Nothing is safe from disturbing trend that is making shit cheap and nasty these days. Not even the king of such things; plastic utensils.
A plastic spoon broke on me today as I tried to extract the teabags from my cup. Yes that’s right, plural. I like my tea so strong it sometimes stirs itself. Anyhoo, it just snapped in half, midway up the shaft which as we all know, is the worst kind of break.
I managed to teabag myself, even with a broken shaft, but my god, it was messy.
How can we expect to maintain the fabric of society when even the simplest of things no longer function, for fucks sake? It used to be you could cut through an over cooked steak with a plastic spoon, or tunnel under the barbed wire perimeter fence. Then along came China and stuffed up everything through their mass production of everything.
I wonder if they use plastic utensils in Whitby. Or drink beer from cans. Did you know that beer in cans is sensationally cheaper than in any other vessel, but no bugger buys them because drinking from stubbies is far harder. And easier to throw at the neighbours / parked cars / cops, probably.
There’s nothing quite like a drive round a gated community to remind you just how inconsequential your little three bedroom number in the suburbs is, is there?
I had to pick something up from there this week and for a while there I wondered if I had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Beverly Hills. It is a place that suffers from split personalities; take the first turn in and you’ll find yourself in Shitby, take the second or third and you’re very much in Richby.
It’s suburban snobbery at its finest and something I am well familiar with. Growing up in the Hutt Valley Hills (see what I did there?) we had our fair share of it. The frightened Caucasians who found themselves living in ethnic suburbs like Taita, started calling their area ‘North Avalon’. Try and find that on a map why doncha.
I sometimes try it on myself. Where we live is on the border of a very well to do suburb on the one hand and a complete anus on the other. Even the council can’t work out where we are so why shouldn’t we play on that confusion, especially when we decide to sell?
Because even the most directionally challenged, blind guy is going to take one look and know we’re trying it on, that’s why. It’s a bit like internet dating and the blatant misrepresentation that happens in the biggest sausagefest of them all. Not that I’m into that but I know some who have been. Successfully too, I might add.
It’s a real meeting of some of this country’s finest minds, is internet dating, especially from the fellas point of view, who like to lie about the little things like, oh, overall physical appearance. How’s that going to work when you meet that special lady, do you think?
It’s not weird to find a partner on the net these days but it fucken was when Mrs ClubDes and I found each other. Quite what she was doing on there I don’t know but I was towards the end of my Meg Ryan obsession and had watched ‘You’ve Got Mail’ for the umpteenth time and figured hey, if it happened like that in the movies then it must be true.
I can’t remember what I wrote on my profile exactly but it certainly wasn’t the de rigueur of the modern day dating site douche. I wasn’t vague about my name, age, marital status or work situation and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a picture of my chopper alongside a stubbie as a profile pic. I just wasn’t that classy back then.
And the ladies then wonder just why it is that when they make that particularly choice they find themselves in Shitby, not Richby...
A plastic spoon broke on me today as I tried to extract the teabags from my cup. Yes that’s right, plural. I like my tea so strong it sometimes stirs itself. Anyhoo, it just snapped in half, midway up the shaft which as we all know, is the worst kind of break.
I managed to teabag myself, even with a broken shaft, but my god, it was messy.
How can we expect to maintain the fabric of society when even the simplest of things no longer function, for fucks sake? It used to be you could cut through an over cooked steak with a plastic spoon, or tunnel under the barbed wire perimeter fence. Then along came China and stuffed up everything through their mass production of everything.
I wonder if they use plastic utensils in Whitby. Or drink beer from cans. Did you know that beer in cans is sensationally cheaper than in any other vessel, but no bugger buys them because drinking from stubbies is far harder. And easier to throw at the neighbours / parked cars / cops, probably.
There’s nothing quite like a drive round a gated community to remind you just how inconsequential your little three bedroom number in the suburbs is, is there?
I had to pick something up from there this week and for a while there I wondered if I had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Beverly Hills. It is a place that suffers from split personalities; take the first turn in and you’ll find yourself in Shitby, take the second or third and you’re very much in Richby.
It’s suburban snobbery at its finest and something I am well familiar with. Growing up in the Hutt Valley Hills (see what I did there?) we had our fair share of it. The frightened Caucasians who found themselves living in ethnic suburbs like Taita, started calling their area ‘North Avalon’. Try and find that on a map why doncha.
I sometimes try it on myself. Where we live is on the border of a very well to do suburb on the one hand and a complete anus on the other. Even the council can’t work out where we are so why shouldn’t we play on that confusion, especially when we decide to sell?
Because even the most directionally challenged, blind guy is going to take one look and know we’re trying it on, that’s why. It’s a bit like internet dating and the blatant misrepresentation that happens in the biggest sausagefest of them all. Not that I’m into that but I know some who have been. Successfully too, I might add.
It’s a real meeting of some of this country’s finest minds, is internet dating, especially from the fellas point of view, who like to lie about the little things like, oh, overall physical appearance. How’s that going to work when you meet that special lady, do you think?
It’s not weird to find a partner on the net these days but it fucken was when Mrs ClubDes and I found each other. Quite what she was doing on there I don’t know but I was towards the end of my Meg Ryan obsession and had watched ‘You’ve Got Mail’ for the umpteenth time and figured hey, if it happened like that in the movies then it must be true.
I can’t remember what I wrote on my profile exactly but it certainly wasn’t the de rigueur of the modern day dating site douche. I wasn’t vague about my name, age, marital status or work situation and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a picture of my chopper alongside a stubbie as a profile pic. I just wasn’t that classy back then.
And the ladies then wonder just why it is that when they make that particularly choice they find themselves in Shitby, not Richby...
"Yeah I'm six foot two, dark, work in marketing and my hobbies include windsurfing, rugby and masturbating.."
We also live between a normal suburb and a wealthly suburb. MM always gives our address as the richer suburb.....cos he can.
ReplyDeleteI went walk abouts a few years ago and joined a dating site. I found it was the things they didn't tell you on their profile that caused the most problems. The stories I could tell.....
I'm so glad you found Mrs ClubDes.
She obviously didn't mind the stolen 2nd ring from your mum :)