How To Win Bigly And Be Best


I mean look, you got, what, fifty years of life ahead of you, and that’s long, very long – according to some people, according to other people, not so long – and when you have that long, and again, I’m saying it, because I know I’ve lived for a long time, longer than anyone alive, except maybe Jesus, but longer than a lot of people, so I know what I’m talking about, OK? I know what I’m talking about. When I talk about stuff – and I talk about stuff all the time, unlike what some would call ‘fake people’ would tell me, no no, Mr. Bigshot you lie you lie all the time – and I tell you what, ‘fake people’, I don’t lie. I don’t lie. I never ever, lie, like, ever, OK? so believe me, I know what I’m talking about, believe me. When you have done what I’ve done, and is as rich and wealthy and powerful as I am, OK, then you know you are best. The best, folks. The best. Only, the best. And I am best because, first of all, let me just say just because I am best doesn’t mean you can’t be best, too, alright? You can be best, you can be best, everyone can be best, because that’s good, you know, that’s a very, very good thing we have here, so it is hard, to not be best when, like, you are surrounded by all these wonderful, wonderful people, who, by the way, are much better than the ‘fake’ people that you see on TV that always say, blah blah you are not best blah blah you are all losers, because you’re not losers, OK? you are not losers. Well, OK, some of you are but that’s OK, that’s OK, and if some of you are not, that’s OK too. We’ll just have to see what happens. But When you have what I call losers – you know I came up with that word, ‘losers’, it’s a great word, very…very good word, I think – and you know, they always say stuff like, ‘oh no you can’t do that, that’s not good’, but you know what? Just do it, OK. Just do it. When you are rich they let you do it, and you just do it, you don’t even ask. And that’s how you win, folks. That’s how you win. We are gonna win so big and hard you’re gonna say, ‘oh please stop, this is so much winning, I can’t handle all this winning anymore’, OK folks? So believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m a winner, OK. I just win win win all the time, I can’t stop winning. And you know, sometimes, you don’t win, OK? Sometimes when it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. But yes, you know, I am a winner, so I often win all the time so it

[…. should probably stop this here]


How To Continuously Not Kill Yourself

stock-photo-regrets-wrong-doing-closeup-portrait-silly-young-woman-slapping-hand-on-head-having-duh-moment-384450757.jpgIn a completely arbitrary and totally made-up scenario, one day you find yourself spending a trivial amount of money at a food place using lots of change because, for some reason, the smallest denomination of coin is always the most abundant one in your possession, and you would like to exchange these disease-carrying pocket-stretching wallet-busting irrevocably-depreciated pieces of metal for essential goods and services.

After this brief yet excruciatingly pedantic transaction is completed, you walk away with some high-glucose negligible-nutrition-value yet mysteriously delicious pork buns, and reflect that the effort spent performing that particular human interaction was decidedly non-trivial, and could have been better spent sitting at your computer vacantly staring at the screen watching some guy talk about some shit for three hours.

It takes but a short logical leap, then, to realize that not a single party involved in that exchange wanted any part of it: you didn’t want the shitty food, it was pure sugar and processed carbs; the scowling old lady didn’t want to sell you the shitty food, she would rather be rich and spend every day shopping; the mint didn’t want to stamp those negative-value coins that were worth less than the metal from which they were made, but they have to because they were told to by decision-makers for whom the smallest denomination has three zeros after the one; and the guy in the three-hour podcast has long grown tired of his long-winded hyper-pedantic dives into why this good movie is bad and why that bad movie is a modern classic, but he has fans to placate and bills to pay, so he keeps going on and on and on.

You look around in bewilderment; your days are filled with these small nuisances that lead to small miseries; you look at the people around you and see these miseries manifest in everything they do.

A positive attitude is all you need to change this outlook! You tell yourself this, and immediately feels better. Then the next day you miss your bus because of extra intense bowel acrobatics. Then the delivery guy misplaces your item and now your cute anime girl figurine is nowhere to be found. Then some bureaucratic shit happens that you don’t fully understand, but suddenly you’ve got to pay a chunk of money and fill out a bunch of forms. Then you are left with nothing for lunch because you spent all your lunch money on the figurine. Then you get the nasty pork buns and they definitely do not look or taste as advertised.

At this stage, for the fourteenth time that day, you are ready to kill yourself. It is detestably strange that you are even feeling this way, since the day has plenty of good in it: there was that joke you heard in the morning which was really funny; there was the highly productive work you did which is maybe a million times more useful to humanity as a whole than selling pork buns; and there were all these people being nice, trying their best, helpful, working together, cohesive team environment, etc.

Then a random driver almost hits you and yells at you for being blind. You instinctively understand that he doesn’t really think you are blind, that these expletives are just a way for him to let off the nervous tension of almost hitting someone, yet him very reasonably losing his shit causes you to be angry and miserable. At what? At nothing. Miserable and angry at nothing, another small nuisance leading to a small misery, yet suddenly you want to off yourself again.

It is reasonable, then, to ask yourself why anyone would want to live in such an environment, where people indiscriminately inflict anger and misery onto everyone around them because they themselves are angry and miserable. In other words, why continuously decide not to kill yourself thirty times a day versus making the ‘ok I do that’ decision a single time and kill yourself?

The answer is pork buns. If you ded you won’t be able to eat dem delicious hotness no moar.

As your belly is filled and the balancing blood sugar levels return a semblance of sanity to your mind, you reflect that life is already too full of suicide-inducing little annoyances, and that you don’t need to add any more.

This is why you keep saying no a perfectly reasonable decision, a dozen times a day, a hundred times a week: you can make it a little less worse, just by being alive.

How To Forget


You are lying in bed, wide awake at 2am. You recall that on your plane trip earlier today, when the hostess asked whether you’d like chicken or fish for dinner, you, after four seconds of pensive silence (which is probably too long) and still unable to make up your mind due to giving exactly zero shits, give the answer of ‘chifishsehsch’ because you tried to say two words at the same time.

This response elicited a raised eyebrow and a slightly slackened jaw from the hostess – commonly known as the ‘Are-You-Retarded’ look – which had seemed amusing at first, but now, alone in the darkness and smelling the musty poorly-maintained aircon, you finally realise that, yes, dying of aerotic asphyxiation would be preferable to having to remember this brief yet excruciating exchange.

The only way to get over this inredeemable lapse in intelligence is, of course, by going to the convenience store and handing the clerk money, receive a confused look, then hand over increasingly enormous denominations until you realise you’ve been giving them the wrong currency.

You have now successfully forgotten the previous incident by starting a new one, kind of like putting a tattoo on top of an existing tattoo to make it uglier, or like electing a Liberal candidate to office thinking that it’ll improve things when you yourself have not improved in five years and still do the same thing every day every year and complain about the lack of real change.

Wait, what was the point of this blog again? Kinda forgot.


How To Behave When Surrounded By Asians

Being Asian, walking the streets of a quaint little backwater Australian town that idolizes shiny steel balls and a nightlife that consists of getting drunk in a variety of faux-European settings, has always been an apprehensive experience.

It is hard to put into words what this experience is like, let alone describe it to those who inexplicably enjoy their nightly traipses along the same exact road, visiting the same exact shops, ordering the same exact decaf soy latte. Objectively, there isn’t that much to complain about. Whatever ethnic group one belongs to, it is easy to have a fun night out, quickly forget about the dozen homeless they’ve passed by, and return home at 7am reasonably satisfied.

That is, until one leaves this bubbled sanctuary and walks the streets of Shanghai, where it is not scantily-clad white girls that roam the streets half-pissed, but hot Asian women. It is difficult, then, to pretend that anyone, no matter how socially lubricated, can belong equally to both places.


Anecdotal evidence suggests it is not easy being a western foreigner in an Asian country. Predatory street-vendors, unnaturally courteous metro assistants, indelible salespersons with unironed shirts and lit cigarettes next to no-smoking signs in a basement store that sells cotton bedding, rude policemen – they flock to non-Asians like empty-skulled 20-something kid-adults flock to memes, trying to legally take your money.

Those confident myths about the ubiquitousness of English is widely overblown; no one speaks English, and even if they do, most will not speak it to you outside a professional setting. And why would they? Come to the country, speak the language – that is what Australians have always maintained. No need to look so confused when they speak Chinese to you in excruciating, childish slowness, oozing condescension – this is what you would’ve done the other way around.

Wherever one goes, any non-Asian skin color is basically a label that reads ‘I’M RICH’ directly above ‘RESPECT ME DAMMIT’, drawing to it all the scammy deals and courteous disrespect one can expect. This labelling has nothing to do with how long one has lived here or how well one can speak the language – it has only to do with skin color.

In casual 2-minute interactions – going to the bank, eating out, getting drunk at a bar, premature ejaculation – who you are, what you are, and what rights and respects are afforded to you are determined according to skin color the moment two people meet.

Again, anecdotal evidence – but then again, no one cares about scientific evidence and opinions are facts.

None of this applies when one is Asian, however. The locals immediately and unconditionally accepts Asians no matter how they dress (four times in a week, women unironically dressed in maid costumes – not for any professional purpose but just casually – have been spotted. Did not take pictures).

It matters not when these camouflaged foreigners can’t speak Chinese, or always get lost the moron-friendly zero-barrier subway system. They rarely get accosted by the various locals, and even if they do, their lack of basic language skill is never met with derision. Somehow, they are spoken to with normal-speed, non-condescending Chinese even though they have the same chance of understanding it as a deaf kookaburra.

This is because these Asian foreigners have already been judged as ‘one of us’, despite them being no less foreign than everyone else. The basis is, of course, appearance alone. Without knowing anything about them, they have been accepted by the locals because they look the same.

Of course, when one is a rational human being with satisfactory intelligence, this sort of judgment rarely applies beyond first-impressions. It’s hard to hold onto one’s prejudice – one way or another – when the Asian guy you thought was a local can’t even use chopsticks and listens to a vaguely homoerotic band called One Direction, whereas the black guy you thought was from Zimbabwe has actually lived here for ten years and speaks fluent Chinese.

But most don’t get past first impressions. People don’t have the time nor the desire to get to know you; most just want your money and be done with it.

Easiest impression to make – the color of one’s skin.


When an Asian guy walks down an Australian street, despite being as local as anyone could get without losing one’s cultural identity, one cannot escape the sense of constantly being judged from a distance, and whatever caricature that impression would form in the observer’s mind, it will not be ‘one of us’.

Which is cool. After all – as we’ve established – this happens the other way around as well.

Even when people, after forming such misconstrued first impressions, are unwilling to close that distance and properly assess the individual for who they are, it is still cool – they just might not give enough shits to get to know you.

Real social ramifications arise when there is time, and there is a structural need to get to know these ‘different’ people, to close that distance, yet due to fear and anxiety of admitting one’s own mistaken prejudices and/or the simple shyness of approaching a stranger, one does not.

Thus, the prejudices remain forever, cementing into caricatures – the defining of an individual with a few easily perceived visual or auditory traits – which then leads, unceremoniously, to racism.

(to be continued, cos 800 words is stretching it for avid readers of the 21st century)

How to Ignore People


You, looking for friends.


Do you have a neckbeard admirer?

Does the success of your once close friends make hair fall out of your scalp before the age of 30?

Want to organize a party, but worried that a few individuals that you hung with in your couch-slumming weed-smoking KFC-eating cat-hoarding years might turn up and eat all your food?

Worry not my friends – just follow these simple steps, and you too can always enjoy the friendly company of people who think and talk and behave exactly like you.




1 – Be like water, not cheese.

Stringing people along is the worst thing you can do.

If you smile amicably and nod when the fat guy with strong BO that you know from your previous place of employment invites himself to your party, chances are he will attend all your subsequent parties for the next 5 years.

On the same note, if someone you don’t give two shits about keeps asking you to attend miscellaneous activities that you typically associate with words such as ‘friends’ or ‘good company’ or ‘yeah sounds fun’, don’t act polite and say yes even though you want to say no.

Instead, just say no. Outright reject them.

When you pour water onto the ground and savagely set fire to it, it wouldn’t mind; it would just evaporate and be gone before you know it; but if you pour hot cheese, not only will it stick to your skin, your underwear, your figurine collection, your precious time, and your tarnished pride, it will also spontaneously combust.

Don’t be stringy cheese. Be like water.




2 – Be a dick and a sadist.

The biggest barrier to saying no is, of course, not wanting to sound like a dick/stuck-up bitch.

What you fail to realize it, if you are a dick, it is much easier to hide the fact in a two-minute Messenger conversation that ends with ‘sorry, I don’t want to’, than having to endure an entire day/night in the same room as them, trying your hardest not to be a dick.

It will be a miserable time for both of you.

Instead, simply make it clear that you don’t want their company – without resorting to personal insults, of course. It is much better to offend them for ten seconds by saying no than it is to clearly express your severe dislike of their presence throughout the entire party/date/time together.

Don’t worry about hurting their feelings. You don’t really care.

In fact, cleanly and respectably rejecting someone will make them feel better in the long run, since you are eliminating their uncertainty, and there is nothing that stresses people out more than waiting for a yes/no that might never come. No one wants to deal with that shit.

So be a dick, and hurt their feelings a little bit.

(Unless they are serial-killer type stalkers, in which case you should purchase an illegal firearm and adopt a bulldog).


Some guy.

3 – Be like Hannibal crossing the Alps, not Justinian I retaking Rome.

If you don’t like someone now, chances are you’ll never like them. Despite what people tell themselves, our impressions of others are formed quickly and firmly and are not likely to change from additional information.

Don’t waste your time thinking, ‘welllll I don’t really want to know this guy, but he might come in useful later, so it might be best to keep him around.’

Remember, Hannibal didn’t terrorize Rome by going ‘welllll I don’t really think I can conquer Italy, so I think I’ll leave a way out, just in case.’ If he did that, not only would he have lost every battle, the Romans would never have respected him.

That’s right, you can hate someone’s guts yet retain the ability to treat them like a capable human being. In fact, it is more likely to get a favor from someone who hates you but respects you, than from one whom you have little respect for yet is always hanging around.

Remember, Justinian I’s Roman Empire was not real. Just because you are sitting on Italy doesn’t mean you own it. In fact, instead of using brute conquest, if he exerted Byzantine’s power through diplomacy, when all the barbarians were fighting amongst themselves, he would’ve achieve the same thing, if not more. Instead, he conquered a piece of nostalgia to make himself feel good, and pushed his prosperous empire into centuries of war.

So the next time you think of going out of your way to get close to someone that you have no reason to, remember: Rome was sacked 12 times in a hundred years. That beautiful utopia exists only in your head.

Don’ Care, I’m Exhausted


After an exhausting week at work, you come home at 11:32pm on the Friday night smelling like cheap pints and nutty sweat. Kicking off your work shoes as if they are slices of old margarita pizza stuck to your soles, you stumble over to the fridge to look for the leftover pasta. Turns out the fridge is empty – you ate the pasta for lunch today, since one small latte for breakfast doesn’t really carry you through the day – and you’ll have to sleep hungry.

The thought of having to make a run to the store terrifies you. Nothing is open, which means it’ll have to wait until tomorrow, but you were planning to stay cooped up in your bed all day browsing Reddit and eating pasta, and going out would mess majorly with that plan.

Desperate to avoid such a catastrophe, you yank all the cupboards open looking for the emergency muesli bar stash. But all the boxes are empty. You ate the last one last week and hadn’t replenished the stock.

Tea, then. Just tea. You still have teabags, since teabags are what you always buy despite already having four different kinds sitting on the kitchen counter. You brew yourself a cup of gingery lemongrass. It takes one sip for you to realise that all the delicious antioxidants are only making you hungrier. So you pour the rest down the drain.

Time to sleep.

2pm wake-up tomorrow. Plan: stay in bed and do nothing. Same for Sunday, except you’ll have to iron your shirts at some stage, and wash out some socks. You are pretty sure the washing powder’s run out, but one or two rounds of just water washing would probably be OK. If it stinks, it stinks.

You are too tired to care.

Flipping through Facebook in bed, you run into some cute animals, some political message thinly veiled as satire, and some random NGO’s campaign to raise money for some country you don’t care about. Graphic pictures of squalor and violence in some far-off place catches your eye. What a shame, you think to yourself. These people are so unfortunate, having to live like that. Wish someone can do something about it.

Not that you want to press the like button, even though you just liked that meme with the attac and protec – Like one of these, and a dozen more similar ones will pop up, then the whole feed will just be depressing stuff. Looking at memes and cats is just better. You are too tired to care about the other stuff.

Too tired.

You read a status from one of your friends that you used to talk to, and see that they’ve wrote something about marriage equality, and how everyone deserves to be treated with respect. You nod and click like. What a fantastic individual, you think to yourself; they have the energy to care even though they must be so busy with work and study and meme browsing.

Slightly motivated, you try to write a status of your own. Twenty seconds pass; nothing. You don’t want it to be too short – that might make you seem dumb and uninformed – but you also don’t want to put in the effort to make it long and detailed. Only weird unemployed people and political shills put that much energy into a Facebook post, you tell yourself.

So for the next hour, cozied up in smelly blankets and holding an empty teacup, you stare at the tablet screen, flipping through floor is lava memes and liking the ones that have the most likes.

This feels right. This feels like something you want to do after an exhausting week of work. Let the shills and the loud lesbians and the clickbaiters and the Trump haters post their memes. You just want to be entertained without having to think too much, since you are so exhausted.

And hungry.

Ah…why isn’t there pasta in the fridge? There should already be pasta in the fridge. Will someone please bring pasta and put it in the fridge?

Enlightened, you write that as your status – ‘can someone bring me pasta I’m starving’ – and it takes you a total of four seconds. For the next ten minutes you stare at the screen, waiting to see which people you find attractive are liking your status.

A total of two: your aunt and some guy who looks too ugly for you to know who he is.

The lack of attention makes you fume. People should care about stuff more. The lack of pasta is a serious issue! You are literally starving in your bed!

You cannot believe that no one cares. People these days are so apathetic and selfish. All they do is browse memes and watch Youtube. They never care about the real issues that impact the world.


That sounds like another good post.

Motivated, you post it as your new status.

Then you stare at the screen, waiting for the likes to stack up.

How to Abuse a Democracy, Plebiscite Edition

Image from chadstjames.

A plebiscite means nothing.

It is not legally binding. It has the same importance as the opinion polls on your nominal breakfast news, for that is what it amounts to: a government-sponsored opinion poll.

The result of a plebiscite, no matter how decisive, will not change the law.

What it does accomplish is starting debates around issues that no longer require debate.

By pitching a yes-or-no scenario on a topic – any topic – it artificially legitimizes both sides of the argument.

Here is an example:

Plebiscite question: The Earth is Flat, yay or nay?

Rationally, in the year 2k17, this question should not even be posed. It is not a matter of argument or debate whether the earth is flat; overwhelming evidence exist that it is. Though there is always reason for doubt, we as human beings accept small margins or error as a matter of course – otherwise we’d never go outside, since going outside meant accepting the small chance that a car might run us over.

By affording this question a forum of discussion, we are artificially amplifying the validity of the ‘earth is flat’ argument. That miniscule chance of the earth actually being flat has been elevated to a fifty-fifty – a yes or no, which is not the odds our cumulative scientific evidence would suggest.

This forced balancing of the odds doesn’t seem like a big deal at first, but we humans, as do all living creatures, make choices based on the highest chance of success. By forcefully subjecting us to this equal-importance of the two arguments, the very act of posing the question injects uncertainty and confusion into our rational consciousness.

I.e., we start believing that there is a considerable chance that the earth might be flat, despite there is no good reason for thinking so.

Effectively, posing this sort of question to the public is the equivalent of forcibly injecting irrationality into our consciousness, making us believe that somehow both sides are equally valid when it is not so.

Let’s apply this to another question:

Marriage Equality, yay or nay?

As of now, the Australian Constitution definition of “Marriage” includes marriage between persons of the same sex, while the Marriage Act 1961 does not provide for the formation or recognition of marriage between same sex couples.

A plebiscite will change neither of these. It is not a referendum; it cannot change the Constitution. It is an expression of public opinion, which supposedly holds considerable weight in changing the law, but now, with the artificial equivalence of the two sides of the argument – instigated by the very asking of this question – will forcibly change opinions.

It is not a question that needs to be asked.

The ruling of the High Court on the definition of “marriage” means that the debate has already moved past the ‘Is this acceptable’ stage. Right now we should be on the ‘How to change the law to fit the Constitution’ debate, not another ‘Is this acceptable’ opinion poll, artificially posed onto the public in order to re-argue an established result. The earth is already round. No amount of debate will make it flat again.

Unless, due to this very plebiscite, public opinion changes.

Remember, debating a yes-or-no question makes both sides appear equally valid. People who don’t care one way or the other will be presented with what appears to be a mired debate, with good reasons to lean either way, when the debate itself should no longer exist.

So really, the very act of asking for a plebiscite on Marriage Equality – when plebiscites have no legal import, when the public opinion firmly established, when the High Court decision has already moved us past the whole argument – is effectively an attempt to change the established opinion.

So we all need to be careful.

Plebiscites are not the open forums they pretend to be. Frank expressions of our opinions will not be enough – answering the question is not at all the point of this exercise.

So don’t sit back after sending in your vote. Don’t be content with just expressing your own opinion, when those who still think the earth is flat are pushing as hard as they could to change peoples’ minds.

How to Get Laid

Get laid.

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

A decade of browsing quality memes on the interwebs later, you have finally found it: the Holy Grail, the One True Quest, the answer to the sacred question whispered in irreverent whispers by literally every living creature that walks this earth.

Here is the step-by-step guide, navigating through this intangible mire on your behalf so that you don’t have to move an inch from the comfortable nook on your bed, or wash your hands.

How to get laid:

1 – Become a brick.

2 – Use mason lines and a story pole to guide yourself into position. Use a pencil to mark on yourself the exact manner in which you would get laid.

3 – Slather yourself in mortar. Make sure to repeatedly knock yourself on the head to release any air bubbles that may be trapped in the mortar underneath.

4 – Remove excess mortar. Using the sharp end of the trowel, scrape off yourself any excess mortar that spreads beyond your joints. Holding a spade trowel at a 30-degree angle, carve small lines between your genitals and your knees. This will help protect you from the effects of precipitation.

Congratulations! You have now successfully gotten laid. Now go out there and chase your other dreams, like becoming an astronaut or participating in a nude bike ride.

How to be Happy


Sometimes, when everyone around you is enjoying themselves, you somehow feel miserable.

Snippets of conversation drift past your fake-attentive ears – “oh this band is great, but have you heard of that band?” – and as you smile back at your friend/colleague/family member, nodding amicably, you wonder what expressions they’d have if you snatched that burrito from their greasy hand and shoved it down their throat, beans and week-old onion bits flying everywhere.

“Shut the fuck up, just stop talking shut the fuck up”, you imagine yourself saying…which is bizarre, because you are not a moody teenager anymore, you are a grown-ass adult, and you are having a silent tantrum when everyone else is having fun.


The answer is obvious – obvious but complicated, so let’s us an obfuscated and barely relevant metaphor to make it easier to understand:

In your head, there is a constant tug-of-war.

On one side, the side with all the buff dudes and sexy ladies, is a craving to be the center of the universe. “Adore me! Shower me with praises! Give me your undivided attention!” – sings the bright-winged angel sitting on your left shoulder, strumming that dainty little harpsichord.

On the other side, the side of bone-thin zombies posing as people, is an all-consuming shame. “I can’t do shit. Don’t look at me I’m ugly. Stop counting on me I have no idea what I’m doing.” – whispers the immolated demon dangling on your right shoulder, charred skin peeling from its crooked face.

How you feel at any moment depends on which side is winning. For some people, one of these sides is naturally stronger than the other; for others, the two sides go at it with such zealous enthusiasm that the ropes swings back and forth three times a minute.

Being on the angel’s side naturally makes you happy. “Oh boy! They’re all paying attention to me, asking how my day was!” “Oh man I am so important, look at my achievements and my pile of money!” – These are universal feel-good moments.

It is easy to be happy when this side is winning.

Thing is, there is a tug-of-war going on, and this euphoria – while it may last for days, weeks, years even – will eventually fade away. Don’t worry, it’ll come back, but in the meantime you are left some pretty insidious thoughts: how trivial your accomplishments are; how lonely you are, surrounded by hollow friends with whom you only discuss the trending shows on Netflix and nothing else; and how stupid you are, to not have realized how stupid you were all this time…

Can you feel happy when this side is winning?

Yes. Yes you can. Just follow these simple steps:

First, recognize that no one is going to win this tug-of-war, and that it is totally normal to find yourself on the currently losing side.

Second, be cool with it. Laugh. Recognize that your misfortunes are absurd, that the little worker ant minding his own business can sometimes be stepped on by an elephant, and that there really is nothing you can do about it.

Misfortune becomes funny when you are cool with it, because it is utterly absurd how detrimental one bad decision could be.

Misery comes to those who would throw a tantrum at being on the losing side, even if it’s just for a day or two. “Why isn’t my life as perfect as that guy’s?! Why don’t people like me even when I try so hard?! Why can’t I just get lucky and win at life?!” – When you throw these kind of tantrums, you become miserable – because this tug-of-war isn’t something you can influence with determination or perseverance. It just happens.

To be happy is to shrug. It is to shrug at who you are, at the shit that befalls you, at the elephant’s foot that comes down once in a while, and to laugh at them.

It is also fine not to be the center of the universe, once in a while.

How To Make Someone Like You


Are you Tom Hanks stranded on a deserted island?

Are you the Ron Weasley of the dating world?

Do you have a strange addiction to cheesy romantic comedies because you have never experienced proper relationships?

Fear not my friends – follow this simple 3-step guide and you too can become an anime protagonist who is always mysteriously surrounded by women/men/mermaids/humanoid demons who are attracted to you for no reason!



Step 1 – Brush your teeth

Good oral hygiene is paramount when seeking intimate relationships with another filth-lathered drool-soaked human being.

Remember, when smiling and holding uncomfortably long eye contact with someone, if they turn away in disgust, it’s not your black balaklava or your shredded hoodie, or your brown skin or your neckbeard – it’s your bad breath.

This is the fundamental step, even more important than…



Step 2 – Be Sexy

Very self-explanatory.

Just be sexy. Just do it.

If you can’t you’re a failure in life and should kill yourself.



Step 3 – Make them your slave

If they are not liking you, they are not doing what they are told, and slaves always do what they are told, otherwise you would’ve spent your hard-earned money on a moose or a fleshlight instead.

Insult them. Make them feel bad by becoming a fat alchoholic. Stalk them on social media and post snide sarcastic remarks about their achievements.

“Stupid slave, why can’t you just like me goddamn it” may not come across as very convincing, but add a “I hope you are happy that you’ve ruined my life” and it’s all dandy.

Emojis are very versatile in this respect. Spam that tear-laugh like you mean it.


And that’s it! Now go out there and make your conquests!!



Explaining Western Society with Prequel Memes









1 – “From my point of view the Jedis are evil!!”

Oh Anakin.

Killing younglings is evil. There is no circumstance in which the slaughtering of innocent children would be anything but, baby Hitler included.

Everyone was so shocked. Obi-Wan was all like “WHAAAT” and Padme was all like “Nah no way” and C3PO was all like “Oh dear!”

Why were they all so obliviously surprised?

Around Anakin was a cage of expectations and obfuscate rules that society had imposed upon him: You got to save the world! You can’t fall in love! Go exactly where we tell you and do exactly what the Jedi Council want you to do! Your talent will never be rewarded because you are just an upstart brat with an attitude! Doesn’t matter how good you are at Jedi work – you need a mindset to be a master. What mindset? Our mindset.

Having rules and expectations are important – they give people purpose and direction. Of course, one cannot pick and choose which rules they want to follow – since being guided along certain paths is the whole point of having rules – but these rules should not be set by the people who have found success in following them.

That is the definition of a rigged system, designed so that people who most closely resemble the successful are more likely to find success.

Instead, a society’s rules and expectations should be set at the beginning of its conception, and provide only the basics. Kind of like sports.

The rules of football are basic – kick ball through posts, score points – basic enough for everyone to understand and start playing. Any additions and amendments to the rules – “You can’t tackle like that!” – should only be made when actions exist that do not have the goal of “kick ball, score points”. For example, “drag him down so he can’t score” is not about the game, but the player, and therefore it cannot be a part of the game that we all play.

Yet, in this enlightened age of the 21st century, it is never about the game. It is always about the player.

So really, no one should’ve been surprised when Anakin became so perverted in thinking, that he thought killing younglings was OK: A lifetime of being told what to do, of knowing his own talent yet never receiving acknowledgement from his mentors and peers, and the very rules he was told to follow made him miserable by making his affection taboo.

How miserable he must’ve been, playing the Jedi’s game.


2 –  “It’s Over! I Have the High Ground!!”

Ever argued with a [insert individual with distinct religious/feminist/racial equality/gay rights ideology here] and found them condescending? As if no matter what you say, you are automatically wrong the moment you opened your mouth?

That is because they have the high ground.

Not an actual high ground, of course. Not even a symbolic one (which was what Obi-Wan meant, hopefully). But a sense of being on the high ground that is widely accepted by society as the real thing – for the time being.

The weapon of choice for those on the high ground are facts – figures, stats, polls, words from famous persons – which is all well and good, but these facts come with a caveat – that you are a dumb piece of shit for not knowing them.

Why do students hate some teachers and adore others, even when they are conveying the same information at the same pace? It is all about the way facts are presented.

By the very act of arguing with truths, people think that they cannot be argued against. The perfect example: “99% of all scientists believe global warming is real.” A truthful statement – an insurmountable fact.

But the way to argue with a climate change denialist is not shoving facts down their throats – if you hate the teacher, no matter how good they are at teaching, you are still not going to their class.

People are sick and tired of having facts shoved down their throats by whom they perceive as condescending assholes. Why? Because from their perspective, those on the high ground have rigged the game. A game that those not on the side of Obi-Wan will always lose.

It is the equivalent of repeatedly aiming for the fat kid in dodgeball. Sure, it is easy to win that way, but is it really about winning? That is the fundamental mistake we all made, thinking that the point of arguing about issues like climate change is winning, beating the other side with your impeccable skill at presenting facts and posturing on the high ground.

No. Presenting facts doesn’t make you smart or superior.

Saving the planet is not about winning, just like healthcare can’t be “won”.

It is about the game.

This “winning” mentality sows resentment, the kind that will turn people against you no matter how reasonable or knowledgeable you are.

Poor Anakin, prodded on by his resentment, arguing with Obi-Wan in an unwinnable argument, trying to win an unwinnable duel. He got burned like Korean barbeque because he played on Obi-Wan’s high ground. If his goal was to create a galaxy of peace, then he should’ve just turned around and left.

(It never was about saving Padme; forbidden love was only a small part of his suffering – a lovable excuse, if you like).


3 – “Oh Anakin, what are we going to do?”

In times of crises, even the people who have all their shit together – like Padme – will become desperate. They perceive the flawed nature of the game in which t

hey are trapped, and see no way out.

In desperation, they lose their better judgement, and turn to their unstable but outspoken friends in the hope that their vicious attitudes can bring about a change.

That’s how Trump I mean Anakin became Darth Vader.

Any reasonable person observing that scene would think to themselves: “Padme what the fuck, you are literally the only one who’s got their shit together in this whole galaxy. You’ve got goals, you’ve got aspiration, and as a senator with powerful alliances you are positioned to change the way things work. Then suddenly, one unplanned pregnancy later, you become a helpless damsel, seeking advice from the unstable and impulsive yet lovably talented boyfriend who would kill younglings if that could help you out. Padme what the fuck.”

But is that so unreasonable?

People are easily upset by things happening outside their control. Sleeping with a Jedi without contraception in a galaxy with near-instant space travel and death-sticks aside, Padme had everything under control.

Why was she so upset about having Anakin’s kid as to lose her ability for rational thinking? It was a matter of life and death, but so was the coliseum with all the bug-people and stuff, and she was bad-ass then.

It’s treason I mean personal, then. Weird to say, but maybe she perceives this as a personal threat…even though those assassination attempts barely phased her.

Honestly, it is just irrational.

Why do perfectly reasonable people buy into hysteria about certain issues, but not others? Imagine if we as a society were as hysterical about climate changing as keeping out the brown people.

Wouldn’t that be something.

How to be Dominant in Bed

‘Digging in like a Diglet won’t protect you against my buffed Arboc!!’


Tired of always being the bottom?

Scared of growing older than Melisandre without having experienced hardcore BDSM?

Fear not my friends – follow these simple steps to master one’s thirsting flesh, and become the lord of your cushiony domain!


Protection is key to victory.


Step 1 – Wear traditional Samurai armour from the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Open exhibition of your physical dominance is key, and nothing screams power and authority louder than a full-body samurai armour crafted from triple-folded steel and inlaid with the fur of the snow fox.

After armouring up and getting into bed, make sure to keep your back straight and sit cross-legged upon the mattress. For even better results, shout at the top of your lungs any of following phrases before performing any bedroom activity:

“Ore sanjou!” – Here I am! Behold me!

“kakatte koi!!” – Come get some!!

“Shinzou wo sasageyo!” – Devote your heart!!!

Instant results guaranteed.


‘I’ve got a bad feeling ab – oops wrong movie.’

Step 2 – Play the Indiana Jones theme song from a surround sound system.

Nothing elevates one’s spirits and libido like the rousing orchestral flourishes of John Williams’ best composition. Beware, however, that one cannot replace this with any of JW’s other works, especially not the Star Wars theme. Playing the Star Wars theme in the bedroom will instantly restore your virginity while simultaneously grant you a magnificent bundle of neckbeard – not recommended.


Smiling always helps.

Step 3 – Pull out your wand and pretend you are a sixth-year from Hogwarts.

First, you must put on the biggest hat you own and loudly declare to all parties present the house to which you belong: Ravenclaw is guaranteed to impress, if not slightly generic and ego-rubbing; Hufflepuff is the most effective form of contraception; Gryffindor is best reserved for solo endeavours, as their members are most likely to be beaten on a broom; and Slytherin is the perfect choice for edgelords and atheists, for they all think themselves cool and progressive while everyone else knows that they are just little pricks.

Second, work on your wand. Since non-verbal spells are not recommended in the bedroom, you must clearly enunciate your choice of charm or enchantment. The following are proven to succeed:

‘Expelliarmus!’ – It instantly disrobes all parties. 0% of the time it works every time.

‘Petrificus Totalus!’ – A versatile enchantment for men.

‘Protego!’ – Effective contraception, as no one will want to sleep with you after you shout this in the bedroom.


And there you have it – now go out there and conquer like 13th century Mongolians!

This Blog Contains No Content

Clickbait picture.


This blog contains no content.

That is not to say that there is nothing to write about, or that some circumstance in my life has caused me to stop writing.

Indeed, this shitty low-effort but ultra-high-quality 1080p blog is just a brain vomit at the end of another day in a plebian life, and sometimes, while there are always, always, interesting things happening in even the most downtrodden of days, it is simply better to throw up in the buffet instead of the obscure corners of the internet.

That is not to say I threw up today. As a matter of fact, today was productive and fun.

Indeed, this fully sick 420 no-strings-attached blog isn’t even among the first thousand words I wrote today, but you know what they say about people that do things sometimes: if you do things, make sure to keep doing it so that other people know you are doing this thing.

That is not to say this blog is supposed to make any sense. In fact, if you are reading this you probably need a better hobby, like watching Youtube or chronic masturbation.

Indeed, this euphoria-enduring Samuel L. Jackson-esque awesome blog isn’t here to entertain you. It is to entertain me, the writer. But, if you so happen to enjoy the farting of other people’s brains, that is good. It also helps that I crave the attention and affection of strangers on the internet.

That is not to say I live a life without affection. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I can feel feelings.

Indeed, feelings are what this Roman-empire-in-100AD-level powerful blog is supposed to induce in you. You and me both. Maybe it’s funny, maybe it’s cringy as fuck, maybe you think I need to make an appointment with a mental health professional – whatever it is, feel free to feel feelings.

That is not to say I am unaware of the fact that this blog has followed a curious cyclic structure.

Indeed, no one starts their sentences with “indeed” nowadays, especially not in a Ridley-Scott-directing-the-original-Alien-but-not-the-shitty-modern-sequels-with-the-biblical-undertones-level fantastic blog like this.

What to Order at a Chinese Restaurant


Ever seen these hung up on hooks at your nearby Chinatown? Be careful if you want to try these. How clean the restaurant looks is often how sanitary the hanging meat is. 

A typical menu at a Chinese restaurant will consist of at least fifty main-dish items. These items may be divided into the following categories:

1 – Dishes that are more or less genuine attempts at recreating a popular recipe (50%). There will be at least a dozen dishes that are ubiquitous in all Chinese restaurants – the equivalent of pepperoni pizzas in all pizzerias.

  • These dishes have an easily identifiable flavor that is pretty much the same everywhere in the world. However, they are almost always heavy on chili and salt, and may contain miscellaneous ingredients (such as black fungi or pig intestines) that may deter the Western palate.
  • If you feel like you are familiar with Asian cuisine, feel free to order one or two of these with plain rice. Look out for “fish-flavored shredded pork”, “Gong Bao Chicken” in the menu – these are usually available.
Fish-flavored shredded pork. Every restaraunt in China has it on the menu. 

2 – Special “regional” dishes based on the palate of select Chinese provinces, that are also “trademark” dishes for Chinese restaurants that claim to originate from these places (20%). This is where most of the weird stuff on the menu goes, and these may even deter authentic Chinese customers.


  • These dishes are usually big-dished and cost 50% more. They often contain everything Westerners fear about Asian food: pig’s foot, curdled duck blood, small intestine of cow, boned eel, whole steamed fish, skewered squib heads, lamb’s head…
  • As a rule, unless they’ve been to Asian countries for extended periods, non-Asians will never order these, which is a shame since all Chinese restaurants put the most amount of effort and high quality ingredients into making these dishes.
  • In larger Chinese restaurants these dishes will often take up entire pages in the menu, with somewhat ridiculous price tags. Don’t order these if you are by yourself; if you are feeling adventurous, go with a friend and get one such dish – it would usually be enough for two.
  • Although many non-spicy dishes exist, most Chinese restaurants in Western countries only offer the spicy variant. Look out for “Sichuan Boiled Fish” or “Mao Xue Wang”. They will come in very large bowls.
Mao Xue Wang. It has almost all the aforementioned weird stuff in it. Try ordering it if an easily accessible public toilet is nearby.

3 – Then there are the dishes that every Chinese restaurant must put in the menu so uninformed white people can find something comfortable to them (30%). These include plates of shit like “honey chicken” or “lemongrass chicken” or at worst “braised pork belly”.

  • These are not Chinese dishes. These items were created by Westerners to cater to the Western palate. No Chinese customers will ever, ever order these items. In fact, if a white person asks the staff for recommendations, they will point to “honey chicken” without fail, since it is a safe bet that this plate of shit will be meek enough for their delicate palate.
  • An easy way to identify this type of dish is by looking at the pictures in the menu and checking how much of the meat is covered in an ambiguous brown-coloured sauce. If you see pieces of chicken breast all covered in slick, semi-fried semi-gravy-like shells, beware: they put that dish in the menu not because they taste good, but because it’s the only thing that comes into your head when someone mentions Chinese food.
  • While the sweet-and-sour taste may be pleasant, it also contains copious amounts of sugar and emulsifying additives so that the coating would stick to the meat. They are among the most fattening items on the menu – while they may not taste fried, they were fried, then coated with sugar and grease.
  • If you have any sense of self-worth, please, do not order these, even if the Chinese waitress is smiling and pointing at it – in her head she is going “another whitey too scared to order anything else.”

More to come.

How to be a Functioning Adult

This is you reading this blog. 


Follow these simple steps to role-play as a functioning adult:

1 – Always pretend to be busy, even when you have nothing to do.

When answering a phone call from a stranger, pretend that you were irrevocably torn from an important meeting that you simply cannot miss, and let the person on the other end of the line know that they are keeping you from something very important, while never explicitly stating what it is that you are busy with.

When interacting with people of lower social status and/or intelligence, make sure to let them know that by simply taking time out of your busy schedule to interact with them, you are doing them a big favor.

For example: when ordering your medium decaf soy latte with three brown sugars from the good-looking barista, make sure to engage in small talk using leading questions, such as “busy today?” or “had a good weekend?”. The purpose of this is, of course, not to inquire about them, but to have a valid reason to tell them how busy you are today, and how great your weekend hike or kayaking session was.

2 – Assert your dominance in every aspect of conversation, however trivial.

Make sure to bring up any inferior aspects of the person you are interacting with in a casual, jovial manner.

For example, if the person you are interacting with is young, then instead of referring to them by name when doing introductions, call them “young man/lady” or “lad”. When giving compliments to show that you are appreciative of their effort to appease you, make sure to bring it up again, using “good lad” or “good girl”.

If the person you are interacting with looks brown, make sure that, first, you are white, and second, before saying anything else you ask them in a casual, jovial manner, “so what’s your background” or “where are you from?”. This way, you at once feign interest in their cultural identity and establish that any discussions henceforth shall be made with their brown-ness in mind.

3 – Selective lying.

In order to impress other adults so that you may extract some material or psychological profit from them, it is necessary to constantly present yourself with a series of half-truths so that you may appear objectively impressive.

For example: when conversing in a casual setting, such as at a bar or a friend’s party, make sure to exaggerate the aspect of your life that you deem impressive.

  • Been to the gym once in the past month? Say that you work out regularly but it is so difficult to find time nowadays.
  • Recently bought an expensive item, such as a house or a car? Make sure to abuse step No. 2, and bring it up in casual conversation. But, in case of encountering someone of higher social status, steer away from explicitly mentioning what it is that you have bought, and instead focus on how hard you’ve worked to pay it off.
  • Currently engaged in a long-term relationship? Make sure to constantly self-reinforce the idea that you are happy; however, if discussing this with an individual you deem sexually attractive, slip in subtle hints that you are not. For example, when asked the question of “so, had a good weekend?” by a cute coworker, it is best to respond with “yeah, went sky-diving with my girlfriend. She hated it though.”

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but serves as a basic outline for what you should be aiming for if you want to be perceived as a functioning adult.

More to come.

How to be a Hardcore Weeb #1

Anything for Saber.

Why did I first spend 4USD on Steam to buy the Wallpaper Tool, then search for all available animated wallpapers related to Fate Zero in the Steam Workshop, then – after downloading a dozen different samples and being generally dissatisfied – come to the realisation that they are just edited video clips, then start learning Adobe Premiere from scratch just so I can edit my own video clips of Saber in my favourite anime moment of all time and use it as my personal animated background?

Because I am a hardcore weeb.

How to Use Toilet Paper

Don’t be banal, try some anal.

Apart from ritualistic human sacrifice, there is one thing that unites us all regardless of race or gender: the sublime pleasure of healthy bowel movements. Butt, it is what comes after said movements that segregates the known world; specifically, the use of the bidet versus old-fashioned toilet paper.

When visiting uncivilized parts of the world – such as Australia – one who is used to using the bidet (or an electronic equivalent) to wash one’s butt must be acclimatized to the act of rubbing flimsy paper against one’s butt. Primitively simple at first glance, there are several ways to mess this up:

  • Toilet paper – especially those available in public restrooms – are easy to tear. If pressure is improperly applied, one may find oneself unintentionally breaching that thin barrier between dignity and regret.
  • Using toilet paper is wasteful by definition – young pine trees do not grow up just so they can be rubbed against a mammal’s butt. Conservative-minded individuals might attempt to minimize waste by using as few sheets as possible when wiping, but such is not the way for an amateur, lest the highly absorbent nature of toilet paper catches one off-guard.
  • One may be displeased with coming in close contact with one’s secretion, even though properly executed rubbing one’s butt with toilet paper is fairly sanitary. If the thought of bringing one’s hand so close to one’s butt elicits reluctance, think of it like this: if one is capable of handling genitals and associated bodily fluids with zealous enthusiasm, one can overcome the fear of shits.

Now, onto the execution. For one who is inexperienced in using toilet paper, it is best to give oneself plenty of leeway – in other words, a large factor of safety.

  • Use plenty of sheets. Don’t worry about killing millions of trees – they weren’t doing anything useful anyway. Might as well be applied to your butt.

Tearing the sheets may be one of the worst outcomes. In order to avoid this, make sure to:

  • Fold the sheets. Double the safety factor with every fold, at the cost of precision in execution.
  • Apply pressure evenly. This may in involve using more than two fingers. Remember that toilet paper is highly absorbent, so a sensation of slight wetness at one’s fingertips is quite normal. Stickiness, on the other hand, is not.
  • Inexperienced individuals should not attempt the frugal approach, that of refolding and reapplying the same sheets for the second, or even the third time. This advanced technique halves the available contact area, and makes subsequent rubbings more prone to unwanted contact.

There are alternatives to the “simple folded” approach. Namely, the “scrunch” method.

  • By bunching toilet paper into a penetrative ball of absorbency, one is able to achieve very effective wipes while maintaining a high safety factor and good precision.
  • However, in much of the developing world, toilet drains are not as robust as one might come to expect. The scrunch technique, while easy on the user, is as cruel to drains as thinking is to people who enjoy reading Eragon. Therefore it is not recommended to scrunch while staying with a shady Airbnb in rural Pakistan.
  • That said, if one will only be using such a drain once or twice, feel free to throw whatever one feels like into the toilet. Cleaning it out will be the next person’s problem; don’t let inconveniencing other people get in the way of petty assholery.

Hope this guide was of some use. User discretion is advised when applying the above advice in practice.

Pleasant excretions.

Why Be Asian When You Can Be White?

Remember him?

Do you remember the one prominent Asian character they had in Doctor Strange, even though the movie’s whole mythos was Asian? Yep, the fat librarian with no hair. That’s the one. What was his name? Can’t remember, but it had to be Wong or Chan or Lee.

That single character embodied literally every single Asian stereotype: physically unattractive, comedic – not by being witty but by having weird quirks (e.g. never laughs), is demonstrably knowledgeable yet appreciated by no one (i.e. delivering lore-heavy exposition so that the white protagonist can mansplain it by saying something like, “you mean we blow it up”), and having a generic monosyllabic name that is really a surname but for some reason all the white people keep calling him by that. Always a Mr. or Dr. before Strange but never before Wong.

(Can’t pronounce Asian names? If you can look at a word like Mjolnir and be like “I can say that”, you can pronounce Asian names.)

Worse still is the movie director’s explanation on the Ancient One being white: “The Ancient One in the comics is a very old American stereotype of what Eastern characters and people are like, and I felt very strongly that we need to avoid those stereotypes at all costs.”

Nice avoidance bro. But the movie needed to make bank in China and having a Tibetan character would be detrimental to said bank-making; in order to avoid that they just made all the important characters be white. Except for the plot expository/comic relief. He could be Asian.

Why is this OK in 2k17?

One reason – people like it. The Asian stereotype, that is. People like it just as much as they like the white savior stereotype – not strictly in the context of movie-making but in general.

No one watched this movie, but if they did they would remember HER.

Another example: Ghost in the Shell. Truth is, if it weren’t for Scarlett Johansson taking on the role of an established Asian-descent character, the general population would not give a shit about this movie. When was the last time a friend of yours confessed their love of cyberpunk and neo-futuristic existentialism? Right.

But they cast a white Major and suddenly everyone is totally engaged in modern western society’s favourite pastime: white-knighting against discrimination. “Oh how dare they put an attractive white woman in the role of an attractive Asian woman. I’ll have you know that I, as a straight white man who has never watched anything related to Ghost in the Shell but my nerd friend tells me that it’s cool, am offended by this casting. As a show of protest, I shall go watch Dr. Strange and write it glowing review.”

In both cases, the replacement of Asians by pale walkers was done under different reasons: one to be politically correct, the other to draw attention. And frankly, that’s fair enough; these two things are what you need to be successful in western society: not piss off important people, and be famous.

Then we have the Chinese movie, The Great Wall, directed by the guy who made Heroes.

matt damon great wall
Thanks for saving China Matt Damon.

Strictly speaking this was not a whitewashed movie, the same way that when the Eight-Nation Alliance sacked Beijing in 1900 and pillaged the whole city, they weren’t doing it because they hated Asians. (You can look that up; western Wikis calls it a “military intervention”, much like how America intervened the shit out of Iraq). Rather, it inevitably became into a whitewash due to the movie being set up that way.

If you could suffer the atrocity of sitting through that shitty slog, you would realize that, yes, Matt Damon wasn’t saving the world. All the Chinese dudes had honour and pride and all that stuff and Matt Damon was just kinda there to dick around and be generally useless; he basically went with the flow and brought his skills to battle, that’s it.

In fact, you could replace Matt Damon with any kind of protagonist and still make the same movie. The whole excuse of him being in China – “need me some dat gunpowder bro” – was such a trivial footnote of the plot that it could have been entirely replaced by literally anything else. Could’ve been an Indian monk looking for lost scripture. Could’ve been an African tribesman looking for a cure to a disease through Chinese medicine. Could’ve been an exiled samurai looking for redemption.

But of course it had to be a white guy; people simply love watching white guys.

The Chinese director casted Matt Damon the same reason Ghost in the Shell casted Scarlett Johansson – so people would watch their movie. Having a white lead makes people watch movies.

What is that if not a white savior complex?

They both could’ve had famous Asian actors, but you just know that western audiences wouldn’t watch them. When was the last time you got excited for a movie with a leading Asian actor? It had Jackie Chan in it, didn’t it?

It did.

So who is really doing the discrimination here?

How to Stop Being Homophobic

But….where is turquoise?

The modern trifecta of discrimination – Racism, Sexism, and Homophobia – will never go away. As long as people remain unique from each other, their differences will engender these behaviours regardless of logic or understanding.

Ask someone why they think women should get paid less, and they’ll give a non-reason: most likely, an anecdote about lack of strength or high emotion, based on in most cases singular experiences with women that have somehow been engraved into their consciousness as universal truths.

Ask someone why they dislike Asians, and they’ll again give non-reasons: something about stealing jobs, communist spies, or being sexually inept, again based on singular experiences or just simple stereotypes passed on through a culture of ignorance.

However, ask someone why they hate gays, nine out of ten times they’ll give a distinctly different reason – that they read it in a book, that this particular book says, “If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.”

Unless they are hardcore fans of Mein Kampf or 50 Shades of Grey, people do not usually quote books when justifying their hatred toward Jews or women. Homophobia is therefore unique in that its core proponent is an integral part of western society.

But what is really going on when someone says, “I hate gays?”

Time for a thought experiment. For our purposes, the name of the homophobic person shall be Sam:

Imagine yourself asking Sam, “So, why do you hate gays?” With full confidence, he shall make a quote from a book he has or pretends to have read. Either that or he will give a non-reason. The non-reason will be easy to sort out – as long as Sam is willing to listen – but the quote will be an irrefutable bastion, for it wears the guise of truth.

Now, rephrase the question.

Imagine yourself asking Sam, “Can you tell me in your own words why you hate gays?” Now, there are several ways to answer this question. In order to get at the root of this problem, let us ignore the “real” response – that Sam will be offended that his belief is being questioned and ends the conversation. That aside, there is really only one way that Sam can offer a response without again resorting to non-reasons and anecdotes: “Well, I hate gays because God said [paraphrasing a quote] and I believe in God.”

Now, imagine yourself asking Sam: “But what do you believe?” Confused, Sam will say: “I just told you, I believe in God, and the book contains the words of God.”

The implication of this statement is, of course, that whatever God had decreed gays to be, Sam believes in it – God decreed gays to be abominations, therefore Sam hates them.

There is an important distinction to be made here. By definition, an abomination is a thing that causes disgust or loathing. Typically, a thing causes disgust and loathing by being repulsive on an instinctual level, whether through physical appearance (such as a deformity), mental implication (such as a psychopath) or conceptual wrongness (such as incest).

But consider this: a visually impaired person will not find a deformed person repulsive, a mental health professional will not find a psychopath repulsive, and people who do not understand the implications of incest will not find it repulsive. These respective parties will not find their respective cases to be abominations, even though they are widely accepted as such. (These are, of course, generalizations)

It is all a matter of perception.

There is no such thing that can cause universal disgust and loathing, for each of us perceives things differently, with different perspectives. Perspectives, by definition, can change in a million ways – through gaining experience, for example, or aging, or simply making a decision to change.

In other words, nothing is inherently an abomination; the beholder chooses whether something is an abomination or not.

For someone who has always had the same perspective – such as Sam – it would be difficult to convince them that homosexuality is anything but an abomination. His mind cannot be changed until his perspective is changed – through engagement with the gay community, through the everyday information he receives on the topic of homosexuality, through all the subtle encounters he make when navigating through life.

And especially through the decisions he would make after these experiences.

This is what those TV buzzwords like “changing social stigma” really mean – changing the perspective of the beholder so that what were once abominations cease to engender disgust and loathing.

This process will be difficult, sometimes impossible. It’ll be like trying to convince you that the guy with severe body odour isn’t all that bad, or that the guy who voted for Trump isn’t really a raging rampaging discrimination machine…or that the guy named Sam who is shouting slogans in the anti-gay rallies could actually change his mind.

These are the abominations on the opposite side of homophobia, and they are just as difficult to overcome.

When Sam says “I believe in God”, what he really means is “I believe in my belief of God.” Deities are eternal, and those lines will never be removed from those books…but people are not forever.

People can change.

Wonder Woman was Almost Shit (SPOILERS)


As she first emerged from the trench, my awe quickly turned into silent snickering. The slo-mo just looked so goofy.

Was this movie really as good as everyone thought it was?

Sure it was fun and enjoyable, but I also found Sharknado 3: Oh Hell No! fun and enjoyable. There were quite a number of scenes with tangible emotional impact – my heartbeat did quicken by 37% when she first stepped out of the trenches into the machine gun fire, before the subsequent CGI slo-mo walk slowed it right down – but compared to my personal benchmark, Toy Story 3, it wasn’t all that impressive.

So many times the serious, weighty scenes straddled the line between believable and unintentionally goofy. The battle of amazons versus germans on that beach, for example, was full of fullysicknoscope420 slo-mo shots that made everything look ridiculous. That bit where the instructor lady jumped into the air and shot three arrows at once looked so bizarre; was it supposed to be realistic, stylized, or comic-bookish? It tried to be all three, and ended up like a parody.

Shoddy CGI action sequences ruined the movie.

They just had to make Ares a full-on anime antagonist with Goku powers throwing Greek hadokens from his hands. Why?!?!? There was a marquee example for god-being duels– Superman vs. Zod in Man of Steel – so why did they decide to have these two stand still and shoot lightning at each other as Ares spouted endless monologue? When did Wonder Woman turn into a shitty anime?!?!

What a shame. Everything else was near-perfect. How many movies do you know that can get away with “molded from clay and brought to life by Zeus” without sounding like a joke? The dialogue, the characters, even the squad of male plot devices that showed the realities of war and the “hearts of men” – they were all believable and enjoyable to watch.

Then they had to put in the slo-mo. I hate slo-mo so much. You can’t just copy and paste the action style of 300 into whatever movie you want. Wonder Woman, despite her ridiculous powers and origin, is grounded in reality, whereas the Leonidas abs squad was hyper-stylized. You can’t just let them mingle.

Damn it. Was such a fun movie too.


(The Wonder Woman theme soundtrack is 1000/10. Wish they could’ve used it more.)

Donnie and the Dragon in his Desk (Part 1)

This was all of us, once upon a time.

Classrooms used to be simple: tiny square desks, chalk on blackboard, old TV and VCR on a squeaky trolley…


Mrs. Dee, the new homeroom teacher, didn’t seem to know how to wipe the blackboard. Every time she raised her arm she did an awkward shrug with her shoulders, as if a giant, invisible hand was patting her on the head.

Donnie was annoyed. All those chalky rainbows strewn across the algebra was making the numbers hard to read. From the back row, Mrs. Dee’s handwriting looked like a school of wriggling tadpoles; no matter how hard he squinted Donnie couldn’t figure out what manner of creature X was supposed to be.

So he raised his hand, and after twenty or so seconds of being ignored, Donnie spoke up: “Excuse me!”

She turned around in a hurry, her face flush. The stub of chalk between her fingers slipped out with a pop and tumbled under the lectern, which made her cheeks even redder.

“Donnie, what is it now?” she says, yanking a fresh chalk out of her breast pocket with the expertise of a chain smoker.

“I-I couldn’t see.”


“I couldn’t see what you wrote Mrs. Dee.”

Propping her hands on her sizable hips, Mrs. Dee smiled like one of those used car salesmen Donnie often saw on TV, ones that often stood underneath big, flashing CLEARANCE signs and yelled out catchphrases like GET ONE TODAY or CALL US NOW, as if the louder they yelled the more people were going to buy their cars.

“If that’s the case,” she said, “better get yourself some glasses Donnie.”

And even though that wasn’t very funny, the whole class laughed. Christie, the girl sitting by the window whom everyone in the class – Donnie included – had a crush on, was snickering into her hand. Jamie, sitting in front of Donnie, actually turned around and slapped his desk, knocking up all the pencils and sending books tumbling from the compartment under his desk.

Confused, Donnie slowly put his hand down and bent over to pick them up. Just so happened that he had a class for every subject today, and his desk was crammed full. Not that it has ever been not full; pretty sure the colouring book from two years ago was still –

“Is that a colouring book Donnie?”

Jamie again.

Sure enough, sprawled on top of his dog-eared copy of Elementary English was a thin pad full of glossy pages. On the cover it featured a gang of pirates posing on the helm of a toy-like wooden ship, brandishing their hooks and rum bottles. For some reason, the pirates were all wearing turquoise overcoats and bright orange hats.

Donnie picked it up quickly, shuffling it under Algebra for Dummies so people would quit staring. There was no reason to be embarrassed – everybody had the same book in junior art class – yet he couldn’t help but let his face turn red.

“Hey Christie!” Jamie yelled across the room. “Donnie still has his colouring book!”

She gave him a scathing look. “Why should I care?”

Donnie didn’t know which was worse: that she now knew about the orange-hatted pirates, or that she was completely disinterested. Meanwhile, Mrs. Dee watched this all happen from the front of the class and said nothing; Jamie was on the soccer team, and they had just won the state championship two weeks ago. Donnie hasn’t won a thing since coming second place in spelling bee last year, and people don’t usually count second place as winning anyway.

Keeping his mouth shut, Donnie shoved the colouring book back into his desk with a little more force than he’d liked.


What was that? Donnie looked around, and saw only face grinning at him or faces annoyed that mathematics was being interrupted. Who could’ve made that sound?

Ah, it must’ve been in his head. It was hot today, and there was only one fan in the front of the classroom, catering for the first two rows.

As he bent over to pick up more books, Donnie just so happened to look into the compartment of his desk, and he saw a little dragon peeking out from behind the colouring book.

Donnie stared at it, and forgot all about what he was doing.

“Hi there,” the dragon said, sounding like a squeaky toy, “nice to meet you.”

“H-hello,” Donnie said, not knowing the polite way to speak to a dragon.

“I’m Calcifer the Calamitous, what’s your name?”

“I’m Donnie. What’s a calamitous?”

The little dragon fluttered proudly its leathery wings. “It means I am good at breaking things.”

“How come you are in my desk?” Donnie asked.

“What a strange question,” Calcifer replied. “It is my home, this cosy desk. Until you took out all the books, that is. Now it’s not so cosy.” As if to show its annoyance, Calcifer opened its jaws and blew out a small ball of fire; it landed on the spine of the colouring book, charring the edges a little bit.

“Whoa!” Donnie exclaimed, almost falling out of his chair. This drew the attention of Mrs. Dee, who only just managed to get everyone’s attention again.

“Donnie!” She yelled. “Would you kindly stop disturbing the class with your antics?”

Everyone looked around for the second time, but this time no one was laughing. Christie actually covered her mouth in fright. As grumpy as she often was, it was very fare for Mrs. Dee to shout; she must be having a tough day indeed.

“Sorry Mrs. Dee,” said Donnie, “but there is a dragon in my desk.”

(To Be Continued)

How to Pick Up Asian Women (abridged)

Why was the Art of War written by an Asian man?

This may come as a surprise to many, but Asian women were born with a number of situationally powerful traits that, while at first glance may appear to be of trivial application, can have critical impact in certain social, ecological, and psychological scenarios.

To be able to effectively approach and reach non-zero-sum outcomes with these enigmatic individuals, one must first familiarize oneself with key social interaction catalysts unique to their combined ethnic and gender backgrounds, such that the typically desired end-state of such interactions – that which is colloquially known as “picked up” – may be achieved without the need to resort to external endorsements that, intrinsically and inevitably, introduces a time-cumulative chance of catastrophic failure. Discussion of these endorsements – more commonly known as the “sugar daddy” or the “I have a Ferrari” – shall not be made in this article.

One such catalyst, and perhaps the chiefest, is Asian women’s hereditary ability to ingest considerable quantities of spicy or soupy foods in a diverse array of social settings, including but not limited to: in public; in semi-closed system known as “friends and family”; and in strictly two-party closed-system scenarios. While the manifestation this trait is certainly not ubiquitous, for the purposes of this discussion its wide applicability and extreme versatility in practice makes this trait a key determinant in choosing the appropriate pathway to reach the desired end-state in limited-budget scenarios.

Furthermore, the effective accommodation of this trait offers an approachable gateway into the over-arching trait exhibited by most Asian women that, if improperly accounted for, may reduce an individual’s prerogative to continue pursuing the end-state of “picked up”. Exempli Gratia: caution is advised when attempting to generously apply chili paste to noodle soup in a Vietnamese restaurant; there is a high likelihood of failure when demonstrating this skill in front of an Asian woman. In most instances, regardless of age, income, or social status, Asian women are better skilled and more adaptable than the individual at any given task. Keep this in mind at all times, or risk unintentionally terminating all viable pathways to the end-state.

As for proactive measures, the following procedures may be undertaken regardless of any traits an Asian woman might exhibit. In conventional two-party closed-system interactions, an enterprising individual must adhere to the following guidelines when attempting to “pick up”:

  1. Keep a wide base of support. Feet should be shoulder-width apart, with one foot slightly ahead of the other;
  2. Squat down, bending at the hips and knees only. If needed, put one knee to the floor and other knee in front, bent at right angle;
  3. Keep good posture. Look straight ahead, and keep back straight, chest out, and shoulders back.
  4. Slowly pick up the Asian woman by straightening hips and knees. Keep back straight; no twisting during this process.
  5. Hold the Asian woman as close to your body as possible, at the level of your belly button.


You have now successfully picked up an Asian woman. (Note: performing the above procedures on an unsuspecting individual may yield results that deviate from the optimal outcome.)

(Disclaimer: the author is not responsible for any undesirable incidents that may arise from following the instructions outlined in this guide.)

How to Be Miserable and White


You after reading this blog.



Ever thought to yourself, “gee I’ve had such a good day today, I wonder what it’s like to get run over by a truck”? Have you ever wondered, “why can’t everyone be white, middle-class, mentally and physically healthy, and have a steady open-ended career, just like me?”

Fear not my vanilla-flavoured friends. If you find the idea of taking hardcore drugs distasteful, simply follow these simple steps to start feeling depressed and suicidal.

Step 1 – Doing the same thing over and over again. Enjoy watching cat videos? Force yourself to watch fourteen hours of HD 1080p cats on your 42in flat screen TV every day. Enjoy hiking and seeing nature? Go full Bear Grylls and spend a year in the bush with a leaky tent and zero survival skills. Like fancy dinners in pretty dresses? Eat out every day at your favourite restaurant, order the same seafood salad every time, and make sure to wear the exact same dress. This is the quickest and simplest way to ruin everything you have ever enjoyed doing in your neat little life.

Step 2 – Start voicing your honest opinions. See that new Aboriginal employee they just hired because HR has to meet the diversity quota? Start talking to him (of course it’s a him; Aboriginal and a woman? Now that’s a stretch goal) then casually say: “Oh you’re alright, I thought all Arbos were welfare bogans.” Now, make sure to not just think this inside your head every time you see the guy minding his own business; make sure to say it out loud. That way, even though everyone else in the office secretly shares the same sentiment, you’ll still get fired.

Step 3 – Blame yourself for everything. Climate change is happening because you had beans for dinner and now the methane coming out of your ass is destroying the already paper-thin ozone layer. There was another unreported sinking of refugee boats this week because, instead of the champion of social justice you’ve always aspired to be, you became a corporate asskisser just so you could buy the BMW convertible that you’ve always wanted. Who cares if it burns 7L of premium per 100 millimetres; you can pick up women now!!

Feeling down after all that? Don’t worry. Here are two ways you can go back to who you really want to be in no time:

Exit Strategy No. 1 – Become Asian, just like your one Asian friend! If you are Asian, you automatically become successful at whatever task you choose to pursue, simply by virtue of your oriental heritage. Side effects may include: small penis, dying alone, an obsession with kawaii waifus, and having a swimming pool filled with Hong Kong dollars.

Exit Strategy No. 2 – Just do nothing! Because your life is already perfect! You have already achieved everything you’ve ever wanted since high school; your only wish is to watch the next season of Game of Thrones sooner; when you see the suffering of others in the news you feel a fleeting sorrow at those poor souls who weren’t born with white skin in a first-world country, then proceed to watch those cute cat videos you very much enjoy!

And there you have it folks! Now go out there and be miserable you stupid white people!

Elves of Ygraelia and the Age of Butts

Before Ygraelia, there were only robes of wool in all of Gaia.

In the beginning, cold was the realm of Gaia, and all who roamed under her gaze were slow and afraid; for long and bitter the winters were, haunted by horrors unspeakable, spawns of the frigid dark.

Then arose Ygraelia the Sun-Bringer, greatest of the Elves. A great expedition she led, across the Seven Wastelands and the Frozen Sea; arduous and perilous was their journey, and their host, thousand strong, dwindled with each waning of the stars. When at last they reached the Heart of Gaia and beheld the Forge of Molten Souls, there remained only Ygraelia and two others: Solyak the Strong, slayer of coldspawn and master of the path, and Kalafina, the Magus of Second Light, keeper of the secrets whims of Gaia.

Thus Ygraelia spoke to them: “We triumvirate shall craft upon this Forge a heart of fire and raise it to the sky, so that its warmth may spread upon the face of Gaia and end our people’s plight. For unto our people the gods have bestowed great beauty, yet for uncounted millennia we have worn thick garments of wool and leather that have eclipsed the contours of our bodacious butts. Such cruelty we shall suffer no longer. Lend me your strength, brother, sister. Let us end this eternal night.”

But Kalafina refuted her, for the will of Gaia ever whispered in her hear, and it was displeased. “What are we, brave Ygraelia, to disobey the will of the gods? Gaia has ever been cold and lifeless, and we are but shadows ephemeral, unworthy to tread in its steps. In time, into the Ether our beauty shall pass, and for precious little reason we would have forever marred the face of Gaia with a burning scar.”

Solyak, upon hearing the words of Kalafina, raised his great hammer in ardent defiance. “Heed, sorceress! All this way we marched, countless kin lost in the tundra, and now, at the cusp of final victory, you would question our purpose? Unto you I say this: great is the beauty of our butts. Greater still is the beauty of Ygraelia. Aught there be a cause greater than the beholding of her curvaceous behind in the warm light of a burning star? Nay! This great pleasure you shall not deny!”

And Ygraelia watched with dismay as her friends fought before the heart of Gaia, as the mountains sang with clashing steel and stone asunder. To the Forge of Molten Souls she prayed, with a song woven with love and sorrow: “Hear my plea, merciful Gaia: I have a booty most lavish, most fair. To confine such good in a prison of unsightly wool is an injustice most grave. All Elvenkind – indeed, all who walks this frigid land – desire to admire such a chiselled behind. I beg of you, bestowed upon me the Great Hammer of Kalmiras so that I may craft a star, and its warmth shall bring joy to all Gaia, for unleashed will be the beauty that is freed booty.”

Thus the Heart of Gaia was moved, for it has never before heard such poetry from the one of the elven folk, and its heart was glad. Thus the Hammer of Kalmiras was seared into Ygraelia’s grasp, and she with one mighty blow struck upon the Forge of Molten Souls. A great din echoed in the Heart of Gaia as a great spark rose from the cold tundra and ascended into the sky, illuminating all that which rested in Gaia’s embrace. Solyak and Kalafina ceased their endless strife and raised their eyes to meet the ardent light, and upon their skin there was a great warmth, a balm of vitality, a soul-born ire of that which came to be a Sun for all elvenkind.

Unto Ygraelia they exclaimed, with voices of joy: “Light! Warmth! What delight you have brought us, fair Ygraelia! No longer will we stifle our forms under heavy cloaks. Come, let us gaze upon your beauty!”

Shrouded in hues golden and divine, Ygraelia cast off her cumbersome cloak and revealed that which was gifted to her by the Almari, herald of all elvenkind: a butt most shapely, most exquisite, sculpted as if by the very will of Gaia to bestow beauty upon the land. Clad in but a thin material of midnight black that nigh reached her thighs, Ygraelia raised her fair voice to the heavens so that all her kindred, who have scattered throughout the seven wastelands or taken refuge beyond the seas, would hear her proclamation for the dawn of this new age, this age of warmth, this Age of Butts:

‘Let it be known that elvenkind cowers no more in fear of the cold, of the dampest dark! Gaia’s heart I have beseeched, and it has deemed our butts worthy of warmth and illumination. From this day forth, nothing shall be made to cover our behinds other than the holiest of garments, that which was worn by the Almira as they roved from the Frozen Seas to these once inhospitable lands. Throughout ages we have kept it hidden, under thick clothes that betrayed not our beauteous figure, but I say unto you – no longer! The Age of Butts is nigh! None shall deny us the exhibition of our sainted bottomwear to all who would direct their gaze! Rise, rise, thee Elves of Ygraelia, and bring to bear our most sacred creation to the hearth of mother Gaia: the Hot Pants!”

And all elves rejoiced, for the Sun newly arisen was bright and warm, and they made great pilgrimages to the Heart of Gaia to behold the Sun-Bringer, who wore naught but Almira’s Pants of Hotness, and the bodacious sight brought joy throughout the lands. Some say that even now, those who weareth the sacred garment of the Almira would stir fire into the coldest gaze, and bring warmth to the darkest of nights.

A Superhero in 2k17



What superpower do you want? Invisibility? Punching really hard? Nah. Don’t lie to yourself. No one gives a shit about those. Here’s what people really want:

A junior clerk grinding 12-hour days at a law firm: “Make money come out of my ass.”

A kindergarden teacher who likes kids a little bit too much: “Make money come out of my ass so I can retire in Thailand.”

A senior neurologist at a prestigious medical research centre: “Brains.”

A zombie: “Brains.”

A rich billionaire with a loving and beautifully white family: “Let me fuck with people for kicks without consequences – oh wait I can already do that.”

A rich billionaire with a loving and beautifully white family who is not an asshole: “Let me literally become Jesus and save humanity.”

And there you are, the only powers a modern superhero needs:

1 – Infinite money.

2 – To be able to do whatever they want

3 – Live as long as they want (basically 2)

Now try and tell the guy with all of the above that your fists glow and you can punch people really hard. Tell them you can shoot arrows, with a bow. Tell them you have a whip that makes people tell the truth! OMG!

Not the Lasso of Truth! Nooooooo!!!

How to Eat Rice

rice farmer.jpeg
This is totally me. I mean, not like you can tell the difference. Cos you white.

White people be like: ‘So, you’re telling me, that an ancient civilisation that existed for over six thousand years, when cultivating a staple food with tiny-ass grains that make toothpicks look big, made a conscious, calculated choice to use two toothpicks as their main culinary tool?! Why can’t they just eat honey chicken instead?!?!?!’

Alas, the wisdom of my ancestors is beyond the comprehension of my obfuscated, anime-addled brain. But their ancient techniques I have learned – as was demanded by my famiry – the chiefest of which being the art of preparing, plating, and consuming rice.

Follow these simple steps, and you too can become an authentic oriental.

Step 1 – Buy a rice cooker from K-mart (or your choice of shitty franchise store). They are literally 10 bucks. Stop trying to cook rice in a saucepan. No authentic oriental ever does that.

Step 2: Wash your rice before cooking. Put it under a running tap – preferably more than one grain at a time – and watch a cloud of white stuff gets mingled in the water. Get rid of that. Use a clean pot of water to cook your rice. Ever noticed how asian restaurant rice is always soft and fluffy? Yeah, it’s because it’s washed. Imagine putting unwashed things in your mouth. Not judging, but ew.

Step 3 – If properly prepared, rice is always sticky when put in a bowl, so you don’t have to pick up the grains one at a time. The wisdom of our ancestors have decreed it so. They have tamed the spirit of the rice using their divine wisdom so that when picked up by a pair of chopsticks, rice will always adhere in a ball of ~50 grains. Or you can be a little bitch and use a spoon.

Now, you are ready.

Go forth, my pale-faced comrades, whose ancestors had for centuries pillaged the wealth and labour of my beloved homeland. Unto you I hold no grudge, only a grim satisfaction as I watch you constantly avoid saying anything remotely racist for the next two hundred years. Go. Eat that rice. Taste the great labour of my great-great-grandfathers and understand that your culinary understanding is but a puny icicle dangling in a Permian glacier.

Eat. Eat and rejoice.

Waiting for Them to Die

Old pictures always look so good.

When I was young, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents – the pillars of strength behind 9-to-5 mothers, annoying saints who were somehow infinitely wise and infinitely childish at the same time. Twice a week, we would go to a shitty little park sandwiched between a grill place that dumped their used frying oil on the sidewalk, and a phalanx of grey apartment buildings that housed at least two hundred people each.

Kids used to play outside, with long skipping ropes and whistling wooden gyros and dragonfly kites. There were more modern stuff too: plastic transformers, Gameboys, malformed dinosaurs that came out of happy meals (and definitely not checked for lead content or whether the spikes on the stegosaurus would poke out an eye). I was always given the traditional toys, ones that required lots of running and jumping and hand-eye coordination, because I was fat and found reading dictionaries fun.

The grandparents used to run with me as I rollerskated down the bicycle lane and onto the overpass bridge on the other side of the park.  Then they would take out the goldfish kite and let me fly it on the air currents stirred up by the thousands of monochrome cars rushing by below (all black and white, or grey for adventurous young couples). Then we’d start walking back home, and I would get tired (cos I was fat) and ask grandpa to carry me on his back. Didn’t find out until years later that he had trained in the most prestigious military academy in the country, and detested kids who were lazy.

But he would carry me every time.

On the way back we’d stop by the grill place with the stinky oil. They used to have a stall out front, peddling steamed buns and such. The guy selling it would pick money off the sidewalk, wipe his nose, and then put hot buns into plastic bags with his bare hands. After we’ve walked away, grandma would always reminisce that people that dirty shouldn’t be selling food, that where she grew up such people would be fired and beaten with kitchen brooms. Then she would spit on the sidewalk.

Weeks after weeks we did this: in summer, when men would go out topless and holding bamboo fans; and in winter, when the gloves were so thick holding hot buns felt like holding bricks of ice.

It was not a particularly fun routine, nor was it dreadful. It was just a thing that we did.

Then I had to go away. Far away.

Years passed.

When I went back after becoming all grown up, the kids didn’t play outside anymore. They’ve stopped playing, period. My little cousin had school from 7 to 4; Saturday mornings she had math school, Saturday afternoon she learned swimming; Sunday morning she had English school, and Sunday afternoon she went to this children’s lecture on ancient history, where a teacher would recite and explain ancient texts in the manner of a traditional story-teller. Pretty fun stuff.

She lived with my grandparents since the primary school she went to was close by. They didn’t take her out at all. On weekends they would spend all morning making pastry and various meats so she would have a nice lunch. More often than not, her mother – my aunt – would decide to eat out, since there were only 90 minutes between the morning class and the afternoon one.

So most of the food they made were thrown out. Grandma would complain that it was wasteful, and grandpa would tell her that times were different now, that we can throw away as much as we want.

They were glad that I was there to eat their food, even if I was just there for a few weeks. The pastry they made were not as good as I remembered; grandpa couldn’t knead the dough as hard as before, and grandma had only a dozen teeth left, so it had to be thin and crumbly.

As I demolished the plate as quickly as I could so the stuff wouldn’t stay in my mouth for too long, I understood why my aunt and cousin ate out so much. Then they would offer me more – there was always more – and I would say yes.

In the afternoon, we still went to the park.

But there were no kids around. They were all in cram school.

My grandma, she would hold my arm in a death grip as we walked, saying how glad she was that I was there so she could go to the park again without being afraid of tripping over. My grandpa would walk in front of us with a cane, shuffling slowly, so slowly; he never asked for help and detested wheelchairs.

We would turn back halfway into the park, long before we could see the overpass, because they were tired and wanted to go home. That was fine. They banned flying kites on the bridge anyway; there were signs everywhere.

The filthy grill place was replaced by a newer, fancier grill place with a big floor-length window at the front, so people could watch the chefs shove whole ducks into woodfire ovens and be impressed with how clean and professional it all looked. Instead of buns they now sold only meat on skewers. We never bought them, even though I liked them and they were cheap – grandma wouldn’t be able to chew, and she would get upset if I ate something in front of her that she couldn’t.

So we went back home. The whole trip was just as long as all those years ago, but only because we had walked so slowly.

When I went out by myself later I walked through that park gain, because it was a shortcut to a new financial district, where Obama had visited once, so I was told. I would stare at the new, contemporary-design pavement, wondering why I was doing this to myself.

Each time I walked through here, there would be fewer kids playing.

Each time I walked through here, they walked a little bit slower.

The next time I walk through here, I could be alone. And I’ll be able to buy all the fucking meat I want and trample them on the sidewalk, so it may be covered in stinking oil again.

Should just set a fire and burn the place down.

How to Be Funny


You trying to tell a joke.

You be walking down the street, minding your own business. Suddenly, from the corner of your eye, you see an attractive Henry Cavill-esque guy trip over because he was too busy checking himself out in the shop window to look at where he’s going. You laugh. It’s pretty funny, because the guy’s sculpted hair is now all messed up, and as he gets up he just tightens his belt buckle and keeps walking as if nothing happened.

Swap the hot guy with an eighty-year-old man with a cane. Not so funny anymore, even though he could be doing the exact same thing (this be a very good-looking granddad). Clearly, the act of falling over isn’t intrinsically funny – context matters.

What the hell were you laughing at then?

Look up funny videos. It’s always a guy setting himself on fire, a girl doing somersaults on the pavement after skateboarding with bars of soap tied to her soles, or a cute animal doing something only stupid animals with primitive brains would do, but it’s funny because oh look the puppy is so adorable, how can anyone ever think to themselves “gee that was too stupid for me to laugh at” when it’s so damn cute.

Ever watched clips of Stephen Colbert shitting on Donald Trump? Guy’s got perfect delivery on every punch-line, and nine out of ten times it’s hilarious because it’s tough to not find the Trump gaffs funny. People laugh at that stuff the same way someone who just lost their job, alienated their spouse, and crashed their car all in the same day would laugh.

But every once in a while – and it’s getting increasingly frequent now – the good-humoured jabs turn into the banter of a schoolyard bully that paints personal attacks with a shade of “Just kidding bro, y u rednecks be so mad?”.

Since when did personal attacks become funny?

Picture this scenario in your head: a guy in his mid-forties throwing ball at a kid’s birthday party. Suddenly his pants fall down while all the mums are watching. He grapples with himself for several seconds before falling over. Everyone laughs – Why? Is it because:

A: Laughing at the misfortune of others is normal; or

B: Not wearing pants is intrinsically funny; or

C: You are nervously wishing that it doesn’t happen to you? Or

D: Don’t give a shit. Don’t care.

Mistaking A for the correct answer is why there is such an overabundance of slipping-on-banana-peel stuff so readily available. Click open Facebook and there is bound to be a dozen of these videos lined up for you to exhale out of your nose slightly faster at. Pay attention to yourself – if, after watching twenty variations of a hot girl doing something stupid and almost hurting herself, you are still laughing at the twenty-first, stop, take a deep breath, then go jump of a cliff.

What you are laughing at is not humour.

Know a friend who couldn’t stop laughing after watching a video of a fat guy failing at break-dancing? He isn’t laughing because it’s funny. He’s laughing because the guy is fat. Don’t be that friend.

Back to the example. Is not wearing pants intrinsically funny? An easy way to judge this is by imagining yourself walking down a busy mall, and suddenly a whimsical Harry Potter fanboy appears and non-verbally Vanishes your jeans – what would you do?

Get upset? Start crying in the middle of the street while covering your crotch? Yell profanities at passers-by in order to not draw attention to yourself by being loud and obnoxious?

Or shrug and laugh?

Hopefully you have arrived at the conclusion that the act of not wearing pants is funny because it could realistically happen to you, and when it does, you’ll be laughing – out of embarrassment, shock…or a sudden rush of euphoria because you are an exhibitionist.

In other words, it’s funny because it is relatable. Answer C.

(If you picked D, you are reading the wrong blog and you may fuck off at your leisure.)

So, after all that bullshit, how do you actually be funny?


Just tell the truth.

Example: Couple of days ago there was this headline of Tiger Woods getting arrested for drunk driving. It took up two whole pages in the Advertiser, and was the biggest story behind a plane crash that killed several people. The problem is, when all he did was partake in alcohol before operating a motor vehicle, like literally millions of other people, who the fuck still reads a newspaper?

(cue laugh track)

Shitty joke. Predictable punchline. 2/10.

Not one hint of jumping off the roof of a building onto a trampoline that rips apart, however. Not one bit of a dog chasing its tail to the Benny Hill soundtrack.

That shit isn’t funny.


[if you don’t mind your employer or the person you are trying to impress seeing this on your profile, give it a share]

How to Stop Being White

white person
Literally you.

Tired of being white? Having too much success in every aspect of your life because of your skin colour? Fear not friends; simply follow this easy step-by-step guide to become an authentic [insert non-white ethnicity of your preference].

Step 1: Become an unwilling participant in colonialism! First, watch as your friends and family succumb to opium addiction as they spend their life savings on life-threatening narcotics imported by the British Empire as a way to steal your country’s wealth. Then, repeat for a minimum of two hundred years. Unfamiliar with this particular page in history? Worry not! Simply look up literally any country in the 19th century not full of white people.

Step 2: Stop getting offended when someone tells a joke about race, then be too dumb to tell whether it was done in good humour or meant to offend. Remember the days when you dreamt about being a standup? Those brown-coloured comedians got it easy! They can just deprecate themselves and their own culture in front of an audience of white people to get laughs, but you, you have to work hard and come up with politically correct material. To avoid this dilemma altogether, just tell jokes that degrade women instead.

Step 3: Use Google before asking dumbass questions. Questions such as “Why do Asians speak funny” or “Why are Aboriginals so uncouth” are best directed through a pipework of filters, kind of like how the shit in your toilet might go through a water treatment plant to be removed – three months later that same batch of water might come out of your tap when you are brushing your teeth, and it is wholly unnecessary to have shit coming in or out of your mouth.

Step 4: Instead of having the opinion of your racist dad, or the opinion of that really attractive but kinda racist girl you like so you might get laid, have your own. White people love expressing their opinions – that is a fact. But the following are not expressions of opinion:

  • Faithfully regurgitating passages of a book, or a quote. Repeating what someone else’s opinion is doesn’t make it your own – you’ve led a different life from a Jew in the Roman Empire in 200AD, so you can’t possibly have identical opinions. Of course, you might not have sufficient vocabulary or mental clout to utter your opinion in graceful language, so you might want to borrow entire chapters in order to act like you’ve thought deeply on the issue. In that case, go ahead. But understand that, in an arena where everyone is capable of expression their opinions using their own words, others will look down on you.
  • Personal insults. Well, it is technically an opinion, but it is an opinion about the person giving an opinion rather than your opinion on the issue being discussed. Unless the topic being discussed is “How much of a dickhead do you think I am; give reasons”, refrain from insulting people for the express purpose of insulting them.
  • Being offended on behalf of others. This ties into the previous statement. If you are offended, it is you who are being offended, not the entire cadre of sociological dogma that you somehow represent. Remember this the next time you see an Asian guy being called names at a pub. If he choose not to be upset, then you should not be upset. If he is upset, then you may go through a mental checklist titled: “Empathy: Am I giving a shit because I give a shit or because those really hot women are looking and I want to impress them”. (Refer to author’s previous guide, How to Give a Shit)

Step 5 (optional): Stop ordering honey chicken or the non-spicy curry. When entire cultures butcher their own thousand-year old recipes so their meals might please your palate, you know you are too white. Go explore. Order the thing with three little chillis next to it. If you hate it, you hate it. It’s fine to not like a food; it is not fine to say “this is the best honey chicken I’ve ever had” when it’s the only thing you have ever ordered.

Step 6,7,8…∞: Figure it out.

Here this article shall end with a heart-warming platitude, summarizing all the cheerful little anecdotes into one happy, concise statement that you can be impressed with:

Go fuck yourself.

(Just kidding I love you)

How To Give A Shit

Seeing trash on the beach makes you angry. So don’t walk around it. Pick it up.

Climate change – so important. I combat climate change by liking and sharing every relevant piece of publication I come about while browsing the internet in my underpants. I’ve even watched all of Leonardo DiCaprio’s Before The Flood documentary – didn’t skip a minute.

Asylum seekers – so important. I help resolve this issue by getting into arguments about immigration and human rights with strangers on the bus, and complain to my ignorant friends whenever I see Scott Morrison on TV (even though he isn’t even in the department anymore and no one watches TV).

Mental health – so important. I care a lot about mental health. Mental health is so important, because it is…just really, really key to…being mentally healthy. And I don’t like the idea of people killing themselves because that goes against [insert appropriate religious doctrine here]. But as I said, it is extremely important and I am very passionate about the issue.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

We’ve all done our share of volunteering. You meet up with your team on day one, and it’s pretty obvious what everyone’s purpose there is:

Type 1 – Those that are absolutely passionate about what they are there to do. They appear so omni-competent that you wonder if they are angels reincarnated into mortal forms, sworn to dedicate their lives to absolve our sins. You only need one such person in each group. One is enough to run an organization.

Type 2 – Those that are there for personal development – a cuter way of saying “wanna put this on my resume”. Depending on the size of their ambition, they will either go out of their way to perform or do exactly what they are told and not an inch more. They never complain about putting in another work day, or having to do a presentation on a two-hour notice, but sooner or later they’ll be gone, and three, four years down the line, you might run into them randomly and ask how they are doing. They’ll have full-time jobs now, in the middle of the career that their volunteering had helped them achieve. Ask them about refugees, about climate change. They’ll say, “oh yeah, of course. I like and share every relevant piece of publication I come about.”

Type 3 – Those that are there for no reason. Ask them why they want to volunteer and they struggle to come up with an answer. Nine out of ten will have disappeared by the end of the first month, yet strangely enough, you wouldn’t be surprised at all if, six month later, one of them has suddenly turned into a Type 1, and is now the passionate and dedicated one. These are the people who are trying to find a purpose. Everyone has been a Type 3 at some stage.

Let’s break these down.

(These categories may be politically incorrect)

Not everyone is a Type 1 – not everyone can be. In fact, it would be supremely obnoxious for everyone to be passionate about the minimum wage or youth unemployment, simply because people will get tired of their shit. Many people love Emma Watson – rightfully so – but not many would want to be always around her. It’s like having a salesman knocking on your door every day with the same amazing aloe vera shampoo – yeah, the shampoo’s good, use it twice a day, but please, please go away and never come back.

Type 1 don’t need to learn how to give a shit. That’s pretty self-evident.

Type 2, on the other hand, is the basis of how our society functions. It is tough to convince them to give a shit because the only thing they really, really care about is themselves. Everything else – every charitable cause, every pleasantry exchanged, every favor they ever do for a stranger – is just a means to get the next promotion, or to hook up with another hot girl.

It is not wrong to be a Type 2. In fact, it is objectively the correct way to exist.

The trouble is how one would impress upon them the importance of giving a shit about stuff like climate change, asylum seekers etc. None of that stuff really impact their own goals in any way, and therefore they do not give a shit.

There are several ways to convince the otherwise. Two main ones are:

1 – With reason, present facts. This does not work, and will never work. To care about something is an emotional response. One does not elicit an emotional response with logic. There are exceptions, of course – one may imagine that the moment Stephen Hawking proved the existence of black holes there was some emotional response – but typically, no. Especially not during an argument on the internet.

2 – Make it about them. This is right up the alley of Type 2. If it’s about themselves, they will care. But how does one make climate change or asylum seekers feel tangible, when they one is a patient and skilled stalker creeping up on you from behind, and the other is a kid suffering from abuse yelling with a muffled voice from the basement closet?

By using an artificial contrivance. (Think money, stock, insurance…)

That’s why the Carbon Tax was so hotly contested. Suddenly, a whole bunch of people were forced to care about something that they never used to care about, because the impact of climate change is suddenly in their wallets and profit margins. It elicited an emotional response.

What do people feel when they are emotionally threatened?

Anger. Resentment. Hatred.

But to be upset about something is to give a shit about something. If you can be made upset, then you can be made to care.

So don’t be afraid to be angry.

Next time you see someone abuse the bus driver because he wears a turban, don’t look down at your phone and pretend not to hear – be angry. Next time you see some guy from the government sprouting yet another load of shit on the news about how keeping people incarcerated indefinitely helps with national security, don’t frown and switch to Big Bang Theory – write an angry letter. Next time you see someone write an offensive comment, don’t be afraid to look stupid – point it out.

Half the time you’ll look dumb as fuck. Half the time you’ll look dumb and make the other person angry.

Then you might get angry too.

That’s when you’ll realize: hey, I am giving a shit.

How To Detect Whether You Are Getting Rectally Penetrated


The world has become a very upsetting place.

There’s climate change, there’s below-inflation wage growth in non-executive positions, there’s militant veganism, there’s over-proliferation of cafeinated high-sugar high-acidity beverages in the modern consumerist society, there’s kids trapped in caves, kids in detention, kids not getting vaccinated, vaccines getting overtaken by superviruses, idiot drivers overtaking semis on the highway and getting totalled resulting in three-hour traffic jams, and pants that for some reason accentuate the asscrack as a part of their design.

Upsetting news reaches their audience very easily nowadays, and consequently there are a lot of upset people everywhere. In this atmosphere of low-level chaos, it is very easy to get unwittingly analled.

For example, some guy said something on TV and now you are upset, Then, some kids get stuck in some cave and now you are upset, then Iron Man showed up to save them in a phallic submarine and you are happy.

There is no discernable difference in the presentation of these fun, interactive events and collapsing ice shelves – after all, they all happen somewhere far away, unable to effect your life in any way.

And of course, there is no real difference, surely, between being upset about some orange dudes lying to people, and freshly revised tax laws in your own that furthers the wage growth gap between high and low income earners.

Since you are equally upset about these events they must be equivalents: kids trapped in a cave = bye iceshelf = me upset, some guy being rude = stilted tax rules = me angry.

Sure, except one anals you and one doesn’t.

Unsuspecting rectal penetration becomes a lot easier to detect when you diligently decide what to be upset about. Foreign kids in a cave? eh. Illegal immigrant kids? eh, not really. But why not really? Because your own kids, currently, cannot afford a quality education, and as a result you really don’t have to energy to worry about other peoples’ kids, so you just do some moral posturing and get on with it.

Upsetting, isn’t it, to not genuinely care about tens of thousands of displaced children? You will find that, once you are no longer being analed by a hyper-inflated for-profits education system that aims to make money instead of properly educate your own children, you are much more likely to care about other peoples’ kids.

So please, identify what’s analling you and let the rest go…for now. Get that unwanted phallus out of your ass first, be upset about Kylie Jenner not having a billion dollars later.





How To Be Attractive


People be saying to me, all the time, ‘damn dude, how you gon be so good-lookin and hyper-sexy all the time, what’s the deal brah?’ And I, the physical manifestation of humanity at its absolute zenith, always hit them back with a casual, nonchalant, ‘nah bro, you just ugly.’

Hyperbolic nonsense notwithstanding, here are three easy steps you can take to become more attractive:


  1. Three times a week, board an old old wooden ship, and write on the cabin wall the following words in 16-point Comic Sans:

‘Just Because I Swore To Father No Children Doesn’t Mean I Can’t Do My Aunt.’


2. Whenever you find yourself accidentally masturbating, hold up a mirror against your face and mutter the following words under your breath for a total of six seconds:

‘I don’t have money… but what I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long period of unemployment. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my neckbeard go now, that will be the end of it – I will not look for you, I will not pursue you… but if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you… and I will be fabulous.’


3. If by now you are still not attractive, worry not. Simply buy a business class ticket to Japan and say the following to the clerk of the first convenient store you walk into:



More amazing tips to come!



How To Send Thoughts And Prayers

15037467-sexy-a-hot-caucasian-girl-wearing-a-nun-outfit-in-sunny-day-outdoor-praying-looking-to-the-skyBilly was taking a stroll down the street when he saw his neighbor, Mr. Wang, struck by lightning. It really came out of nowhere – since it was a sunny forty-degree day and cloudless and why was he walking outside anyway when it’s so hot – so Billy was shocked, though not as shocked as Mr. Wang, who was on the ground and smoking from his ears.

Billy, still recovering from having witnessed such a tragedy, looked about. No one else was out; the houses all seemed empty. It felt as though he should be doing something about this situation, since Mr. Wang was clearly not getting up. Being a responsible citizen, Billy called for an ambulance.

Unfortunately, just as he hung up, Mr. Wang got up. He was completely unhurt even though he was misleadingly smoking from the ears a moment ago, but that just turned out to be a cigarette snuffed in the grass. Embarrassed, Billy told Mr. Wang that he had called an ambulance.

Mr. Wang became agitated, as he did not have ambulance insurance and this singular call out was going to cost 750 bucks. He began raving at Billy for being an idiot and told him that, since he was the one who made the call and left his name, Billy should foot the bill.

Billy was very embarrassed. Who knew Mr. Wang was going to be completely fine after getting hit by lightning; now he was stuck with paying out of his own pocket for a useless ambulance. Fortunately, Mr. Wang did not know which house he lived in, so Billy decided to make a mad dash for the next street over before Mr. Wang could wrangle the money out of him.

As he ran, Billy made a deal with himself: he’s not going to be so stupid next time and embarrass himself by sticking out his neck. And the whole thing was the lightning’s fault to start with – where did it even come from, how did it even get there, and why did it look so intimidating when it didn’t really do anything except making a fool out of him. Billy decided that all lightnings are bad and should be kicked out of the country and go back to where they came from.

When he turned a corner, he saw a bunch of aliens coming out of an UFO and walking into Mrs. Tate’s house with what looked like really long antenna rods. Suspicious looking bunch they were, what with the banner on the UFO (written conveniently in English) declaring EXTERMINATE ALL HUMANS, and loud screams were coming from the house.

Billy felt as if he should do something about it, since Mrs. Tate was clearly in trouble. Then he remembered Mr. Wang. He was already stuck with a 750-dollar bill the last time he tried to be helpful, and that could have been like twelve chicken schnitzels, so this time he decided to be extra careful as to avoid any embarrassments and financial detriments to himself.

Then it came to him – a way to both express his concern yet not actually do anything in case something he did came back to bite him. As he walked pasted Mrs. Tate’s house and the UFO, he gave them some Thoughts and Prayers, to let Mrs. Tate know that he, Billy, really really cared, and to send a firm message to the aliens that what they were doing was really really wrong.

As Billy turned another corner, he did not look on both sides of the street and was hit by the ambulance that was hurrying toward Mr. Wang’s house. Fortunately, the paramedics were unhurt and were prepared to treat him on the spot. With his dying-but-not-really breath, Billy informed them that Mr. Wang was OK, that the lightning didn’t do anything, so the ambulance could just go back to the depot without charging him for the callout.

The paramedics could not refuse the wish of a dying-but-not-really man, so they told Billy that alright, the fee will be waived. Billy was briefly very happy, until they told him that to treat his injuries the ambulance will have to carry him to a hospital, and that would cost 750 bucks.

Billy became very angry. Stupid ambulance, he thought to himself, if they didn’t exist they wouldn’t have ran him over and he wouldn’t have had to worry about paying the callout fee in the first place. He decided that ambulances were all bad and that they should be kicked out of the country and go back to where they came from.

But when he told the paramedics to leave him alone, they refused, since it was literally their job to help him. Angry, Billy told them that yeah, you can help me, but I’m not paying for anything ever. So the paramedics had to think long and hard about what to do. Then they came to a solution.

They left Billy with some Thoughts and Prayers and drove off. Billy, lying in a pool of blood in the middle of the road, felt really good about himself, for he has just saved a bunch of money and no one has made a fool out of him.

How To Get Over It



Get Over It, much like lube, can be applied to many things. Here are a few examples of things that should be easy to Get Over – the ‘Just Some Bullshit’ category:

  • No avocado for your toast;
  • Netflix doesn’t have the new season yet;
  • Mild annoyances, like littering or loud tourists.

These are trivial or near-trivial inconveniences: Avocado is not mandatory when eating bread; it takes time, bitch; when you see mild litter, just pick it up; when you see loud tourists, put on earphones. Easy, low-effort, on-the-spot Getting Over It.

One step up is the ‘meh’ category, which might elicit some feels but not that much:

  • The death of David Bowie/Robin Williams;
  • Some dick spouting obviously ignorant bullshit on social media;
  • The toilet is backed up cos some dick threw an entire roll of toilet paper into it.

This is a situational category, as a very small percentage of the population might feel much more strongly about these than other people: someone might be saved from suicide by music or comedy; the post might have engendered personal offense; and you might be desperate to take a dump.

If you find yourself triggered by one of these, remember: no one else cares as much as you.

The ‘meh’ category, much like lube, has its limits. For certain subjects, the percentage of the population that feels strongly about a subject may grow so large that it becomes a sizable minority – the ‘that’s a thing’ category. Examples include:

  • Too many immigrants;
  • Australia Day should be a Day of Mourning;
  • Muslims are bad.

These subjects are tougher to Get Over because of the number of people that feel strongly about them. Whether they are morally right or legally correct have no impact on whether a person feels strongly for one side or the other – a highly educated person can be adamantly opposed to Muslim immigrants, and a white kid who didn’t finish high school can be a champion for Aboriginal rights.

Importantly, it is OK to Not Get Over some of these, since they all have sensitive emotional triggers:

  • The whole point of immigrants is them taking up previously local jobs;
  • bunch of white dudes came over, killed half your family, then squatted in your house for two hundred years and told you to work together with them from now on;
  • Muslims are responsible for many high-profile acts of terrorism in the 21st century, and terrorism, much like lube, is scary.

More importantly, it is OK to argue for Getting Over Them, because many people still don’t care as much as you do about these things, and they react negatively to you acting so dramatic:

  • Meh, I’m employed;
  • Leave it alone we just want to have a day off with the family;
  • Yeah, scary, but you’re a thousand times more likely to die in a car accident, yet cars are not bad and you drive every day.

Most importantly, do not be confused about what is making you feel strongly. Example:

  • If Norwegian immigrants are OK but black and Asian ones are not, then it is not immigrants that you don’t like – it is blacks and Asians. i.e. a confused racist.
  • If your response to Aboriginals protesting Australia Day is ‘they should Get Over It’ instead of ‘it’s just a day off cut me some slack’ or ‘we just want to wave a flag and pretend to be patriotic, doesn’t matter which day’, then it is not them calling it Day of Mourning that is upsetting you – it is the fact that Aboriginals are protesting. i.e. how dare they protest, aka., racism in confusion.
  • If your argument for banning Muslims is not ‘I’m a coward, I don’t drive cos I might get run over, I don’t go outside cos the UV might give me skin cancer, and I don’t want Muslims cos I might die in a terrorist attack,’, but a combination of ‘Statistics show they’re more likely to be terrorists’ or ‘A culture that oppresses women have no place in our society’ or other soundbites that you don’t have strong feelings about, then it is not that Muslims are bad – it is you not liking Muslims, aka., generic racism.

When confronted by people who are upset that you are being racist, you might become confused and mightily offended – ‘wtf how is any of what I just said racist’ – and fortunately, there is an easy solution: just tell yourself what you would tell an Aboriginal person protesting Australia Day.

Get Over It.