MELLIPOP LOVES "NICE GUYS"

Ok, so I'm sick of all this fucking talk about girls only liking "bad guys" who will treat them like shit. We love this, apparently.

Inspired by a spirited, hilarious and - at times - disturbing manifesto from a male friend of mine whom I absolutely adore, I'm going to attack head-on, the ridiculous theory that girls don't want anything to do with "nice guys". And I have heard this theory at least three times recently from three separate and distinct self-proclaimed "nice guys" (two of whom have now adopted a deliberate strategy to become "bad guys").

See, this friend of mine is an amazing catch. Intelligent, funny, good-looking, courteous, ambitious, trustworthy, hardworking - an all-around great guy. Though he is crazy. And Argentinian. But he does have a very sexy accent. The ladies do love the Latin tongue....

So why is this fabulous guy so jaded by womanhood? Ladies - are we that fucked! Do we REALLY want the assholes?

Here's the thing. Girls will quite happily sleep around with "bad guys" and indulge in a tumultuous fling or two before our metabolisms catch up with us and the dimples start to show on the back of our thighs. But it's like eating chocolate. We know that it's really bad for us in large doses but we do like to treat ourselves every now and again. But "bad guys" are not a staple part of any girl's sexual or emotional diet. Exciting, yes. Healthy, no.

You know - I'm all for the "bad guy" strategy as a short-term endeavour. The best thing is that they are easily disposable and even more easily replaceable. And without all that messy guilt to cloud your clinical emotional judgement. But a nice guy will love your dimpled thighs, patiently endure your insecurities and cook you eggs in the morning. They will ultimately jump happily into the domestic nest at just the right age.

Think about this, ladies and gentleman. What happens to the "bad guys" when all the "nice guys" have rings on their fingers and happy fat wives at home? Here are some of the most likely outcomes:

1) They sit alone at the pub after 8pm on a weeknight; pushing 40, tattooed and mulletted, eyes glued to the trots on Fox Sports, beer in one hand, TAB ticket in the other

2) They can often be spotted carrying home grocery bags containing a couple of spuds, several packets of two minute noodles, a few tins of baked beans and a cheap bottle of scotch

3) They end up in prison. They still get plenty of sex, sure, but it's all back-door action from a fat lifer called Bubba.

4) They end up having several simultaneous online "relationships" with bored trans-continental housewives and men masquerading as women for kicks.

5) They spend far too much money downloading internet porn and supporting children they conceived out of wedlock ten years ago but refused to accept parental responsibility for because it interfered with their sexy dick-swinging bachelor lifestyle.

6) They tend to fixate on material possessions like cars, elaborate hi-fi systems and model train sets to repress their desperate need for intimacy and physical connection.

7) They end up stuck in Jerry Springer-style physically and emotionally abusive relationships with women who have a sense of self-worth roughly equivalent to that of a dead newt.

8) They end up dead. Or in rehab. Or penniless in a Salvation Army hostel for men.

Trust me gentlemen. Us ladies LOVE "nice guys". Nice guys are keepers. Bad guys are sexual roadkill on the relationship highway, callously left to rot in a long-forgotten mess. You really don't want that.

MELLIPOP AND MR MUSHROOM-HEAD

Ok, so it’s 3:30 on a Monday afternoon and you’re tripping off your head on a combination of acid, mushrooms and alcohol.

Question: Who do you choose to sit next to on a busy commuter train?

Answer: Mellipop.

Yes, your resident “freak magnet” friend and narrator got herself a live one today on the way home just now.

So I’m sitting quietly on the train, reading my book (Marianne Faithfull’s autobiography, for the trainspotters amongst us) and am contentedly engrossed until a huge swaggering bear of a man staggers onto the train and falls into the seat next to me, leaving his screaming gal pal fumbling at the ticket machine on the platform as the train pulls away. The man reeks as though he has just recently bathed in a tub full of white spirits.

He is ranting incoherently, swaying into me and calling me a cunt. He is also pointing at the poor little Indian guy on the other side of him and is calling him a cunt too. I inwardly cringe while maintaining a neutral expression, my eyes fastened on my book. This is what I like to call my “Crazy Dog” technique. The hypothesis on which it is founded is that crazy people - like crazy dogs - are best neutralised by avoiding all eye contact and not making any sudden movements which might otherwise antagonise them. You do this until you determine the level of threat involved and then proceed to act accordingly.

My initial diagnosis was not a positive one. I naturally assumed from the guy’s stench that he was a raving mad drunk. Raving mad drunks are often only one small step away from being aggressive and violent. Especially ones that point at you and call you a cunt.

MR MUSHROOM: So he’s a cunt, and she’s a cunt and it’s like the male and the female, and the penis and the vagina. I’ll never understand these cunts. (pointing at me and the young Indian guy sitting on his opposite side)

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Oh dear. This guy is drunk off his nut and has just had a domestic with his woman. Only four more stops until North Fremantle.

MR MUSHROOM: Yeah so I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid man. I’m on fucking mushrooms and acid. I’m so fucking tripping. Perth has shit fucking drugs man. These fucking cunts are from Perth (pointing at me and the Indian guy again). I’ll never understand these cunts. I’m from Melbourne, man. Melbourne has the best fucking drugs. Coke, acid, fucking mushrooms, speed. Perth has SHIT drugs. Perth is fucked, man. They’re all cunts. Sydney has great fucking drugs.

MELLIPOP: (thinks) Phew!!! He’s only on acid. Thank God! He’s harmless.

(listens with more interest now that the imminent threat of violence has diminished)

So, it's quite ironic that as soon as I find out that he is on a “harmless” combination of illegal hallucinogenic drugs - and not alcohol - my fear of him completely diminishes, and I can begin to enjoy our little interlude as unexpected drive-time entertainment. What does that say about so-called “legal” drugs like alcohol?

Anyway, so at this point I think, what the hell, the guy’s talkative. And seemingly harmless. Might as well talk back to him. I mean, he had acknowledged me - even though he called me a cunt. It’s only polite to acknowledge him back. And I'm nothing if not polite.

MELLIPOP: So, where you from?

MR MUSHROOM: MELBOURNE, man!! This cunt here is from Perth (pointing to the Indian guy again, who still looks frozen with terror). And he still lives with his mother. And his mother is his fucking wife. His mother is his wife!

MELLIPOP: And I’m from Sydney.

MR MUSHROOM: You’re from Sydney? Where you from in Sydney?

MELLIPOP: Leichhardt, Newtown….

MR MUSHROOM: (eyes lighting up) Really? You got any coke?

MELLIPOP: Umm….no. I’m in Perth now man. The drugs are shit, remember.

MR MUSHROOM: YEAH!! They’re all cunts here. Perth is fucking shit!

So even drug-fucked Melbournites know the score. PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT. I’m totally straight, he’s totally fucked and yet two ex-pat East Coasters still managed to bond over the fact that PERTH IS FUCKING SHIT.

MELLIPOP: So what are you doing over here, if you hate it so much?

MR MUSHROOM: I’m importing, man. I’m setting up and importing.

MELLIPOP: (train pulls into North Fremantle) Yeah alright. Enjoy the rest of your trip, mate.

(thinks) Brilliant pun Mellipop! Shame the guy’s too fucked up to fully appreciate it.

And then I got off the train and walked home. Monday afternoons, huh? Crazy.

MELLIPOP AND SCHAPELLE

Ok, so I feel as though I should have an opinion on this whole Shapelle Corby mass outpouring of self-righteous indignation phenomenon.

But besides mouthing the predictable comparisons between the baffling disparity of sentences handed down for jihad junkies planting bombs in Bali and beauty therapist bogans smuggling hash into Bali, I am strangely bereft of concern for any of it.

I mean, I should probably really care more, I guess. But to be honest, I have no interest whatsoever in examining all the available evidence before coming to my own conclusions. As I am sure that everyone else with an opinion on this subject has already done. The debacle that is the Trial By Media. Why the fuck should we believe any of it? Do these people have any idea how the media actually functions?

Let's bandy around a hypothetical scenario, shall we (hypothetical because I don't actually know whether it is indeed true, and as mentioned previously, have no interest in making any effort in determining whether or not it is true) Anyway, let’s just say – for example - that Channel 9 have a vested interest in making her appear innocent and stirring up public sympathy because they have paid for the exclusive rights to "The Schapelle Story", and are sending their sales reps into overdrive crunching the numbers on their subsequently increased advertising rates.

Now say that the above scenario was true. If Channel 9 were to lean towards framing the verdict as "guilty", presumably public interest in the case would deteriorate. Public sympathy for Schapelle would wane. So would their ratings. And more importantly, so would their advertising rates. And they’ve paid for this chick. They have to make that money back somehow. The perception of injustice is far more likely to engender interest in a subject, than would a standard "Ok she's guilty - do the crime pay the time". Feeling sedated and sated we could then switch over to watch Big Brother and go on with our miserable lives. And more importantly, we'd never have to watch Channel 9 ever again - thank God and Ray Martin for that.

Look, don’t even bother reading the last couple of paragraphs of dribble. Basically, it comes down to this. The media are shaping the opinions of the mass public. The media have their own agenda, one which is not a judicial or legal function. So anyone with an opinion on this is a dick, because it is necessarily a limited and uniformed opinion. And I’m all for having uninformed opinions, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t have one myself in this case and I’m feeling kind of jacked off because of it.

So essentially, I’ve come to the completely unrelated and arbitrary conclusion that I really don’t give a crap about what happens to this girl. I wish I did though. It might have made for a much more interesting post. Schapelle’s loss is now your loss. And that’s all that really matters.

ADDENDUM: MELLIPOP HATES HER GENERATION

Ok, so it was that idiotic "Crazy Frog" ringtone that launched my recent shambling tirade bemoaning the cancerous state of modern culture.

So I'm reading the newspaper today, and I came across a disturbing statistic that adds weight to my recent thesis. The Crazy Frog ringtone is set to beat the new Coldplay album to the number one spot in the UK Charts. The evil amphibian has outsold the heartfelt rockers by a margin of three to one, in its first day on sale.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 1: Over one million seriously deluded people have already purchased the Crazy Frog ringtone.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 2: It will be the first time that a ringtone has reached the top of the charts.

SCARY FACT NUMBER 3: The Crazy Frog will no doubt follow up his smash success with yet another idiotic ringtone. This one has "pop-culture phenomenon" written all over it.

I weep for my fellow men.

MELLIPOP AND THE VIPER

OK, so Mellipop would like to introduce the newest member of our household, the Viper AN90. Or, as I like to affectionately call him, “Old Sparky”.

“Old Sparky” has moved in to help us with our naughty Staffy problem, much like the “Super Nanny” does for parents whos children have brought them to the brink of faking their own deaths and moving to Kalgoorlie to become topless waiters.

You see, “Old Sparky” (aka The Viper) is an electric fence. Yes, we are going to rig up electric fencing INSIDE OUR OWN HOUSE. It will be like a maximum security doggie prison – take one wrong step and feel the V’s. It better fucking work. All up it cost us nearly $300. Quite the sting.

MELLIPOP GETS PERSPECTIVE

Ok, so my parents weren't screening me the other night when I called to whine about my miserable doggone life (pun intended). My Mum had been at the hospital, as my Pop had taken a turn for the worse.

So there I was, having finally got to speak with my Mum, and without drawing a breath, I launched into a ten minute rantathon about the damage wrought by the dogs at home. Having exhausted my deep vein of irritation and general woe, I let my mother into the conversation long enough to find out about my Pop being taken to hospital. And there I was raving about some cheap fucking lino like it was the biggest fucking tragedy since the Twin Towers.

Kind of put things into perspective, really....

LORD, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?

Ok, so I've had a shitty day at work, and I fucking get home to this.

THIS is gonna fucking cost me. Those motherfucking dogs have ripped up the lino. As such, we'll need to have the whole motherfucker re-laid. Now we're talking a fairly expansive area not just limited to the kitchen, but the dining room and both passageways to the laundry and bathroom as well.

Christ - I truly have no clue what the fuck lino costs. I guess it's somewhat more costly and involved than using Con-tact to line the inside of your cupboards. And I don't envisage that such a hideous design could still possibly be in production. Fuck!

Plus I left my cigarettes at work. And there is no beer in the house to calm me down. And if I leave the house again, I'm afraid that they'll eat through one of the walls in my absence.

And, more ironically still, I have no-one to rant to on the phone. Anton's mobile goes straight to voicemail and I keep getting my parent's answering machine. Those two aren't fooling me. I lived with them both for 18 years - I know their exact, unswerving evening routines. No - I know exactly what this is. I'm being fucking screened!

Alright God - you win today. Check-fucking-mate.

MELLIPOP HATES HER GENERATION

Ok, so I'm feeling old and curmudgeonly today. At the risk of alienating any number of Mellipop readers can I just state that anyone over the age of 15 who has ever downloaded a polyphonic (or otherwise) ringtone of a popular song is a complete fucking tool and an all-too-willing architect in the demise of our culture.

To me, polyphonic ringtones represent the absolute lowest common denominator of a crass and meaningless consumer culture that absolutely sickens me. This false, empty, disposable, self-cannibalising culture that takes everything that was once creatively beautiful, subversive or original and uses it to flog deodorants, car insurance and female incontinence pads.

Real life examples of this I hold in utter contempt include the use of a Marvin Gaye song in a TV commercial advertising a shitty woman's magazine like New Idea. "What's Going On?", a heartfelt protest song about the self-destruction and violence within African-American culture in the late 60's, and a groovealicious call to arms for peace and unity, is now being used to flog a shitty chick magazine as vapid and irrelevant as it is idiotic. In its new context, the answer to the question "What's Going On?" , becomes what Paris Hilton is wearing on the red carpet this week or which so-called celebrity needs to cultivate an eating disorder to earn their place in the magazine's esteemed list of "Best Bikini Bodies". Vive la revolution.

Just the other day I recognised the tune of a song which was being used to flog Ski museli bars. The song was "Pass the Dutchy", originally written in praise of sharing a reefer and an anthem of decriminalisation – completely de-politicised in its new context. It's now being used to sell fucking museli bars - without any sense of irony whatsoever.

Another favourite drug anthem (ahem..not a "personal" favourite, mind), "Golden Brown", a paen to heroin use, being used to sell fucking honey - without irony again. It's the complete inversion of the subversive that bothers me. This co-opting of what was once radical and shocking, and neutralising it by taking it completely out of context - and in some cases rewriting the actual lyrical content to completely castrate the otherwise controversial aspects - this really disturbs me.

I hate that everything that was once cool or controversial is neutered, blanded out and/or used to sell something.

Ringtones are a huge bugbear, for similar reasons. Call me old-fashioned, but a huge part of me is both disturbed and disgusted by the fact that Australians spend more money downloading ringtones - the new millenium's muzak equivalent - than they do buying real music.

You can’t dance to them, have sex to them, sit and cry at home alone after a breakup with them, or engage with them in any real way – in essence, the emotional and meaningful aspect of music is completely destroyed. It becomes another empty commodity. Another pointless accessory. Another superficial token of identity. Another disposable simulacrum of something that was once a geniune creative impulse.

I don’t know. Everything is a fucking commodity really. Not a new idea, by any means. I think I just needed to clear a blockage tonight.

Feel free to argue the case for ringtones. I’m genuinely bewildered and curious. And humourless and grizzly.

DOMESTICITY CLAIMS ANOTHER GENIUS

Ok, so now that Anton is working ridiculous hours each week, I've taken it upon myself to step up to the plate in the domestic stakes. Hence my lack of blogging in the last few days.

I'm cleaning, washing dishes, walking the demon dogs, scrubbing dried-up food off laminated surfaces and cooking now. Ok, so according to Mellipop's stringent criteria in defining the culinary arts, heating up previously prepared food is classified as cooking. To my mind, if it doesn't come pre-prepared by a pimply adolescent in a paper bag it's fucking cooking, alright.

All of which leaves me little time to attend to the burgeoning flower of my God-given creative genius. This upsets me. God didn't create me for the divine purpose of menial domestic tasks, or to be a dab hand with the Domestos, that I am sure of. Otherwise s/he would have made me good at it.

So I had a great idea for a pseudo-food post tonight, and now I only have a mere seven minutes in which to write and post it, before the hard-working "hubbie" gets home. Seven minutes is not enough time to post a thoughtful commentary on modern malaise but it is at least time enough for a mini-whinge. I feel like Sylvia Plath. If Sylvia Plath had had two demon Staffy's to contend with, she would have stuck her head in that damn oven much sooner than she did. We've got a fucking electric oven. Though I'm sure that I could stick a knife in the toaster if needs be.

Maybe that's why Sylvia wrote poetry. Cooking for her useless poet husband, cleaning up baby crap and keeping a dust-free mantlepiece left no time to actually write anything substantial. Hence poetry. The drive-thru equivalent of the literary arts. It doesn't need to rhyme, entertain or make any sense at all. In fact, any old dribble that meets those three basic criteria can be slapped out in five minutes and bear the mark of genius. Because no-one understands it and NO-ONE CARES. Throw in a couple of sinister-sounding metaphors, acquire a substance abuse habit, die young and tragically and be remembered as a tortured artiste. Anyone can do that.

There's no romance in domestic drudgery. Dinner served on time, clean sheets and spotless laminated surfaces. The stuff that eulogies are made of.

Sigh... I really feel like writing tonight. But I need to be a good and attentive housewife. If Sylvia couldn't do it, what chance do I have?

MELLIPOP IS SCREENING TONIGHT

Ok, so Anton is working late tonight, I've had the day off with the flu and we really need to get an answering machine. I’m screening tonight, see.

I'm a big fan of screening. Generally I screen phone calls to avoid facing one of two things 1) My parents 2) Anton's parents.

I can say this without fear of recourse, because no-one in Anton’s hemisphere of our combined “Circle of Love (and Obligation)” actually read Mellipop. I think he is simply far too embarrassed by me to expose them to the dubious inner workings of my psyche. Fair enough. They probably already think I’m strange enough as it is. Plus, his family don’t cuss half as much as mine does. We’re foul-mouthed butcher-folk from Blacktown.

My parents already know and understand that I am a moody bitch, capable of erratic moments of vivacious chattiness alternating with episodes of sullen withdrawal. It’s a phone-call crap-shoot, and they know it. They usually prefer to speak with Anton anyway. He’s always predictably upbeat and polite. Mr Mono-Mood.

Anyway, as with regards to this evening, the problem is that the essential nature of screening has as its central concern, the act of identifying the caller first, then deciding whether or not you actually wish to speak with them.

Without an answering machine, screening, for the most part, is completely ineffectual, and begins to rely more on the principles of pure risk rather than calculated risk.

Do I pick up the phone call and risk having to make inane small-talk with the in-laws in Anton’s absence, or do I elect to take the soft option of Star 10 Hash to minimise that risk? Now Star 10 Hash, is not without its problems either. The only phone number I actually have committed to memory is that of my parents, and that is surely only because it was also my phone number until I hit the age of 19.

So the only callers I can successfully screen are my parents. Any other number simply leaves me mystified, no clearer as to who wished to speak with me and why. So then I start to feel guilty, wondering whether maybe someone has been in an accident, or has died. Or maybe a good mate has just broken up with someone and needs a friendly shoulder to cry on. And here I am screening them. What kind of horrible person does that make me?

Truth be told, I hate talking on the phone, though the irony is that my parents were completely frustrated by their failed attempts to wrench me away from the darn thing for five long years between the ages of 13 and 18. I’d much prefer to talk over a schooner in a quiet beer garden somewhere.

Friends and family members all attest to the same frustration at trying to call me on my mobile phone. Having loudly resisted getting one of the bloody things for years, its prime function these days is as an over-priced push-button paperweight on my desk.

The “mobile” aspect of my phone is generally neutered by a lack of credit, battery power or the simple failure to carry it with me on my person. Plus, I don’t have emergencies. Being 15 minutes late to meet with someone does not classify as an emergency. I’m always on time. I sincerely believe that other people use their mobile phone as a handy excuse to be tardy. It is simply called being “rude” or “inconsiderate”, regardless of whether or not you phone ahead to explain that you haven’t had the courtesy to make any attempts at punctuality.

So to assuage my guilt at refusing to pick up the phone tonight, I have logged on to the internet. I still don’t know who called me tonight. Though at least I can eliminate my folks from the equation, thanks to Star 10 Hash. Apologies if it were anyone amongst you, friends of Mellipop, who was trying to call me tonight. I would have been boring and sullen company anyway, devoid of even the slightest spark of wit - as this post attests to. I’m sick, see.

MELLIPOP FEELS FLU-EY

Ok, so I'm calling in sick tonight, fellow Bloggers.

I can feel the flu coming on. Worst of all, Anton and I are scheduled to have dinner with my fabulous ex-boss tonight, who is in Perth on business. A rare opportunity to socialise. And I just want to sleep. I was below par at work today, noticeably quiet and devoid of my usual incessant idiotic banter, which made the day that much more intolerable.

Then I get home only to discover that the fucking dog has started eating the couch, having been shut out of the bedroom during the day. I was going to post a pic, but there is no really compelling reason to do so. I don't think Mellipop needs any more pictures of shredded foam.

What Mellipop really needs is industrial-strength pseudoephidrine and a good lie down.

MELLIPOP GOT NOTHIN'

Ok, so I have seen only the first episode of Big Brother Season 5, and am certain that I have already slashed my meagre 116 IQ in half. I feel tangibly dumber for having witnessed it.

Alas, I have been struggling to come up with a post for two hours now, and am still no closer to achieving my usual level of (ha ha) intelligent social critique. Plus I have just under 10 minutes to do this before the next episode begins, which I am watching under the dubious guise of “behavioural observation”.

Already it has its sinister tentacles wrapped firmly around both frontal lobes - for at least the next three months anyway - before all memory of its participants are well and truly erased. Had the producers been recruiting from within the ranks of the Third Reich ruling elite, they could not have assembled a more unlikeable or obnoxious group of individuals. At least the Nazis had ideals, however warped and repulsive. Ideals presuppose some level of cognitive activity. Though I have yet to see any evidence of this in amongst the BB Season 5 rabble.

I got nothing. I will duly post and subsequently remove for posterity’s sake.

MELLIPOP GETS OUTED AS A BOGAN BY A SCOTSMAN IN A BELGIAN PUB

Ok, so what exactly is it about me that screams “bogan” (or “westie” for our brethren in the Eastern states)?

So it’s Friday afternoon and I’m in some wanky overpriced faux-European pub in Perth with a few workmates. Think $6 for a stubbie of Cascade Light beer and unpronouceable ales from the Eastern Bloc served in fucking wine glasses for $10 a pop. And before the geo-political lectures commence, let me first say that I do realise that Belgium is not and never was a Communist state, but by that same token must also confess that I don’t really know or care where the fuck it is. Their beer is shit and expensive. Enough said.

So I’m serving tenure at the bar, waiting to invest the meagre remainder of the “Sydney Fund” with my otherwise-occupied ale-slinging bartender Murray, and am restless and distracted enough to start up a conversation with the gentleman standing beside me.

Turns out to be a bloody Scotsman, of course. Like all people in Perth – or to be precise, those who weren’t born or raised here - he didn’t seem to know exactly why the hell he was here, but was certain enough to state for the record that out of all the places he had been in Australia, it had to rank as the most soulless and boring of the lot. A statement which would otherwise have seen him lynched on the spot by a posse of Perth locals hepped up on Euro-trash beer and small-town parochial fervour, had he not been speaking to a similarly lost and bored expat from Sydney, who shared his feelings of bewilderment and exile.

So we chat as we both continue our lengthy wait for Murray – gunning hard for the title of “World’s Least Dynamic Bartender” – to attend to our orders before heading back to our respective beer drinking buddies.

Turns out that my Scottish companion had been living in Coogee back in Sydney, and asked me where I was from. So I told him that I had been living in and around the Inner West for the last few years – Newtown, Leichhardt, Camperdown – and he nodded his appreciation for the region.

So I’m choking back the tears as I’m reminiscing about Toa - my erstwhile bartender from the Annandale Hotel - pulling me a fast and cheap VB from the tap, when completely out of the blue, my Scottish friend asked me if I was from Blacktown.

What the fuck!?!

I’m still fucking speechless, even now. I got fucking outed within the space of three minutes. The guy was spot on, yes, but where does a Scotsman get off spotting my bogan roots from over 4000kms away? It led me to start thinking, what exactly is it about me that screams “bogan”? I’m smart, I’m, literate, I’m articulate – and I wasn’t even wearing my Meatloaf t-shirt!

Sure, so I say the word “fuck” more often than may otherwise be deemed necessary, I’m a smidgin rough around the edges and I tend to speak loudly and without refinement, but I have a job, a future and a full set of teeth.

I still don’t get it.

Though I have to say in all honesty, that I’m secretly proud of my working class roots. It gives me a fabulous arsenal of ammunition to fuck with the heads of pretentious twats from private-school leafy-suburb backgrounds. Me with my parent’s pristine collection of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and $90 a year public education. And a university degree paid for with riches accumulated slinging sausages in a butcher shop (managed by my Dad) for five years. The very same fertile environment which gave birth to my love of VB. Fuck the smart bombs. I’m a smart bogan.

Say it loud, I’m a Westie and I’m proud.

Now bring me a beer so easy to pronounce it’s fucking abbreviated!


Man that post sucked. Too much cheap wine and too many hyphens.

MELLIPOP: NOT A GENIUS, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD TO THE CONTRARY

OK, so I was bored and uninspired last night, so - in lieu of having anything remotely witty or eventful to post on Mellipop - I sought to boost my flaccid self-esteem by doing a totally kosher on-line IQ test.

I wanted to feel clever and superior, see. I needed external reinforcement to support my own innate claim to uncontested genius. Plus, it was multiple choice. I had it in the bag. What I didn't actually know, I had at least had a 20% chance of successfully guessing.

I couldn't possibly fail. I was going to yank that fucker right off the scale. Bell Curve my arse! They'd have to create a whole new paradigm of intelligence to process my score.

So it turns out that I am only marginally Above Average.

I clocked 116. The average is 100.

According to their IQ scale, I am neither Gifted nor Genius, which completely fucks with my self-concept. If nothing else, it means I’ll need to have new business cards made up.

It was the goddammed puzzles that did me in. I have no spatial intelligence. This confirms the testing done on me as a “volunteer” psychology undergraduate. Essentially, I’ve been denied genius status by a series of puzzles, dice and triangles. These things mean nothing in the real world, for at least three reasons that immediately spring to mind: 1) We do not live on the fucking set of Tron 2) No-one uses IUDs anymore 3) Mr Squiggle never did return to our screens following that unfortunate pedophilia scandal in the late 80’s.

Fucking puzzles.

And the bollocky number series questions. What is WITH those?

Q: What do the following set of numbers have in common?

4859 5949 3850 0184

A: Nothing ! Everything ! Who the fuck cares ! I just made the fuckers up, you morons ! For all you know it could be my fucking VISA card number !

The thing is, Numbers are to Religion like Statistics are to the Bible*. You can manipulate numbers in an infinite variety of ways, to support any harebrained theory you could ever care to devise. Numbers don’t mean anything – they are completely arbitrary and random!

And - more importantly…. This skill will not help you survive. This skill will not make you the much-sought-after conversational centrepiece at dinner parties. This skill will not get you into bed with the ladies. This skill does not make you a genius. It may in fact reveal that you are a dribbling autistic.

The only numbers that ever really matter in life are:

Number of sexual partners you have ever had :
** (a lady never tells)
Number of your “call in case of emergency” person:
02 9671 ****
Number of days before debt collectors turn up on your doorstep: 47
Number of times today you wish you hadn’t said what you actually said: 14
Number of minutes before your partner comes home with cigarettes: 36
Number of beers left in the fridge: 0

Being a seasoned psychology undergraduate/drop-out from way back, I know how shonky attempts to measure human “intelligence” are. But it still pisses me off that there are people out there scoring HIGHER than me. And some of those fuckers are just guessing! Guessing!

Sigh… I guess you can’t argue with standardised testing. I’m categorically, quantifiably, AVERAGE. Even though some anonymous internet IQ arbitrator told me I was Above Average, the fact that it would deign to use the word “average” at all is depressing enough.

I’m special. I really am.


* The grammatical form of this pointlessly inflammatory statement is taken from the IQ test itself (used satirically, in this case).

Genuine sample question: Water is to Ice as Liquid is to…?

a) Solid
b) Dogs Bollocks
c) Venereal Disease
d) Beer
e) I don’t know

MELLIPOP FINDS HER NICHE IN THE POST-NUCLEAR WORLD

Ok, so I have come to the really quite obvious conclusion that I have no practical worth whatsoever as a human being. I mean, I’m an interesting decorative piece, and like to think that I have a reasonable level of amusement value and all - in this frivolous era of contented capitalism - but in the harsh post-apocalyptic world, I’d be a bit of a nuisance really.

I am a massive fan of doomsday scenarios. One of my favourite morbid daydreams is to imagine what would transpire if word came of our impending annihilation at the hands of some nuke-wielding misanthrope. If, in such an instance, our doomed society had the time and werewithal to organise bunkers at the grassroots level, I don’t think I’d be terribly high on the list of “post-nuclear desirables” – those chosen few ushered into relative safety underground to ensure that the human race survives.

I’m thinking that the competition to be one of those “chosen few” selected to escape certain death and re-build society would be fierce. And, frankly speaking, I’m not too sure that my CV would stand up to much scrutiny if called upon to save the human race. I mean, I was never even a Girl Guide, and know next to nothing about agriculture, medicine, engineering or architecture. Nor can I sing, dance or play an instrument.

In addition, more functional skills such as basic first aid, cooking, sewing and building things are definitely not my forte.

Having said that, I do know a lot about essentially useless things like feminist theory, literature, marketing, music and pop culture in general. Not much good in the bunker, I’m afraid. I’d just be a depressing reminder of life before the bomb. And no doubt I’d get beaten up for the marketing stuff and feminist ranting anyway.

Having said that, here is a list of all the essential qualities I would have to offer my bunker buddies, in our time of mutually-assured doom.

* I am a healthy female with reproductive fertility, loose morals and low standards.

* I can dig holes. Well, I haven’t dug a hole since Year 9 agriculture, but I reckon I can still remember how it’s done. Though I’d have to outlive environmental radiation to impress everyone with that particular skill.

* I can write satirical commentaries on post-apocalypic life - though not many laughs in that, one would assume. Wholly dependent on the existence of stationery, of course.

* I can recite all the words to Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” and “Bust a Move” by Young MC. As "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" by Homer were to the Ancient Greeks, so will these two modern masterpieces become the basis for a new post-apocalytic oral tradition. The hero's epic struggle to get a root in Young MC's in "Bust a Move", echoes the themes of the Iliad, which is based on a couple of cities warring over some slag called Helen, because there a couple of blokes who both want to shag her. Vanilla Ice's narrative of rolling the streets of LA in his 5.0 with the rag-top down so his hair can blow, looking for ho's is very similar to the epic journey of Odysseus, in his quest to kill his father and fuck his mother. Or something... Wait, no that's a song by The Doors. In the bunker, it won't matter anyway.

* I have excellent delegation skills when it comes to allocating general chores. My fair and precise managerial techniques will be sorely needed in the bunker, to stave off riotous anarchy.

* I am quite content to sit around doing nothing for very long periods of time. Hence I would engender no restless boredom amongst my fellow castaways during the lengthy period of our enforced seclusion.

* I don’t take up a lot of space, physically. Though I do eat a lot for my size and talk very loudly. Maybe not so desirable in confined spaces with limited resources.

* I don’t believe in God, and could thus reassure my spiritually shattered bunker buddies as to the true nature of divinity. Given time, I could eventually convince them that I was their only worthwhile object of worship. Everybody needs to have faith in something. I am loving, benevolent and capricious. But I can also be vengeful, unforgiving and judgemental. The transition will no doubt be fairly seamless.

And that, essentially, is it. I think I’ve found my niche. Having soundly established the fact that I couldn’t possibly serve any practical function in terms of basic survival, within the post-apocalyptic confines of the bunker - with no escape or retreat - the Goddess cult of Mellipop will thus be born.

So worship me or die, my pretties, for the end is nigh….

MELLIPOP GETS DESPERATE

Ok, so I need to rip the udder off the sacred TV cow and sociological phenomenon that is Desperate Housewives. Am I the only person in the world who thinks this show is a rancid pile of steaming cow shit?

So I was reading an article on the SMH website that was rhapsodising about how “liberating” Desperate Housewives is for women over 40.

Sure. Liberating. The only thing remotely liberating about the program is that Teri Hatcher - the show’s main star - looks like she has recently been “liberated” from Auschwitz. Has this women not eaten anything since “Lois and Clark” was axed ten years ago?

Has anyone taken a good look at these women? Have we all forgotten that sacred phrase – “mutton dressed as lamb”? Did we not used to think that women of this ilk were both infinitely embarrassing and worthy only of our most unrelenting scorn?

Apparently, there is a new term for this emerging breed of over 40’s woman – the DISCO woman. According to some new gee-whiz marketing paradigm they’re “Discerning, Increasing years, Stylish and Comfortably Off”. Though a more honest assessment may otherwise suggest that that our over-40 DISCO chicks are “Desperate to look 25 again, Impossibly Skeletal, Cosmetically-enhanced and Over-dosed on Botox”.

Is this is what we are to aspire to, ladies? Conquering old age by indulging in a dangerous Dorian Gray fantasy in which childbirth, metabolism and life in general never impact on our face or figure. You too can look like Desperate Housewife DISCO dollies - all it takes is excessive dieting, over-exercising, cosmetic surgery, air brushing and good lighting. Simple!

And, of all people, the article name-drops Liz Hurley as some new feminist freedom fighter for the over 40’s. This is a woman most famous for wearing an ingeniously designed dress made of nought but a couple of safety pins and a clean white hanky.

A women who is better known for a) her boobs and b) the men she has been involved with, than for any actual talent. Dating first Hugh Grant (who shagged some black hooker for a decent handful of booty), and then some nameless rich cad who impregnated her, dumped her and then moved on to Nicole Kidman (no doubt reassured he won’t be making THAT little “mistake” again).

A woman who’s crowning achievement was to drop 20 kilos a couple of weeks after giving birth - by literally starving herself - and then parroting on to the press about it like she had just cured cancer or brokered peace in the Middle East. When all she had done was to reclaim her middle-aged midriff for future Austin Powers sequels.

A woman who is currently designing her own swimwear range, the latest in that proud lineage of has-been ex-models before her. Though no doubt she will also eventually break innovative new ground in the woefully untapped celebrity lingerie market.

So essentially, the new feminist icon is a post-menstrual skeleton with her own swimwear range. Or hammy sitcom star with a starvation fetish and "frequent buyer" card at her local cosmetic surgeon. Either way ladies, if you can’t see your ribcage in the mirror and can still form a facial expression or two when you hit 40, you just haven’t made it darling.

Ok, so I have actually seen an episode or two of Desperate Housewives. It really is utter shite.

FREE TO GOOD HOME

Ok, so I get home again today and that fucking demon dog has, FOR THE THIRD DAY STRAIGHT, RIPPED THE BED UP AGAIN......

Anton is the last one to leave the house in the morning. One quick phone call determines that he thinks that he "may not have closed the bedroom door properly" this morning.

Quite so..... Grrrrrr.........

(Counting to ten very slowly and breathing deeply helps here)

I have already begun to mentally compose the classified spot for this weekend's paper.

FREE TO GOOD HOME - Male Staffordshire Bull Terrier, six months old, pedigree with papers. Best suited to a household that contains no furniture and is tenanted by a veterinary science professional who enjoys long walks, doesn't wear any underpants and kips on the floor in a sleeping bag made from Kevlar.

The rest writes itself....