I Love My Life As A Dickhead…

Warning: the following message contains images that some viewers might find disturbing. Discretion is advised.

I have been on a bit of a trip of late, of making cursory examinations of my tendency to fail to learn from my mistakes, my cyclical state of mental ill-health, and my steady migration toward being a cantankerous old fart. I say cursory because, quite frankly, I’m either too involved in my quest for instant gratification or my borderline alcoholism, or I get too distracted by slapping epithets such as Dickhead, or Fucking Cunt, on the likes of Frank Miller, Tony Abbott, or pretty much anyone who falls afoul of my predilection for being a judgemental prick – which, whether it constitutes advanced crankiness or mental illness, or both, is frequently visited in afore mentioned examinations.

Before I go any further, I’ll state for the record – in relation to the old fart comment – I am well that my early thirties hardly qualifies as my dotage, and an (albeit advancing) widow’s peak ain’t exactly bald, but as the hair on my head continues its chinward migration, I can’t help but reflect upon the gulf between the reality of life and how much I really thought I’d have sorted my shit out by now.

Right, on to the dickheads…

Now, apparently FARE has set about trying to change the way we as a nation drink. If nothing else, you have to applaud them for the sheer magnitude of the undertaking, but really, good fucking luck kids, you’re going to need it. We are, after all, a nation with some pretty questionable moral and social standards. Anywhere in which the employers of a man – sorry a fucking cunt – like Kyle Sandilands, can get away with “no comment” in response to the guy’s fundamentally reprehensible behaviour has some serious problems, to say nothing of the fact that Sandilands even has a willing audience. Mind you, in a nation that so adores Alan Jones, it’s hardly fucking surprising is it?

But what’s Sandilands got to with getting boozy? Well, as you might have guessed, I’m no stranger to glass of wine, and while it’s a good laugh, and makes an effective (though sadly temporary) cure for life’s woes, I can claim an intimate familiarity with how one’s ability to think grinds to a shuddering halt when you’ve had more than a stubbie or two. Hence the popularity of Kyle and Jonesy. Who the fuck, FUCK, would give either of them the time of day if they were in any sort of state to use their fucking brains? No seriously, this goes well beyond disagreeing with their politics and dissemination of bullshit, a la Abbott and Joyce. Sandilands ought to be locked in a room with broken-bottle-wielding victims of sexual violence, and see how fucking abusive and patronising he is then.

Back to the booze though – that’s one of the wonderful things about it though, no matter how many times you leave it, the drink always welcomes you back with open arms, and not a hint of reproof. The kind of statistics you’ll find backing FARE’s campaign for change are somewhat… sobering. I know, genius right? To say nothing of the scything of vast crops of brain cells, the connection of long term use to cancer, liver failure, and frequent, blistering hangovers, the attributable incidents of violence, child abuse, and outright death are enough to make you stagger your way to the wagon and haul yourself on board. Which is exactly what FARE is counting on. What they’re not counting on, however, is just how big a dickhead most members of the population are.

Nothing says dickhead like persisting in the pursuit of things that fuck you up. Thus, I will happily – though somewhat shamefaced – stand up and be counted amongst this great nation’s dickheads. I understand, really I do. A good boozer can be a lot of fun, but inevitably, at some point you take it too far, and do something you regret. It’s not necessarily violent, nor always abusive – at least not in the classic I’m-so-worked-up-half-the-pub-is-now-familiar-with-the-consistency-of-my-saliva kind of abusive – but it does play on your mind… assuming you remember it.

So, fuelled by the desire, the need, to stop thinking about how much of a dickhead you were – you probably still are – you take solace in a bottle of Laphroaig (or by the standards of most of Arsetralia, Bundaberg O.P.). For a little while, the problems go away, you’re feeling magnanimous, the smiles come easy, everyone gets along fine… and then you have one too many, and it’s Blue Velvet all over again, or once more you whip your shlong out in front of someone who could otherwise have gone to their grave happy, and ask them to give it a little cuddle…

It’s a vicious circle, and sometimes you have to ask yourself honestly, which came first, the dickhead or the drunk? The answer might make you don the blinkers and head straight for the nearest drive-thru bottle-o, but go on, do yourself a favour, ask it, answer it. It’s best if you know.

The more I think about it, which being onto my second beer now, is taking a lot longer than it should, I can do nought but agree with FARE’s goals. Their achievement might not, in the end, lessen the popularity of Sandiland et al – which, obviously, comes back to the dickhead or the drunk question – but it might reduce the horrendous consequences for people whose only mistake was to be either related to, or in the vicinity of, a complete dickhead. At the very least, it might help prop up the sinking international opinion of Australians – if anyone has ever spent more than about forty five minutes with other Australians in the bar of a backpackers hostel, you’ll know what I mean.

Having said that, I have to disagree with FARE’s position on one point. That alcohol-related health issues, leading to untimely death, are the slightest problem, or the even remotely death untimely. Oh, the burden on the health system, you might cry. It’s a fair fucking trade say I. There’s nothing untimely here, the sooner the dickheads take themselves out of the gene pool, away from people they’re tempted to abuse, and out from behind the wheel of a car that will no doubt – thank you Murphy – kill someone other than themselves, the better for all involved. In fact, the better for all not involved, but forced to witness from the footpath as the prick drags his missus across the road by the hair. Good. Fucking. Riddance.

Of course, this is perhaps a rather narrow definition of dickhead. Here is a completely different, though equally valid, interpretation:

Then, there is always the good old Armed Forces Dickhead, the sort of guy that thinks using the butt-end of a live .50 calibre round as a hammer is a good idea, and then wonders why this happens:


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on November 23rd, 2011.

2 Responses to “I Love My Life As A Dickhead…”

  1. […] On the other hand, maybe I am a little racist. I certainly find myself having a harder and harder time being in the presence of other Australians… or, rather, other white Australians. I know, I know, you can’t tar everyone with the same brush, and I don’t really, it’s just that, well, so many of us are such Dickheads. […]

  2. Тут был вася.

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