MY HATE LIST
What’s wrong with a little hate? Sure, I can see the dangers of too much. It can make you bitter and twisted and drive you into a career in primary school teaching. A little hate, however, makes the world go round. It literally gets me up in the morning; to take my bins out with as much noise as possible so I wake up the arsehole who lives next door. We have a long-running dispute over a feijoa tree. And I bet I’m not alone. How many of man’s greatest achievements have been two-fingered salutes to bosses, spurned lovers, ex-spouses and the boy who used to down-trou them in P.E?
Sadly our government doesn’t agree. They plan to stamp out this primal urge with new hate speech legislation. My advice is get the hate in while you can. You never know what ‘protected groups’ will be included in the final law. Soon you may find a policeman at your door asking you to explain the Irish joke you made in the tea room at work.
And good luck if his name’s O’Leary.
He’ll be too thick to get it.
I suggest you follow my example and make a ‘hate list’ to get it all out of your system now.
First up against the wall when my revolution comes will be the preening, vapid narcissists who form our celebrity class. There are many fields people can excel in. Some act, some sing, some have unusual facility with bat or ball. My mate Dave can fit five boiled eggs in his mouth. But it’s a maddening feature of our capitalist system (which I otherwise support) that only the first group is rewarded with wealth and fame (Dave is yet to turn professional). But worse, it even rewards those who have no discernible talent whatsoever. TV newsreaders for example. Unless being perky and pronouncing ‘Whanganui’ correctly is a talent.
But what pushes me over the edge is when they deign to tell us what to think. Inevitably this is the type of proto-Marxist bollocks that would shame a first year sociology student and if it were ever enacted would see them first up against the wall when their own revolution comes.
Go on any travel accommodation website and the wanker complaining about not being able to get a double decaff frappuccino at 3am in the morning is bound to be Swiss. They are a miserable lot of spoilt anal-retentives who got so rich from Nazi gold that they now have the time to sit around making ludicrously expensive watches and weird triangular chocolate.
THE AUSTRALIAN CRICKET TEAM
And all their wives, kids, parents and elderly relatives. Not because they’re winners. Because they’re bad winners.
Yes, as we have all had it hammered into us ad nauseam by now, it’s a serious, potentially deadly disease. But it’s not the Black freakin’ Plague. So stop wearing a condom on your head and washing your hands a thousand times a day. And while you’re at it, stick that QR code where it would be a lot more fun to have it scanned. Our great-grandparents lived through the influenza epidemic, the Great Depression and WW2 and still rejected the safety of the authoritarian state. Now these Covid catastrophizers are inviting it in through the back door.
Those who ridicule traditional religion as superstition while wearing a crystal the size of an elephant turd around their neck, claiming they can see ‘auras’ and warning that we won’t get along because our star signs clash.
They’re usually right on the last score. But it’s got nothing to do with star signs.
REAL ESTATE AGENTS
Why do we need them? What do they do? Can’t anyone open doors and prattle on about spacious living areas and school zones? When I sell my car I don’t give some dickhead the keys and tell him to show people through it. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t give him 3% commission. And yet they prance around dressed like they just stepped out of a Barkers Menswear catalogue smugly riding a wave of house price inflation that has nothing to do with their skill or labour.
Bastards. Lucky bastards.
A troglodyte at high school who once down-troued me in P.E.
He also used to slam heads into lockers, flick ears with rulers and grab testicles in scrums.
I hear he now works for the IRD.
Bring back the ute Lorraine. That’s the only way your poodle lives.
This is my term for those with only a scintilla of Maori ancestry who disdain the 98.9% of their DNA that originated outside of these islands, racially cleansing themselves for political purpose. They embrace the ways of Tangata Whenua with the eagerness that I embrace a whiskey at 5pm on a Friday. If your name is ‘Hone MacEwan’ and you’re sporting a facial tattoo, why aren’t you also wearing a kilt?
Gotcha. That feels so much better.
But it may have a cost. The internet is forever and who says some smart arse doesn’t dig this up next year when hate speech laws are a reality? I could be looking at three years in the big house for that Jews crack. It was a joke, guys…a joke…remember those?