Archive for Bogans

No, stupid bogan, you don’t own an American car!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2010 by Buck Frain

Sometimes I just want to shoot people in the face. There are those people who I honestly think can only be helped by having the addled contents of their craniums aired out and spread over a 10 metre radius.

The Holden Commodore has been one of the most popular Australian made sedans of the last 30 years. In fact it is so popular in Australia that it has oft been referred to as the Holden Clitoris due to the fact that every cunt’s got one! 

I appreciate the need to stand out from the crowd but over the last couple of years there has been a growing phenomenon amongst the cashed-up-brainless-fuck-knuckle set of taking the Holden badges off their Commodores and replacing them with Chevrolet badges. 

The motivation for doing this is hazy at best but is generally perceived to be a moronic attempt to make an extremely unimaginative choice of motor vehicle appear a little more exotic.

  1. It doesn’t work.
  2. It’s fucking bullshit! 

What the fuck are they thinking? Well, it’s questionable whether they’re actually capable of anything as complex as thought or whether this action is just a stimulus-response anomaly. My view? IDIOTS!!! Everyone in Australia knows that the Commodore is an Australian car so the Chevy badges aren’t fooling anyone! Do you seriously think that your Commodore-owning mates will turn around and exclaim: 

Ohmafahkingooooood! Davo’s got a Chevy! Fahkinellmaaate!

No. Sadly, your arse-clown-deadshit mates know that it’s just a Holden with Chev badges. Even your fucking Horizon-smoking mum knows. So, if even the stupidest people aren’t fooled, what is the point? 

Is it part of the great Aussie cultural cringe? That idea that anything we are, have or do would be way better if it was English or American or otherwise internationally approved of so we knew it was OK to like? Is it just a national self-loathing? Oh mate, I’d be way cooler if I was American! Forgetting of course that even if they really were American they’d just be an American fuckwit which I imagine isn’t that much cooler than being an Australian fuckwit. 

It’s fucking stupid is what it is and I fucking hate stupid! It fucking shits me off that someone would go to the trouble of deliberately buying a vehicle to then spend extra money pretending it’s something else. WHY??? Why not just buy a fucking car you want? Why not sit for a moment THINKING THROUGH, or cunt-forbid RESEARCHING, the multitudinous options available in the world of motor vehicles before you purchase the same thing everybody else has and decide it’s not good enough? CRETINS!!!

I realise that re-badging vehicles is no new thing in the auto industry. Holdens were re-badged as Pontiacs in the U.S. and Vauxhalls in the U.K., Holden themselves have sold re-badged Isuzus, Toyotas, Opels, you name it, as Holdens. That’s just selling cars. It’s just marketing. I know that Holden is part of General Motors, a U.S. company, and for years the Holden Commodore has been re-badged and sold as the Chevrolet Lumina overseas but that doesn’t change the fact that under the badge it’s still a Holden Commodore. The real question is: why, in Australia, a country full of Holden Commodores, where everyone knows your Commodore is a locally designed and made Holden, would you spend good money putting on foreign badges that fool no-one? You’d have more luck passing yourself off as a woman by tucking your dick and balls back between your legs! Stop being a  fucktard! Go right ahead and customize your vehicle if you want to just stop being ashamed of its true identity. Stop being ashamed of supporting your local car industry!

But Chevs are cool, man! 

Fucking buy one then! IT’S NOT A CUNTING CHEVROLET!!! 

It may be worth noting that it is common for Holden owners in the U.S. to re-badge them with the original Holden badges. Why do they do it? Out of respect because that’s what the car is! I swear, if you’re one of those slutheads who’s re-badged their Holden as a Chev, you should take it out on a deserted bit of highway, wind it up to 200km/h and wrap it around the biggest gum tree you can find. As much as I like the new Commodores, the human race does not need YOU!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #9

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by Buck Frain

appetitelarge 

#9. Homebrew, Hydroponics & An Appetite For Self-Destruction.

Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games…  

 

You’re young. You’re poor. You’re forced into sharing squalid surrounds with strangers. But you’re alive and parent-free and filled with a burning need to fuck and recreationally self-medicate as much of the time as possible, and why the balls not? The world is going to hell and holds little to no meaning, and the possibility of finding a job that you don’t want to top yourself for doing for the rest of you life is miniscule. Your best bet is to have some laughs and destroy as many brain cells as you can in the hope that you’ll stop caring and render yourself able to become a useful member of society. 

Good news: For over 15,000 years people with sod all money or education have been successfully brewing their own beer and getting right off their chops. It’s way cheaper than buying beer and provides you with a feeling of accomplishment whilst freeing up more of your precious cash for hardcore pharmaceuticals.

 

Good news 2: It’s fuckin’ legal!

 

You don’t have to be living with economics students to know brewing your own beer makes good financial sense, shit knows I wasn’t. Our entire house was, for the first time, unified in the mission of brewing and we became a little monk-like for a couple of weeks – checking, obsessing, focusing all our energies on the brew. We bottled and started another brew going. We bottled that and started another. Our cellar grew week by week and we waited for the brews to mature.

 

This enterprise inspired diversification in our endeavours and we constructed a small hydro setup in the ample broom closet and started growing two plants. We were set to become completely self-sufficient in basic intoxicants and we were very excited. The plants grew rapidly aided by a small UV light and numerous very questionable chemicals.

 

Finally, we harvested half a pound of buds once we’d run out of room in our makeshift cellar for bottles. We dried the weed and then chilled down a couple of dozen beers. To try. We tried. Ooh! Success. The beer was a pale lager style beer modeled after Mexican beers like Corona. Except it was about 6.5% alcohol so along with its crisp, refreshing taste and easy drinking body, it had a kick like a mule. The pot stopped time and rendered speech impossible.

weed_pot 

Five months later we were still wasted. We were producing nearly four cartons of beer a week and had to put in a serious effort just to make sure we were drinking that much so as to keep the cellar from increasing. Also, having large quantites of free pot lying about meant that we were smoking bongs incessantly. Someone in the house always had a doobie going or so it seemed and no matter where you’d come from or where you were going someone in the house would offer you a hit. We had endless parties, we invited our friends for barbecues and told them just to bring meat. We were kings. Mad, mad, debauched maniacal kings. Intervention and/or rehab was inevitable.

 

So where’s the cunting problem, Buck, you fuckin’ ingrate? I hear you ask, and well you may.

 

My housemates and I were sitting in the lounge room one evening. We were suitably toasted and idly entertaining the possibility of roping in our chemist mate in to help us make some LSD, a move that might well usher in a golden age in our Kingdom of Lad. We all jumped at the sound of the front door being smashed open. It didn’t come off its hinges but the deadlock tore through the frame and the inner handle punched a hole through the gyprock. I turned to face the sound and saw a flash of dirty denim and ginger goatee before the end of his baseball bat sank into my solar plexus and I crashed to the floor with the fear that I’d never be able to breathe in again. A heavy boot stomped between my shoulder blades forcing my cheek into the roughly finished floorboards. The double barrels of a sawn-off shotgun quickly filled my field of vision. I could hear the distant pleading of my house-mates amongst gruff threats and the sounds of the house being torn apart. My eyes were full of tears and my diaphragm was spasming air in and out of my body in such a way that I felt like a fish drowning in air on the deck of a boat.

…you’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna die!!! 

 

I couldn’t get my head around the terrifying reality that I was about to die in a gang related drug den massacre. My mum really didn’t deserve this. The voices were increasingly impatient in their demands and my body refused to let me answer. I pointed desperately to the esky in the middle of the lounge room floor. Calloused fingers flung the lid off the esky and pulled out a garbage bag full of weed. Congratulatory cheers followed. The shotgun withdrew. Another neanderthal returned to the room having found our meager broom-closet greenhouse with the verdict: Nah, it’s bullshit, they’re just cunts! Laughter. Ah well, thanks cunts. Oh, and don’t remember us or we’ll come back and kill yas! More laughter. Exit the bogan horde in a roar of Harley Davidson belligerence.

 

It seemed that despite our relatively small social circle, our friends had regaled their friends with tales of our enterprises and the resultant parties. These tales had been passed on, embellished and degrees of separation had closed until a group of hairy, stinky fucking outlaw bikies had decided to shut down our non-profit crime empire. It also seemed that I’d pissed my pants. Fuck you, near death experiences!