Reasons Why No One Knows Aussie History Is Balls-Out Insane: Reality TV

April 28, 2015

Trigger Warning: Contains Mel Gibson.

I just watched the first episode of Gallipoli, the TV series that stormed our living rooms early this year. It starts with a bang and introduces the deep bonds between the Aussie kids watching each other die, the writing is perfect, it drips with humanity and it was beaten by reality TV.

Source: The great [url=]BostonDanceParty[/url]

Source: The great BostonDanceParty

It was the most explosive and important thing on Australian television in a long time, except no one heard that explosion under the sounds of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!

It showed after The Block, which finished late and made Gallipoli’s timeslot unreliable.

I’m A Celebrity is top news today [This article was written in March], with some former English cricketer winning the … whatever it was. He was crowned King of the Jungle after beating some footballer and some TV personality. May his kingdom prosper until a lion eats him and takes back its crown.

When I read the ‘Celebrity’ cast of the show that beat Gallipoli, I become an owl for a minute. “Who? Who? Who?”

Channel 9 didn’t advertise the show’s strengths. They called it the “TV event of 2015,” which doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Channel 9 didn’t believe in this show, since it didn’t display Griffith’s dodgy past and Matthew Newton’s buttocks in a pile of money. Since they dropped the ball, let me sell it to you.

Gallipoli isn’t the same story you’ve seen before. You look in the child faces of the diggers who lied about their age. When they kill, they suffer. Tolly comforts his mother, who cries when she finds out he’s enlisted with his brother Bevan. Soon after, with bullets buzzing overhead, the brothers’ friend yells “Oh bugger this! Who wants to go back down to the beach for a swim?” They vote Aye with shaking voices, then run into the bullets. Child soldiers die. The brothers get separated and Bevan’s earlier words chill: “Stay close. I promised Mum.”

Unlike Underbelly Season 2: A Tale of Two Buttocks, Gallipoli is historically accurate. Based on a bestselling book, adapted by one of Australia’s greatest screenwriters. The cast is iconic. The actors still have their Aussie accents, unlike some Gallipoli film actors I could name.



There’s a movement to celebrate Aussie history, gaining more and more talent. When a show that defines our national character comes along, just try it. A good, entertaining, mind blowing history lesson is life changing.

Originally intended for publishing in a newspaper that doesn’t take columns anymore, but didn’t tell any of their columnists that.


Anti-Vaxxers are Fined All Over the World

April 16, 2015

Warning: This article contains pictures of Hugo Weaving.

Australia is smacking down the anti-vaxxers, isn’t that great?

People are nothing but a cluster of monkeys who’ve learned to work together. You would expect us to get rid of viruses before we dealt with other problems like preadators and border disputes, because we move and think like viruses.

Pouting Agent Smith can't be wrong.

Pouting Agent Smith can’t be wrong.

Actually, we only move a little like viruses.

We no longer go hunting for days and then chew away at a deer for a week like other animals. We converge on buildings in groups, we follow the orders of people who follow orders. If you saw a city from far above, you would see a million dots moving like they all had one mind.

So really, humans are most like ants or Bollywood actors. They were probably the first threats we learned to eliminate and although they still exist, they don’t swarm and kill us like they used to. After that the thing we most resemble is a computer program. But we did make those.

Laughing Agent Smith can't be wrong.

Laughing Agent Smith can’t be wrong.

It makes more sense that we should get rid of viruses when we’re a little more advanced, say after 10,000 years of civilisation. That’s where we are now.

When Australia’s leaders decided to cut the benefits of people who didn’t vaccinate their kids, a ripple of excitement spread from Canberra all around the world. People are patting Uncle Tone on the back for doing something right. He’s ending viruses, isn’t that grand?

Well, it’s not in his nature to make people vaccinate their kids. In 2006, the anti-cervical cancer drug came out and Southern Cross Broadcasting asked Abbott if he’d want it for his daughters. But he stuck to his crucifix shaped guns.

“I won’t be rushing out to get my daughters vaccinated, maybe that’s because I’m a cruel, callow, callous, heartless bastard but, look, I won’t be.”

Tone ’06

So like, you poke them in the arms and thousands of dead organisms go into their vaginas? Ew, they’re not hussies.

This appeals more to Tone and Uncle Morrison because they’ll be cutting welfare payments as punishment. It’s fine for upper class trendy mothers who want to look alternative, but the impressionable and jobless, the intellectually disabled who can’t tell Alex Jones apart from the news, the mentally ill with their tinfoil hats? Oh boy, we’ll show those poors.

You're not wrong, Tone. You're not wrong.

You’re not wrong, Tone. You’re not wrong.

Maybe, mayyyybe, the ruling Party is sticking to the financially Liberal philosophy that gets them votes and they did it for the revenue raising. It sounds evil, but they’re just being good to their voters.

Most people haven’t thought about other ways to help get kids vaccinated and keep the infant mortality away. But there are farm more options. Here are a few things other countries are already doing:


If you don’t take the polio vaccine in Pakistan, you go to prison. But it’s okay, because they have an awful record with fair trials. Your case might never go to court, so you get free accommodation for the rest of your shortened lifespan.


Your three month old baby will get shots for tuberculosis, tetanus, polio, pertussis and Haemophilus influenza type B. By 18 months they have the Measles-Mumps-Rubella, the vaccine which caused all this trouble by being accused of causing autism by a discredited doctor who had hidden financial interests. Before they start school they get the Hep B vaccine. Otherwise you get a fine. Almost everyone follows this program, though only 50% of people get non-mandatory shots like HPV. I can’t find how that breaks down by gender, but they’re probably a bunch of girls.


Mandatory vaccines are free and free vaccines are mandatory. Health care workers are encouraged to collect the signatures of people who decline vaccines, because if the Illuminati is based anywhere it’s probably somewhere small in Eastern Europle.

United Kingdom

The autism vaccine controversy started in the UK. In the 10 years after the fake report linking the two, vaccination rates dropped by a minor 12% or so. Cases of measles rose from 56 to 1,348. Damn. Let’s not talk about the UK.

Many European countries took a simpler route than Australia which doesn’t make the poor poorer. They just wrote a law that says “Get your shots. It’s illegal not to get certain shots.”

European Countries That Made Vaccine Dodging Illegal



Czech Republic












European Countries That Made Vaccine Dodging Illegal And Are So Old They Don’t Exist Anymore

The British Empire

Napoleonic France

The German Empire

Point is, this is nothing new. The precedent has existed for a long time. Maybe Australia’s humble entry into the Fuck Measles Club has been noticed because it’s the most progressive thing we’ve done in a long time. The world is watching us like episode 9 of Game of Thrones, which is the one where main characters die no matter what season it is. “Don’t let it be the Barrier Reef. Don’t let it be the aboriginal communities. Oh damn it, gay marriage. I liked him and he wasn’t even in it for an episode.”

I guess our news is getting … infectious.


A 50-Something Speaks From 2015

August 6, 2014

This new budget is perfect.

In my day, we left high school and worked the farm or took an apprenticeship. It’s the best option. The school system doesn’t have enough money anymore and they’ve thrown out the Gonski education reforms we spent years and millions developing. What does David Gonski know about bright futures? He was born in South Africa, left after a massacre and is on 40 different corporate boards. He’s lost hundreds of millions of dollars in his life and had his masterpiece deleted from the government’s website in a second. I’m sure it felt like watching the house you built disappear. Gonski hasn’t struggled a day in his life.

No one needs Uni. Cut the funding, make them private. If you want to make big money, work in the mines. Hurry up, in 2020 China will stop using coal. How can you make money at Uni when a Journalism degree probably costs 90,000 dollars now? The youngsters who enrol for uni in 2015 won’t know how much their course costs. Well, insecurity and the shadowy threat of starvation hang over us all. Get used to it. If you change that, you ruin the way things are.

Can’t find work? Move. Leave your family, your girlfriend and your pets like the Anzacs did. Forget your friends and how home feels. Move, like the last 25 years didn’t happen. Forget you were alive, go to the mines and bury yourself. Move. We’re at war with laziness and there are the trenches. Will you die for your country?

A homeless boy just asked me for spare change. He said he has daily seizures, was trying to raise seven dollars to see the doctor. He’d made six. Idiot, he needs another five for a prescription, plus seven for an X-ray. If he had a job he could support his kids, but the Green Army can’t take him. Bludgers annoy me. Another was on a rental blacklist because she couldn’t pay both her rent and her uni fees. It’s the norm now. “Experts” like the CEO of Jobs Australia say young students and families will turn to crime and sex work. Did they write the budget? The only Expert is Joe Hockey. If he says there’s a good reason to give dole recipients nothing for six months at a time there must be, whatever it is.

We had it far harder, us from Abbott and Hockey’s generation. Walked two kilometres in the snow to schools that had enough resources and rooms that weren’t cramped. We didn’t have cushy video games, just a sense of community and far less depressed people. We worked our fingers away, because there was more than one job for every three job seekers. We were proud of the jobs handed to us when our free Uni courses ended. Now? We live far longer and we spend it all complaining. We can communicate with anyone, anywhere but we can’t go to the Ozone destroying jobs created by heroes like Gina Rhinehart. We can go into space, but we spend our lives on the lounge with our Nintendo machines.

It’s very likely I’ll be made redundant soon and I’ll get another job because for some reason, people love hiring over 50s now. Couldn’t we fund science, the arts, technology and other things that will make us great in 10 years when mining profits disappear and encourage entrepreneurs to create jobs in those fields, so that we have a cycle of job creation rather than creating an unemployed generation in a country where only one third of the jobless can get jobs? No, that’s silly. Let’s eat two thirds of the young and their babies.

Underreported News Week!

August 2, 2014

Journalism this week has sucked, so here’s what matters.
People who worked on Nauru are now allowed to talk about it in court. Basically everyone in detention is being abused in every way. There are no police checks or laws against child abuse, every kind of which is happening. They’re under oath.
There’s a court order to every newspaper and Facebook user not to report on any president of Malaysia, the presidents of Indonesia and Vietnam and several of their Ministers taking bribes, so don’t talk about it. It has something to do with China and Southeast Asia printing plastic money like ours.
An SBS journalist has been shot at several times on the MH17 crash site and doesn’t know which side fired, even though according to him, journos call them all separatists.
The Age today: “Israel soldier captured, 70 dead in Gaza.” LOL. Misleading headlines are considered horrible journalism and The Age knows better.

I like to bear good news so here are some Mitch Hedberg jokes. Wasn’t 2003 great?
I wanted to buy a candle holder, but the store didn’t have one, so I got a cake.
It’s very dangerous to wave to people you don’t know because what if they don’t have hands? They’ll think you’re cocky. Look what I got, fucker!
I wear a necklace, cause I wanna know when I’m upside down.

Telling Your Friends You’re Visiting India

July 30, 2014

This is for you who’ve gone to a country that everyone has ideas about, but no one knows about. The countries where you can tell how dumb someone is by how uneasy it makes them that you’d go there.

It’s like a symphony

The moment music changed

During Beethoven’s 9th

When the music goes blank

Silence thickens the air

Then a man starts to sing


The first voice ever in a symphony. He sings about joy.


Each sound in the room halts

And up swells the silence

Everybody staring

Then the voices rush you

A chorus of bogans,


“Why the FUCK would you go to India?”


They hiss up their ciggies

And mumble into cans

They exhale in comfort

And breathe a fog of war

A smokescreen from the world

That goes on without them


And I know stuff they don’t, the scent of sweet hashish

Tight bodies stomping sand while songs impale their minds

A million colours pegged about by cackling girls

A forest filled with youths who each have fled a war

The sea and sky at dawn so pink it sears the eyes

I never saw those clouds, the comfort zone of smoke

The end is Alliterative Verse in Iambic Hexameter, the rest is Whatever triameter.

A Plea To Australia’s Government

July 18, 2014

This is an open letter to Australia’s leaders regarding Malaysia Airlines flight MH17.

Russia, China, Southeast Asia, Indonesia. The countries which we need to treat with diplomacy are the easiest for us to annoy and they’re all friends. On the map they make an arrow shape, a gigantic wedge formation pointed at our shores. Indonesia has ten times our population. Russia and China? Well.

Today’s actions were horrible. Someone has brought a piece of human progress crashing down, full of people, using an advanced human weapon. The Netherlands and Australia are both moderate sized countries and though we both bleed, they are far more wounded than us. The fairness to admit that is an Aussie trait which brings us pride.

But we can’t hurl angry words like we did today. Maybe we could talk tough if war were on our doorstep, the way Belgium and Poland did when they realised they would be the first little countries smashed in each World War. Maybe we could put an impressive gouge in a far bigger enemy, like they did before they were swallowed. But now is not the time for tough talk because now is not the time to gain respect like a doomed country that still holds up its fists. This tragedy will give us a small leverage over the giant Russia, if they’re even responsible. Malaysia Airlines should never have flown over a war zone. Most of all, we need friends in the area because we need to investigate.

Now is the time for diplomacy.

If we survive another century, we’ll do it by becoming great diplomats. There’s a Second World arrow cutting us off from our allies. Although we have some of the world’s best soldiers, we must use peace and negotiation as the superweapons they are.

Who loses if we increase tensions over this? Ukraine. The Netherlands look bad because we’re speaking for the victims. Everyone, if it comes to war.  Economically, the whole world loses whether or not there’s a fight. We Westerners don’t know if we can take them, but we Australians know we’ll get our brave Poland moment when they roll over us before help can arrive.

This future is far more realistic than it sounds today. After the Cold War, Russia held onto its friends outside Europe, like China, the anti-Western Sharia states and the dictatorships of North Africa. Since the Arab Spring knocked down more of those pieces, they’d be wise to stay friendly with Muslim states like Indonesia, Malaysia and Bahrain who share many Russian ideologies. Few people know that parts of Southern India are Communist and though the Cold War is gone, many of its faded battle lines are still in place. Even if we try to improve the hard, stubborn diplomatic tactics that have done Australia more harm than good in Asia, Russia may still beat us at the diplomacy game. We could have half the world’s weapons pointed at us because we puffed out our chests at the wrong time.

At least 11 Indonesians were on board the plane which Malaysia lost. We Pacific nations have a common cause in this tragedy. For the sake of our future, let’s look to those commonalities and use this crisis for good, not for the aggressive words that our current government tends to favour. We citizens have confidence that you, our leaders, can see a higher cause than scrambling over each other to look like the strongest leader. Remember China and France in WWII. Partisan politics tore those mighty countries apart and their opponents crushed them with no effort because of it.

Since so much charred, exploding human progress is in the middle of this conflict, let’s compensate by making human progress. Let’s aim for peace and keep Asia’s fury away. For all our sakes, don’t poke the bear.

Melbourne Keeps Occupied

October 21, 2011

Appearing in The Area News, in Griffith, NSW. Estimated readership: 15,000.


A city was in tears today.

Everyone holds different opinions on the anti-greed protests. When you read this, you may’ve heard about the police’s heavy tactics dismantling Occupy Melbourne, a leaderless tent city erected in Melbourne’s City Square. They may be answering for the countless horrors that I watched peaceful demonstrators report to lawyers.

This is what Vic Pol keeps you safe from.

Half had red eyes from capsicum spray, the others wept for the camp which police promised to return, then stomped into splinters. They had a library, free clothing rack and kitchen which fed the homeless. It was art, showing what happens what Anarchism works.

Still, many of you don’t know Occupy’s purpose, or what it is.

Let me explain.

Have you ever chatted with someone who wouldn’t shut up about their problems, and you had the solution on your tongue, ready to speak? But they wouldn’t let you? That’s how the 99% feel about poverty.

It started in New York. One in six Americans couldn’t afford three meals a day. So, tens of thousands filled Wall Street with cardboard signs. Almost every major Western city followed.

God damn the French have good rhythm.

They had firm goals.

First, they shrieked for help. Students in deep debt, the disabled who could

n’t work for their own medicine and had no health insurance, since they had no work. 1% of the population have almost all the wealth and power, they have almost none. Their slogan became “We are the 99%.”

Australia is luckier. Our soldiers of peace demand that the government listen to the majority and do as it asks – accept refugees and gay marriage, for example. They fought for democracy today with flowers, tents and free food.

YouTube footage has shown three men punched, trampled by a horse and choked, all unprovoked.


Occupy Melbourne kitchen founder Kade von Mot claims to have petitioned the surrounding businesses, receiving 800 signatures in half an hour. They’d allegedly become busier than usual.

Mayor Robert Doyle issued an eviction notice at 9 am, because “local businesses are suffering … it’s time to return City Square to the people of Melbourne.”

But they were the people. When we’re only a 100%, they still will be. So are the police, so are you. You’re welcome any time.

Thank you, Victoria Police. This topless, stoned woman was about to fight me, and various other things you can't do topless or stoned.

Road Tripping in Silly Hats

October 22, 2010

Appearing in the Area News, if for some reason they took this seriously. Who Knows When.

Moving away is harder on adults than kids. When our childhood friends and lives disappear, we realise how much more social skills children have than sheltered, worried adults. Work exhausts us faster than school did – many workmates have let themselves become parrots taught buzzwords, or statues afraid to play the physical tricks we did as teens in case someone sees. Behaving is tiresome. New workmates can take warming to.

I lived in one house all my life, before uni. So in the last week and a half, I’ve stayed in six towns making friends with strangers. While wearing a hat shaped like a rooster.


I am the media's pet, which it occasionally humiliates with little pet clothes.


A friend left the Chicken Hat in my dining room one drunken night. I swore to wear it until he said something. From my head, it watched me jog over cliffs every afternoon, hurl my body into merciless mosh pits (it’s the space closest to a live heavy metal band, where fans dance by slamming into each other – it’s not quite fighting) and other hobbies we don’t discuss in public. In a mosh pit, my friend saw me smirk at him, in his hat. When he stopped laughing, he let me keep it. I swore to show it all of Victoria, and write home about it.

In Wodonga, I forgot I was wearing it. In a chicken shop. When the girl handed over my food, her staff wouldn’t stop grinning. I realised and announced, “I feel like a cannibal now.”

The first time I saw a dominatrix show surprise was at the hat. She then waxed a strip out of my arm before I could protest, and lent me a lounge to sleep on.


It helps to know just how many pets the media has ...


I had a ten minute discussion about animal-shaped hats at a kebab stand. We exchanged names. Then strictness with a former Buddhist monk in Yackandandah. Griffith’s water problem with another G-town expatriate, in Ballarat. Bushfires with a once homeless woman in Kyneton, whose roof I slept under. In Melbourne, twelve-step programs with a fitness fanatic. I grabbed her number.

It’s all empathy. Tell others what you enjoy hearing. Humans have always gotten along, and worn funny hats, when someone gave them permission.

I do weird things for you people.


... but it never gets any easier. You're still an animal in another animal's hat.


Need a processor. Does WordPress count?

August 5, 2010

It’s likely that everything I write with a certain word count will appear here for a while. I want to keep track of my length, my Microsoft Word has run away from home, and only WordPress records word count. I have just fed you a pun, wrapped in regular conversation so that you’d eat it. Ha, ha.

This is a draft. What of it?

Thank you for understanding. With love, The Management.

The city is old now. Once it perched on hills and watched nature while the animals’ two-legged masters crawled about in its guts and opened its mouth to leave. It was strong and young, entire armies would clutter at its edges and push with their most terrible inventions, just to break its skin. Each human was its eyes, they could send out its vision across continents in miniature cities bobbing on water, where a bearded cursing captain would play king.

Now it’s senile, though it dresses as a god. Like Odin, the city sends trams to prowl through itself, watch the nervous two-legged slaves of nature rush about and at night, they whisper what they saw in its ears. Soot-grey haze blurs the stars and wafts over its buildings, which haven’t been clipped in decades and can almost touch the lowest clouds. This is one way the residents watch its anger and whining desperation to move with the earth like it used to. The way a puppy shrieks at the closed back door, the frantic cars and fast-moving, fast-chatting residents vent out its sorrow. The city has become unpredictable, every day odd happenings draw each set of eyes – an argument, car accident, protest march. Sometimes when the city can feel a certain resident on its surface, gone concrete-hard with age, it plays with them. Sometimes it becomes a boy with action figures, sometimes a sadist lifting a fly by its wings and deciding whether to watch it struggle or pluck them off.

So now, I can picture a young man’s figure – myself last Thursday night – when the city challenged that sprinting hooded form, leaning over with his laptop bag’s weight. Dodging between its obstacles, the city used a tram as its prodding finger, it tried to see him scramble over the tracks in time through its smog cataracts. It eased another train into his path, heading toward the figure’s home. Then, his hand stretched out, the city swiped it away and leaned in, anxious for his reaction. The figure dropped his head back, sighed and laughed. Maybe the city pelts its hatred at one person each night, who can tell? Like human drama, the city’s moods have no schedule, and each place expresses them a different way. New York has screaming matches, Sydney hurls gangs together to fight, and on weekdays Melbourne plays practical jokes. That’s how its gentle nature rolls. So, what happened:

This figure lounged in a warm alley restaurant, the cobblestone, Flamenco busker type. For company, two other writers. They clapped to the music, called rough jokes and whole debates over it to each other. All along, the city’s attention stayed on this alley, which became a flame for the eyes and the spirit each night. The waiters danced from counter to tables, strangers at different places with different menus could call to each other like old friends. It reminded the city of its past lives on other continents and the travellers it once sent out, the way they could greet hunched wanderers resting at crossroads and walk together until their paths split. Now, watching this young man wreck his throat by shouting and laugh at each little thing that snatched his attention, the city knew its old affection had faded – choked by the fumes that sent it blind. Tonight, it would only play with that happy young man.

First, it sent temptation. The young, well-kept attendant leaned over to fill his glass, held the figure’s eyes longer than the others, and danced away. The memory swayed about in his mind, until one of the writers asked the young man, “What are you getting?” He shrugged – “I’m easy.” A voice cheered, “We all know that!” and they watched the attendant waltz back to the kitchen. Between the meals they met eyes, their voices softened in simple things like “What do you want me to eat?” and “You certainly can have that,” and the whole dim alley sang to him, “Say more! Linger, chat!” But the figure had trains waiting, and he waved off the city’s lure. But he’d held the man long enough.

When the three stumbled off and their paths split, the figure scurried to his train station and glanced at the timetable. Something under the ground seemed to slither. The last train had become a coach – which was leaving now. He fled over the concrete, to the coach bay, then stopped at its glass wall outside. His bus crawled away, over the road, then out the tunnel. A train could take him near the same stop – he chortled, thinking of ringing his housemate to pick him up again – the city did this last night too, then lost interest. But tonight … his train arrived at the huge station’s other side. He flew, over the escalator, past police, his hand landed on the train door … just as it hummed shut.

Here, he laughed, glanced over the skyscrapers and – imagine the shocked chill if a mouse did this to the scientists running it through its maze – the figure whispered, “I’m not your plaything.”

Then, where the others panicked, or fell into one of the platform benches and cried, he wandered onto a tram and called his friend. He asked, “Hey, you wouldn’t believe what just happened. Can I stay at your place? Just tell me which stop to get off at.”

Just before this news-raven tucked into the city’s ear and slept – with him in it – he asked a passenger, “Is this next one Montague St?”

“Mate, we’ve passed it.”

It didn’t stop. The city threw him a last bitter shrug. He stepped off, laughed at himself, and rode the opposite tram just for one stop. A gamble. Now, he found the sign – Montague St. The figure knocked on his friend’s door, left the city’s elderly vision and slept until it lost interest.

The next day, he had until 9 o’clock to catch a train, before his housemate locked him out for the weekend. The figure was a traveller, and every traveller’s lodging has funny conditions. His second-last train home didn’t come. He sat on the platform bench, and waited … until his last chance rolled in, slow, placid. The figure climbed on, knowing the city had accepted him, the torturing child gave affection to his fly. That day, the city announced, every train ticket was free. The figure heard, “Little fly in your black hoodie, today I set you free.”

How long can I write for, though a paralysing hangover?

July 25, 2010

This is an experiment, to watch what goes on when a merchant wants to give away his nicest coat, a homeless man makes warm company, a politician craves peace and the earth shrugs off its own creatures with natural disasters and calls to Man, “Look! I can do it myself, you don’t have to burn any more coal!”

Watch a stereotyped youth wave away society’s little assumptions, made by thinking one thing so often it becomes true to them. One person can do this, and we call them judgmental. When a society does, it’s national identity. Gen Y’s national identity is apathy for the lifestyle around them (laziness), seeing past the predecessors’ need to earn more than others and choosing a smile over a dollar (wasting their lives in their parents’ worn out dens), the evolutionary lust for new ways to live (all ungrateful), the confusion when they follow every forefather’s belief that possessions and income make a person better, and buried in their new clothes and phone bills, they still ask “When does life start, when do I feel fulfilled? What did I do wrong?” (all reckless materialists). They ignore what they know their world and themselves need, to chase what outdated authority has convinced them they ‘should’ be, and fill the inner gaps that appear with whatever rush is closest (all drunks).

God, my head hurts. I can’t see the keyboard. What in hell’s blindest blackest deeps did I do last night?

In the 19th Century, this represented a youth enduring nightmares, and domination by little sharp-nailed goblins. Now it moans, "All I remember is, I passed out at a Tijuana pony show and woke up under a midget."

Even the young accept that their peers have abandoned the world that raised them, and feel no comfort in their parents’ morals. The popular angry opinion is, “They just don’t try. They laze about, and don’t want to achieve anything.”

No species is ‘just’ lazy and survives past one week. Even sloths choose to move slow, because they only eat leaves which lend them almost no energy. They didn’t just change their attitude – which too many working people consider tricky – they decided, “let’s snatch a hold of our entire goddamn metabolism, and slow it down to almost nothing, then just learn to kick the hell out of our preadators.” The Karate Kid’s plot is realistic if you’re a sloth, and instead of Mr Miyagi you have Charles Darwin.

This picture melts you. Until you learn that the sloth just won an arm wrestle, and is snapping his defeated foe's wrist off to celebrate.

My editor asked what’s wrong with my generation the other day. I handed him a list of intellectual friends and their numbers, for interviews in the election coverage (does the alcopop tax still exist? Jesus, my eyes are deflating and it hurts. Triple vodkas and  an iron-fisted drinking game named Buffalo conspired to murder me last night). The first wouldn’t answer – I learned that at the time, he’d been made useless by drunkenness. The second, he woke up with a daytime call. When he put that Generation X outburst to me, I gave away my people’s secrets. “Yeah, they’re so apathetic, my generation don’t aim for anything.”

Now I – and you Taoist philosophers – realise this was a compliment to the species’ next caretakers. When we refuse to reach for a solution that doesn’t make sense to us, we ask why our lifestyle exists. If there’s a kinder, more efficient, sensical way to exist, we’ll form it among ourselves. Gen Y is sweeping clean the old mind’s crippling egotism and, the way young people do once in every age, reinventing their potential. Once, we only trusted feudal barons with greed. Then, Industrial Man woke up and each family had a member counting their coins. Now we drift to trusting each human with nice things, and the young watch five-year-olds carry mobile phones with no nagging urge to buy them nicer, newer closer-to-a-living-thing-that-can-think ones than their friends’. With no pressure, when we ask “Is this a good thing?” we feel the answer arise with the question.

It’s not bad until the little girl needs it to be a good person.

We consider this, peer around and, holy tapdancing Jesus made of bread, we see adults who believe this. The most avid businessmen. When an idea’s loudest voices repulse us, we turn away from it. When that disgust rises in us each time someone tells us to make more money, of course we throw up our arms at society. We work with the mind and the heart, something the shallow-minded don’t try understanding. At your next dinner party, watch the crowd. Which one is loudest, and which is learning the most? Which seems to be the most intelligent? If you guess right, you’ve chosen three different people. Yet a movement’s loudest voices advertise it, and the rowdiest are usually the angriest. Anger breeds extremism – angry people have no limits. So the angriest and loudest in material society barks at us to get up, work, earn money, spend, earn, spend. “Why?” “Because!” “Because why?” “Because it’s what you do!”

Knowing what we do now, Gen Y chuckle at them and shake our heads. Let us figure out why we work first, then we’ll build whatever beautiful, life-affirming thing you desire from work. Our way, not the old one. If you disagree with this, we accept this – be old fashioned. Write your books by hand, take spears into a war, make sure you die with honour so the enemy can’t rape the losers to shatter their will. We are your future, we’re time, and we are changing. Until we get up, all the answers we craved satisfied in our heads, watch us roll in the decadence you call happiness, and the depression rate soar.

That’s why Gen Y is lazy. We refuse to make elderly mistakes.

"MATTHEEEEEWS!" ... well, if the speech bubble's correct, "STOCKPHOTOOOOO"

Sweet bucket of three-nippled Ukrainian circus babies, all I want to do is sleep. It feels like the inside of my head is melting into a puddle of noxious sludge, and the fumes are giving me headspin, and probably cancer of the mind. Why do I do these things to myself?