Archive for category Health

This is why we can’t have nice things

Jun 21

Posted by Spock... in Health, Politics | 7 Comments

HEALTH Minister Nicola Roxon has rejected a plea from a coalition of 60 health groups to expand the government’s list of subsidised medicines, leaving thousands of seriously ill Australians without affordable access to new treatments.

Huh?

The health groups will today release a letter to be sent to all MPs calling on the government to reverse its decision to defer subsidies for eight new drugs.

The groups, which include MS Australia, Diabetes Australia and SANE Australia, say the decision has left thousands of people either without access to the new treatments or facing a major cost burden.

”Affordable medicines and vaccines that save and prolong lives are being denied to some of the most vulnerable, chronically ill Australians by a short-sighted decision by the government,” the letter says. ”Australia can afford these new medicines now.”

That’s a pretty compelling argument. The government using its resources to help its most in need citizens. So why aren’t we?

But in February the government announced it would override the advice of the committee and indefinitely defer inclusion on the PBS of eight drugs – including for chronic pain, schizophrenia and lung disease – due to budgetary constraints. It says the deferred listing would save more than $100 million.

Oh…

Putting the abstract “economy” before human life. Classy.

Tags: Nicola Roxon, PBS, the economy

Trick or treat

May 30

Posted by Ross Sharp in Food, Health, Society | 2 Comments

I am watching a “report” on the news, not because of any specific interest in the “report”, but simply because the news is on and I am watching it and the news comprises “reports” on all manner of shit.

This “report” informs me that “healthy choice” food options in fast food chains are moving slower than a eunuch’s dick in a whorehouse and that this is a shame.

And I am moved to wonder.

I feel that my mind is slowly being clusterfucked into a piss-streaked gloopy puddle of dead, gelatinous jism by a persistently noisy gaggle of gibbering dickheads, all of whom regularly feel that their mere existence in this world upon which I stagger entitles them to poke their fingers into the slowly diminishing spongy spillage that is my brain and waggle them about some before scooping it up in a tissue and flushing it into the sea.

I imagine this scenario …

“Dad! Dad!”, shouts the excitable little boy in the ever-so-gorgeous Superman costume, “Can we go to McDonalds for dinner tonight?!”

“Why, of course we can, son!”, replies Dad, all Brylcreem and respectable gray slacks belted at the nipples, he’s Fred MacMurray on steroids, he has a maid who cooks and cleans every day, she has folksy homilies on tap, you wouldn’t fuck her with a bag over your head via remote control even if you could.

“But only as a special treat, you mind! This is not a regular thing!”, says Dad, hitching his pants up to his neck and pulling the belt tight as it will go, a little spontaneous auto-erotic asphyxiation while junior’s washing his hands and poking about his earholes with a fluffy stick before a nice meal out never hurt anyone, whoopsy-daisy, there she blows!.

And then they arrive, and our excitable tyke rushes up to the counter and gazes longingly at the vast array of tempting comestibles on offer, all oozing, juicy meats and cheeses and buns and salt and sugar and stuff that bears no known relationship to any existing foodstuff but it’s served in fucking buckets TEN FEET HIGH! and our adorably innocent little boy-scout supreme looks back at his Dad who’s now wandered up to the counter and joined him.

“Take your pick, son!”, says Dad, gazing adorably at the pride of his now empty old gray testicles.

And our cute as a button little fella, why you could almost take him home with you and chain him to a chair in a locked room that’s covered all over with dinosaur wallpaper and throw bloody big boxes of Lego at him until he cracks and agrees to be your son and help you hand out pamphlets at the abortion clinic for the rest of his life, he looks up at Dad, a little tentative, a little anxious, and then he blurts out the one true desire of his sweet young heart on this oh-so-special of nights …

“CAN I HAVE THE APPLE IN A BAG?!?!?”

“Why, of course you can, son!”, says our Father of the Year, “But only as a special treat, you mind! This is not a regular thing!”.

And a fine night was had by all.

Listen …

A person wants a fucking apple, they go to a fucking grocer.

Let’s all try living in the world, yes?

Tags: fast food, healthy choice meals, it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again, McDonalds, nutrition

Bully

May 13

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Society, Unexplainable | 24 Comments

You’re eight or nine years old, slight and small of stature, asthmatic and allergic to a whole raft of things. Shy.

You have a friend, your best friend, a bullet-headed, nuggetty little scrapper named Fitz. They leave you alone when he’s around, but when he’s not, you’re a red rag.

The worst of them, once he picked you up and threw you from one end of the classroom to the other when the teacher was out of the room for a few minutes one day. You hit the floor with a thud and mostly just slid across the floor to the wall. It hurt.

It was like that.

Years later, someone tells you that this same guy wound up getting pinched for stealing cars and spent time inside for it. You think, “I hope he got the living shit beat out of him while he was there”.

You’d forgotten his name, and you’ll forget it again in an instant. You certainly can’t remember it now.

You wonder whatever became of Fitz.

You used to tell him stories that you made up during lunchtime. He liked that.

…..

Tumbleweeds, an imitation of life, everything recedes, fits and starts and flitting shadows and distant murmurs and this world does not seem real anymore and your mind turns on itself and you are a Sebastiao Salgado pixel of shadow, indistinguishable from any other, and all the bad things keep coming back and night’s black agents caress you on the brightest of days with cruel cloaks of roughly hewn and battered cloth, on every day, and you are walking to work, your head down, every step a slow-motion trudge through molasses, there’s barely anything but body memory to keep you moving, and you think to yourself, “This is not normal behaviour”.

If you are always looking at the ground, how can you see where it is you are supposed to be going?

…..

High school.

They’re kicking your chair again from behind. Every day, something.

Twenty minutes of it, if you had a gun, you’d turn around in your chair and shoot them both point blank in the face, thinking of nothing, no consequence other than “it would be quiet”.

You stand up and leave the room.

Yes, there is the teacher. You don’t care. You need to go and you do, and she begins, “What … ?”, but you’re out before she can finish.

Your refuge is the school library. You run. It’s oh so quiet there.

Last time you picked a book, “Welcome to the Monkeyhouse” by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., an author you’d not read or even heard of before. You liked the title. It seemed apt.

This time, you pick a book, “Advertisements for Myself” by Norman Mailer, another thing that is new to you, and you lose yourself.

You will be in this place for another three years. One thousand and ninety five days.

You do not want to be in this place.

You want to die.

It would be quiet there.

…..

They dangled you over a second storey school balcony once, about three of them, holding you by the wrists.

You looked down. That fear of heights thing you’ve had all these years, you think?

Afterwards, you wished they had let you go.

There would be the fall. Yes.

But then there would be the peace.

…..

Wandering through a bookshop, shelf upon shelf of “self-help” books, “Conquer This”, “Unlock Something”, “Embrace this Blah!”, they make you grimace, these stinking, stupid things.

“Because it’s all about you, isn’t it?”, you think, “Everything revolves around you, you’re the centre of the fucking universe, everyone is the centre of the fucking universe now, aren’t they? A world of potential reality television stars. Me, me, me, mine, mine, mine, I, I, I, I … Just FUCK OFF!”

Anything but that. That it be about you.

You’re not here anymore.

You haven’t been here for years. That thing in the mirror is not you. Your eyes dart around the edge of your reflection, not long enough to see who or what it is you have become, just long enough to shave, to maintain the appearance of a person living in the world, to carry on with the charade.

You turn your back on the mirror to brush your teeth.

“This is not normal behaviour”, you think.

But it’s all you have.

…..

Thirteen or fourteen years ago, in another galaxy far, far away, a young woman walks into my office and begins to tell me things.

She tells me about the way they speak to her. She tells me about the snide remarks, the comments, the subtle and not-so-subtle putdowns and slights. She tells me about the abuse, every day, something, the way she looks, the way she dresses, her life, her boyfriend, her taste in this thing and in that, it’s constant, it never lets up, and as she speaks, her face flushes and her lips tremble and her eyes dart about frantically, and then there is a sound, a hacking inhalation of a sob, and then it comes.

She crumples to the floor in a crouching position, tears pouring from her eyes, her arms hold herself and she cries out, “BUT I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”, and I sit, stunned into silence, not moving, not knowing what to do, clueless for what seems long, long minutes, but is surely only seconds.

She’s done nothing. I know that.

Another young woman passes the office. She’s had this, too. She comes in, puts her arm around the shoulder of this girl and says, “I know. I know. Shhh … Shhhhhhh … Come on, now”, and they both leave the office together, they leave the building, they go outside. Where there is quiet.

This other young woman, she has recently made the grievous misjudgement of telling one of her so-called “workmates” that she had been raped by her cousin some years back, a thing you would hope to tell a person in confidence, a thing that, were you to tell a person, you would think that they would listen and that they would care.

Not here.

They just laughed at her. Sniggers and whispers.

“I’ve really got to get out of this fucking place”, I think.

I do. Eventually. I had to wait about 18 months. I wanted the long service payout.

It wasn’t worth it.

…..

Let me tell you something …

These are not my words. I have paraphrased those of another man …

“HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I HAVE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE APPROXIMATELY ONE HUNDRED TRILLION CELLS THAT COMPRISE MY BODY. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH SINGLE NUCLEUS OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF CELLS IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU.”

Was that what you wanted?

FUCK. YOU.

That’s all you get.

…..

YOU.

Bully.

This is for you.

You are an emotionally underdeveloped, intellectually lightweight lump of barely human filth who should’ve been scraped, bagged and flushed into the toilet the moment the sperm met the egg in the womb of whatever five buck cum-soaked whore spat you out and dragged you up.

May your first born never draw a breath.

I no more want to understand why you are the person you are or how you became that person than I would want to know why a child pornographer does what it does.

FUCK. YOU.

I want nothing from you.

But to see you dead in a

FUCKING

DITCH.

Was that what you wanted?

That’s all you get.

…..

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the toxicity of the environment you found yourself in begins to seep into your psyche, gradually disappearing strips of self-worth and regard, and your sense of self begins to shatter like a burst water balloon in slow-motion. “What the fuck have I done?”, you ask yourself and there is no answer to that. This is how it works here.

“Can’t you see what this job is doing to you?”, a friend asks you one night as, yet again, you’ve managed to fly into another incoherent, half-drunk rant about some thing or another, and you just sit on the floor staring at nothing and saying nothing because yes, you know what it’s doing, you know full well, but it’s not long away now, just another short year before you can grab what money is owed to you and run.

They keep dishing it out and you begin dishing it back, every word a bullet, lashing out at everything and everyone in such a manner that you shock yourself with the ferocity of your own bile and how base you can become when pushed to it, but to no end as they appear to enjoy this, that you have finally buckled under and begun to play this game, this stupid, stupid game and you begin to loathe yourself for it.

“I am not this person”, you think. “This is not me.”

It took years. The persistent, constant stream of verbal abuse, intimidation, veiled threats and derogatory slights, all of it designed to break you down and tear you apart and keep you in a place from which you would never be allowed to escape. You recall how, when you finally got your ten years and you told them to shove their miserable job and their miserable selves and their miserable industry up their collective miserable arses, you were finished with it all, that the General Manager wandered into your office half-tanked after a liquid lunch and plopped himself into the chair opposite yours and said to you, “So you think you’re fucking leaving do you? I’ll tell you one thing, you bald-headed cunt, if you go through with this, you’ll never work again, I’ll make fucking sure of that mate, I’ll make fucking sure life will be difficult for you, mark my fucking words”, and you flew off the deep end, the top of your voice, using language that would melt the head of a sailor.

The hundreds and hundreds of hours of unpaid overtime over all those years, the work you took on that was never supposed to be your work in the first place that one person who knew about such things told you would’ve been worth about one hundred and twenty thousand dollars and after all this and all this time, the best you get is a threat to fuck up the rest of your working life, and when you do get out, it’s with a long service payout and a two hundred and fifty dollar gift voucher.

You bought yourself a new clothes iron and a portable CD player.

One thing crowds in upon another, all of this and more, that thing you wanted so badly that slipped away, and that other thing you wanted so badly for so long and wound up getting, and then it all fell apart, and then you fell apart and then you simply stopped caring.

You lose yourself in drugs and alcohol.

Time passes.

And then the drugs and alcohol lose you.

And time passes.

You see your reflection in a mirror and it puzzles you, because this is not a person you recognise.

You’ve finally disappeared.

…..

You’re coughing, hacking and dry-retching into a towel on your lap because you drank yourself into a coma again and forgot to eat third night in a row. Sweat streams down your face, tears, you shake and sputter and sink back into the couch exhausted, bent so far out of shape you can barely lift a glass of water.

An hour passes. Two. There’ll be no work today.

You just sit, your mind a blank, struggling to find a thought to hang onto, and time just slips away.

“This is not normal behaviour,” you think.

You go to the bathroom to rinse your mouth and catch yourself in the mirror and think, “You worthless sack of stupid shit”, and you turn around and go back to the living room and another hour passes and you realise that this time must now come to an end.

You pick up your phone, select a number and press “call”.

“****** Medical Centre”, is the reply.

“Yes. My name is Ross Sharp. I need to sort some things. I need to make an appointment.”

Tags: bullying, depression, may you all spend an eternity in Hell pissing gallstones the size of watermelons, school bullying, workplace bullying

Seeing Double

Mar 31

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Media, Society | 3 Comments

Sometime last year I clocked a news item somewhere about a brand new type of instant foodstuff that had been introduced to the dear hearts and gentle people of the good ol’ U.S. of A.

This foodstuff was gifted to a grateful populace by the hard-workin’ and no doubt God-fearin’ folk of the K.F. of C, a fowl cookin’ establishment that was founded by a kindly old white-haired Colonel many years ago which went on to find fame and fortune throughout the entire world on account of a secret cookin’ recipe that involved a bunch of fancy spices and herbs and stuff, and this new foodstuff was called a “Double Down”.

This new foodstuff has now been introduced to the peckish populace that is Australia, all of whom are currently hotfootin’ their way to the nearest K.F. of C. to partake of its pickin’s.

It is known here as a “Double” and comprises two chicken fillets that have been dipped in some shit and deep fried and then used to sandwich a few strips of bacon and some cheese and an ejaculation of sauce.

It’s served in a cardboard holder, so you can keep your fingers from gettin’ greasy so as to keep your shirt and pants clean.

Now, I’d no sooner eat one of these unappetising looking things than I’d chew on my left testicle, but Lord Almighty, the arrival of this breadless assemblage of fowl, pig and cheddar has certainly upset some folk.

Why, you make a meal out of just one of these things it seems, your arteries will go harder than a porn star’s favourite tool of trade after forty tabs of Viagra, your heart will clog up like a sub-continental hostel toilet, and great big glistening globules of undigested fat will coagulate into an oily, rancid mass of greasy evil that will slowly ooze its way through your intestine into your bowel and make your farts smell like dead people and the next time you shit, your buttocks will be propelled from the seat with such a force that you’ll hit your head on the bathroom ceiling, crack your skull and fall to the floor dead, and the sewers of a city will be stuffed for months ever after.

Bugger your wars, your droughts, your famines, floods, your natural and unnatural disasters, your man-made horrors, rape, pillage, bugger all that.

Because it’s two slabs of fried chicken will kill us all.

You have been warned.

Tags: Double Down, food, KFC, nutrition, this food will melt your head

Teeth

Feb 16

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Politics, Society | 12 Comments

Every three or four months, I visit a periodontist for some maintenance.

For what seems to me to be about an hour, one of these sadists will scrape, prod, push, scrape, scrape, prod, push and scrape about in my cakehole with their David Cronenberg inspired instruments of oral torture until my toes threaten to dislocate themselves from my feet and my spine contorts and arches in a fashion that would be quite impressive if I were a trapeze artist with Circus Oz.

And when this treatment is ended, I stagger, sweat soaked, from Ms. Mengele’s horizontal chair of terror to the front desk of this little shop of horrors to pay my debt, to pay what I owe for the privilege of having suffered so.

“That will be $200.00 today, Mr. Sharp”.

“Eftpos out of cheque, thanks”, I reply as I hand over my card, and then I glance at the time and realise that I have not been there for much longer than twenty minutes.

That’s ten bucks a minute.

Fuck me dead, he thinks to himself in quiet awe and dazed amazement.

A couple years ago, I went to a dentist who informed me that he needed to do a little work on a tooth.

“When did you have the root canal work on this done?” he inquired.

“Four, five years ago”, I replied.

“They didn’t do a particularly good job”, he said, “We’ll need to fix this up”.

“That ‘not particularly good job’ cost me a thousand bucks” I said.

“Yes, root canal isn’t cheap”, he replied with a nice smile, whilst I fought back the impulse to slap him upside his grinning head for stating the very fucking obvious.

And then he stuck me with some anaesthetic and proceeded to drill and file, drill and file, stuff some shit in the tooth and drill and file some more, after which I staggered from his very tastefully decorated little chamber of pain to the front desk to pay my debt, to pay the debt I owed for having been drilled and filed so.

“That will be $853.00 today, Mr. Sharp”.

“I see. I guess that will have to be credit today, thanks”, I replied, as I handed over my Mastercard, bidding farewell for now to my desire for a few new sticks of furniture for the flat.

“And did everything go well today, Mr. Sharp?”

“One fucking tooth has just cost me in the vicinity of two fucking grand, you braindead fucking bint, and the mood I’m in right now, I could stab you through the fucking forehead with a pair of fucking scissors, understand?” I replied.

…

No, I didn’t. I didn’t say that.

Instead, I said something like, “Yes. Fine, thank you”, and wobbled off into the street to make my way back to work.

I had a toothache just recently that put me in the mood to kill a blind man’s guide dog.

I wouldn’t kill a blind man’s guide dog, but you know what I mean.

It’s gone away for now, but I suspect it will return, and, once more, I shall have to toddle off to have Mr. Olivier have a poke at it and make me scream. And then I shall pay for it, and scream some more.

I’ve never quite been able to understand why those ailments that afflict us above our shoulders are deemed to be things that our national health care system should exclude.

Yes, yes, I do know that the Australian Dental Association lobbied vigorously for dental care to be excluded upon the initial introduction of Medicare, lest they be robbed of their inalienable birthright to fourteen Volvos and a Mediterranean-styled manse nestled midst the sweet, perfumed greenery of Baulkham Hills, complete with spas in all four bathrooms and a dedicated home theatre room where their private school educated kiddies, Chip and Donna-May, can retreat after a hard day’s backgammon tournament to relax with some gourmet cornchips and dip to watch the very latest in torture porn horror, I do realise this.

And they have lobbied vigorously for its exclusion ever since, and whenever such a concept like a national dental health care scheme is raised, up they pop to clatter their shiny white and perfect little choppers at the rest of us, telling us all how very, very ghastly such an idea is, and how “people who could now access dental care would continue to do so, and those who could not access care previously will be given second-class care”.

Which makes fuck all sense to me, to be perfectly frank.

I’ve had second-class dental health care from at least three dentists I can think of over the course of my life, but I’ve always paid first-class rates for it. One guy, I had to take out a loan to pay for the work he did, and then another guy looked at the work that guy had done, and said, “That work could’ve been done a whole lot better, would you like to have me do it again?” and, as sure as there’s shit on the sheets in a nursing home, up came that whole wanting to kill a blind man’s guide dog thing again.

The Australian Greens have a policy for dental health care to be bought under the umbrella of Medicare, but they don’t seem to talk about it much. Or if they do, the media don’t pay much attention to it. Which wouldn’t be terribly surprising, I suppose, given that most of the Australian mainstream media think the Greens are a bunch of evil, human-hating Nazis who’d like us all to live under environmentally friendly lean-to’s in a paddock somewhere and send our old folks off to death camps the minute they forget where they put the keys to the car.

Most of the mainstream Australian media is controlled by this old bloke who lives in the United States and goes by the name of Rupert, did you know that?

Rupert would like to own some more of it, too. Poor old Rupert, he was desperate for his media empire to penetrate the Chinese market some time back and he put a lot of effort into it too, but all he seemed to get out of it for his troubles was a wife.

Silly old bugger.

…

I’m sorry, I do digress.

I’d like The Greens to talk up their policy on dental health care a little more, make it more of a priority, put a bit of work into it, get it out there and into people’s minds as something that needs to be done, something that makes a whole lot of very good sense. It seems to me it’s a good idea for a government to attend to the healthcare requirements of the populace over which they govern, whether it’s general healthcare, mental health or dental.

You see, the healthier a person is, the more able they are to work, and these days, our governments keep saying that they would like us to work for as long as we possibly can, up to about the time we’re ready to pop our clogs so they don’t have to pay anyone an aged pension, say to about 96 years old.

…

I’m not working until I’m 96 years old.

Get fucked.

But I’d much rather pay a little extra tax for something like a really good, really comprehensive healthcare scheme that covers all the necessities, the whole kit ‘n’ kaboodle (what the fuck is a kaboodle?), than pay tax to a government who then go and pay some boofhead a wad of cash simply because they had a root and made a baby or they want to buy a fucking house.

Because that just shits me, that type of thing. It shits me to fucking tears.

That’s the type of stupid shit that’s almost enough to make a man want to go out and kill a blind man’s guide dog.

‘specially if he’s got a toothache.

Tags: dental health, healthcare, killing a blind man's guide dog, Medicare, national dental health care scheme, The Greens

A commercial I’d like to see …

Nov 2

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Media, Society | 6 Comments

A living room.

A young woman (20’s/30’s) sits on a sofa looking more than a little irritably “meh”. Her partner walks into view behind the sofa, gives her a quick kiss, and exits the living room saying to the woman, “Won’t be long” …

A supermarket at night.

The man enters the supermarket, walks through a couple of aisles and picks up some milk, some bread and some cheese, and a small packet of tampons. He goes up to the cash register at the counter and the female attendant throws him a look of sympathy, as if to say, “Oh, poor man. With a packet of tampons. How embarrassment.”

To which the man responds, “What? It’s a packet of tampons. I have a girlfriend. I’m not an idiot”, finalises the transaction, leaves the store and returns home, putting the milk, bread and cheese in the refrigerator and handing the pack of tampons to his girlfriend who says, simply, “Thanks.”

Flash brand of product, complete with legend “It’s just a tampon. We’re all a bit over it.”

Tags: advertising, it's called a period and the mens know all about it, stupid feminine hygiene product ads, tampons, wimmins wot bleed

For Tegan and Sergie

Oct 12

Posted by Ross Sharp in Crime, Health, Society | 6 Comments

Today in Cairns, 20 year old Tegan Leach and her 22 year old partner, Sergie Brennan face court charged with procuring an abortion and with supplying drugs to secure an abortion. If found guilty, Leach faces up to seven years imprisonment and Brennan up to three.

It is, to put it simply, an idiotic position, and a ridiculous decision to subject these two young folk to, but then, if the past is another country, that country is most definitely Queensland on this day.

Before Groupthink began, I posted the following on my own blog in September 2009, and I can think of nothing further to add on this matter, so I’m reposting it here …

Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: abortion, Queenslanders, Tegan Leach

Give us yer tits

Sep 24

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Society | 5 Comments

Gwen: “… and she doesn’t breast-feed, you know.”

Mabs: “Oh, the poor child …”

Gwen: “Yeesssss, oh, and I’ve tried to tell her …”

Mabs: “Oh, yes.”

Gwen: “Yes, I have, I’ve tried, but they don’t listen today, do they, the young ones?”

Mabs: “Nooooooo, they’re all with their computers, and the headphones …”

Gwen: “Yes, their computers, those websites and things …”

Mabs: “I don’t know what they see in all that, really, it’s all a waste of time, you ask me …”

Gwen: ” … full of child stenography, I’ve heard, who’d want that? What’s wrong with a good book? … But I told her, I said, I fed you that way, and if I could do – I mean, there’s nothing wrong with …”

Mabs: “Yes, I know, and you can see it in him already, can’t you?”

Gwen: “You don’t know what’s in it, the formula, do you? It could be from China, and you know what they’re like”.

Mabs: “Oh, yes“.

Gwen: “He could grow up to be a serial killer, I’ve heard it can make them go a bit batty.”

Mabs: “And you can see it in him, can’t you?”

Gwen: “Oh, yes, yes, I certainly can.”

Mabs: “Yes, you can.”

Gwen: “ …”

Mabs: “ …”

Gwen: “We’ll all be murdered in our beds …”

Mabs: “I wouldn’t be the least surprised.”

Gwen: “Mark my words.”

Tags: babies, breastfeeding, child-rearing, why won't people mind their own fucking business

Oklahoma!

Apr 29

Posted by Ross Sharp in Health, Society | 8 Comments

Once upon a time, God made a man and named him Adam and He looked down and saw that Adam was a fine piece of work so He took a day off and went to the pub for a bit.

When God came back to work on Monday, He had a squizz at how Adam was getting on and He realised that Adam was a bit out of sorts, so He thought, “I will make Adam a friend”.

So He gave Adam some pills to put him to sleep and then He ripped out one of Adam’s ribs and made a woman out of it, which is a really neat trick when you think on it.

I tried to make a woman out of a rib once and all I wound up with was Calista Flockhart.

Anyway, when Adam woke up, He looked at this woman God had made whose name was Eve and Adam got a stiffy. Adam stuck his stiffy into Eve’s front hole and wiggled it about some and that felt really good and Eve thought it felt really good too and made some moaning sounds, but God got pissed about that and yelled out to Eve, “Oi you, ya dumb bint, you’re not supposed to enjoy this y’know, you’re a fucking rib, just lay there and shut the fuck up”.

So that’s what she learnt to do, just shut the fuck up and let Adam poke her in whatever hole he wanted to and whenever he wanted to, a dozen times a day if he felt like it, and that was a fine and dandy tradition simply because it was the natural order of things as God had intended it.