Bye Bye Big Bird

“Big Bird. You’re fired!”

Folks, if Mitt Romney wins the US elections, he’s going to cut funding to PBS, the network that bought us Sesame Street for nearly 43 years.  Ok, I haven’t watched an episode for ages, but Sesame Street is like the Aunt you no longer see, who never fails to send you a Xmas card with an easy twenty in it every year; you’ll miss it when it’s gone.

Can you imagine the scene in the White House if Mitty Mormon gets the top job?

Hi Mr. Big Bird!  Look, I love your work, but our economy is in serious trouble, particularly after I spent a billion dollars to get a job that only pays four hundred thousand a year.

Now, I’m not going to borrow money from my new bosses in China to fund your show, so it’s time you packed up your nest and found another street to live on.

Perhaps you should look at the example set by Mr. Oscar the Grouch?  He has proven that you can survive for years living in a sidewalk garbage bin eating scraps.  Actually, I’m thinking of using him as a role model for America’s future working classes.

Plus Mr. Cookie Monster will have to find his own cash to treat his eating disorder.  Seriously Mr. Bird, I don’t think he wants to give up cookies, and frankly, the American taxpayer shouldn’t be coughing up the dough for his… well, dough.

I would also like to offer my sincerest condolences regarding the recent death of The Count.  He was a sharp dresser, lived in a castle, and independently wealthy; basically my type of guy!  I was hoping to offer him a job with my buddies at Goldman Sachs, because he’d have fit right in with those obsessive compulsive vampires.  Bwahahahaaa!

To sum up Mr. Bird, in spite of your fantastic contribution to the youth of the world, in today’s economy, if you can’t turn a profit, then you’re basically worthless.  And the only street I’m interested in bailing out is Wall Street; again, and again.  Goodbye Mr. Bird.

Oh, Mr. Bird!  On your way out, could you show in Mr. Ernie and Mr. Bert?  I’ve got some bad news regarding their application for gay marriage and their plans to adopt Elmo.

Women of the World! U-knit!

In last week’s column I outlined the difficulties of being a modern man, and being an equal opportunity columnist, this week I’m going to sink the slipper into the fairer sex; again.

Not so long ago, women in this country were treated like second class citizens.  Well, third class if you consider that most blokes put their cars, or dogs, before their wives and girlfriends.  It’s nothing personal ladies; you see, we’re idiots.

But great strides forward were taken for women’s rights during the 70’s and 80’s.  Sadly the fight didn’t quite make it as far as the right to equal pay, which is a pity, because it costs a fortune to be a woman.

Clothes, deodorants, accessories, trinkets, and everything else with the word ‘Feminine’ in it, are roughly double the price of men’s’ products.  Except haircuts; those are four times dearer.

And after years of campaigning against magazines featuring heavily touched photographs of models with the body fat of stick insects, many bra burners are now purchasing push up bras, or lining up for implants to overcome the effects that gravity has had on their chests after all those free swinging years.  Not that I’m complaining mind…

So today’s women are still victims of social pressure to hide things; particularly their age, weight, blemishes and body odours.  As a result, their bathroom shelves, cupboards, and any spare space around the sink, are crammed with lotions, potions, creams, oils, removers and restorers.  While all the shampoo, conditioning and skin care products a bloke needs are conveniently packaged into a single cake of soap, usually stored on the floor of the shower basin.

Then there are the horrors of female ‘problems’, which I think are an inability to parallel park, failure to comprehend the offside rule, and limited access through the glass ceiling of male dominated upper management levels.

Women can recall where everything is stored around the house, shell out big $ for clothes they’ll only wear once, know their children’s blood types, and spend far too much time assessing their relationships.  While men tend to focus on their next meal, fishing trip, or if it’s too early in the day to start drinking.

Of course I may be completely wrong, but I’ll never admit it; but you already knew that, didn’t you ladies?

 

Sometimes it’s hard to be… a fella.

Readers, you may find this hard to believe, but as a middle-aged man, I know what it’s like to be discriminated against.  For those of you scoffing into your coffee, how about trying this on for size:

I’m never going to be whistled at in the street, or have pretty women yell out sexually suggestive comments as I sashay by.  And Hugh Heffner is never going to pay me to take my clothes off, (by the way, Hugh if you’re reading this, I’d like the photos back please).

When I’m at the park with the kids, I get suspicious stares, or evil glares, from passers-by.  Well, I’m sorry, but I waited for my turn on the swings and I’m damn well going to play on them!

If I flirted with a female cop to avoid being given a ticket, I’d probably get arrested, Tasered, shot, or worse; laughed at.

Each day as a man I live with the threat of physical violence; in nightclubs, pubs, supermarket aisles, or simply by walking into the kitchen and explaining to Long Suffering Wife how she could do the dishes more efficiently.

The majority of men will spend most of their lives working to support their families, or their ex-families and replacement daddy’s sports car repayments.

Then there are the horrors of PPPS:  Perpetual Peter Pan Syndrome.  This is a rather tragic disease which affects all men to varying degrees.  The symptoms are fairly easy to spot; the sufferer appears to be in a constant state of age denial.

PPPS victims suffer from the mistaken belief that their bodies will perform like it did when it was eighteen years old.  Just mix a mid-life crisis with some serious motorcycle horsepower, and bones that have the flexibility of ceramic tiles, and you’ll get an inkling of why men don’t live as long as women.

In spite of all the above hardships, we brave males manage to soldier on day after day; well, obviously with a lot of help from the good folk at the bottle shop.  But it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it ladies?  And I’ll have a bit more to say about the fairer sex next week, if I can find a company prepared to renew my life insurance.

Face Fungus Fun

Classic good looks…

Every young man is guilty of doing a certain thing that will upset his mother no end when she finds out what it is he’s up to.  Well, it’s a male rite of passage: growing a beard.

Most lads will let their beards sprout to see how it comes out, and quite often the end result is a mixture between hilarious and scary.  As a young fella I grew a beard for about a year and when I shaved it off, it gave our dog a nasty shock.  It was only when he recognised my yells for help that he stopped tearing into my leg.

Anyway, last weekend while watching the footy finals, I was struck by how many young players were sporting facial fungus, and was reminded of those particularly hairy days of the 1970’s when nearly every man sported mug shrubbery.

The handle bar moustache was made fashionable by sporting legends like Dennis Lillee, Rod Marsh, Max Walker, and just about every Aussie Rules player.  Beards were also trendy, and even Emperor Wally wore a beard for a while; and hair on top of his head.

Todays’ actors are also taking a leaf, or the entire bush, from the stars of yesteryear like Jack Thompson, Grizzly Adams, Magnum PI, Charles Bronson, and possibly Rolf Harris.  Big stars like Russel Crowe, Ewan McGregor, Tom Hanks and George Clooney have made wearing chin mufflers popular again.

So the trend is back, and our young men’s chops are being caringly, and creatively, carpeted again.  Although for some reason, while they are happy to let their facial fluff frolic, they seem to be waxing and shaving all the other hair off their bodies like they have some sort of compulsive disorder.  I don’t know why, but as long as they’re not using my razor, I don’t particularly care.

Sadly, my latest attempt to grow a beard has not gone well.  I’ve got more grey hair on my face than a silverback gorilla has on its, well, back.  Plus it’s itchy, makes me look old, and my shirt sleeves are working overtime to mop up the food and drink spills.  But on the bright side it’s annoying my Mum and Long Suffering Wife, so I’ll keep it for a little while longer.