamned thing packaged 800 times over. And because it's POWDER and not a toothbrush, they just can't slam in some bullshit gimmick like a tongue scraper or subsonic telepathy. They need to sell their white powder by the packaging alone.

Yes, Yes and More Yes.

Notice how pretty much every laundry powder you can buy is now concentrated? You only need to use one poof-teenth of a thimble to cleanse every garment in your house! As opposed to... a picture of a cap with... more in it. Concentrated as opposed to what? Since everything is concentrated now, shouldn't that be the norm? And don't give me that "But some are stronger than others" bullshit either. Laundry powder is like bottled water - no matter the brand, it all comes from one giant tap in a factory operated by a tiny mexican lady with a clipboard and a pair of goggles.

Look how white her clothes are! SCIENCE.

Packaging white powder for purchase in a supermarket is the most cliche thing I have ever seen. Outside of 'Concentrated!' your laundry powder box will either have:

a) the word "Power" on it somewhere
b) 'FRESH' written in huge letters
c) an unexplained explosion, probably of the aforementioned freshness
d) a duck.

I for one am issuing a challenge to laundry powder manufacturers everywhere. Be inventive! How about submarines? Everyone loves those. 'Now works better on bloodstains!' could work too. How about 'Doesn't smell like beer and cigarettes'?

In fact, why even pretend your product is even designed for clothes? If I ever start a laundry powder company, I'll simply name my product 'CRACK'. The box will have an illustration of laundry powder being snorted off the back of a barely-conscious hooker while she desperately tries to finish her last cigarette. Housewives will hate it but it would be funny to see junkies try to rationalise why it's only $2.50 a box.