#261 – The Business Class Boast

23 06 2014

It was a simpler time. Back in the good old days, it was enough for the bogan to scuttle onto a cheap flight to Bali or Thailand, get its hair braided, drink Bintang or Chang, and become exceptionally sunburnt. Which is not to say that the bogan can’t still enjoy those things. Instagram now groans under the weight of filtered photos of new tattoos and scooter accidents.

But that ubiquity has become problematic for the bogan. With everyone crashing scooters and “totes tripping balls” on watered down magic mushroom shakes, the bogan no longer feels like the special petal that it so craves being. As it stood in the Jetstar cattle pen one day, the bogan’s beady eyes spotted a velvet rope far up a hallway. The bogan knew that it was on the wrong side of the velvet rope, and was displeased.

The door behind the rope lacked maxtreme signage, but rumours persisted that it was a portal to a world of unlimited booze, “happy ending” massages, and celebrities. The bogan wanted in. Into the world of special gold tags on luggage, exclusive lounges, and seats behind that super VIP curtain at the front of the plane. Acting on another rumour, the bogan marched up to the customer service counter and declared that it wished to receive a free upgrade to the business class lounge, and a business class seat on the plane.

The request was not granted.

The bogan's promised land, which resembles a hybrid of an RSL and a Harvey Norman

The bogan’s promised land, which resembles a hybrid of an RSL and a Harvey Norman

The bogan returned to the clammy huddle inside its holding pen, vowing vengeance on a world that didn’t understand the bogan’s VIP requirements. Revenge came quickly, with Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram being informed that Qantas Club is a pack of cunts. The bogan’s crimson rage was as intense as it was fleeting. It mutated into a beige paste of shame and unrequited longing, for the bogan wanted desperately to be behind that velvet rope. $485 later, the bogan became Qantas Club’s newest member, and hurriedly deleted its cunt tweets.

The lounge itself was pleasant, though altogether too sedate for such a glorious velvet rope triumph. The bogan, normally swift to complain about a lack of maxtremity, seemed strangely unbothered. It set itself up on a couch, and held aloft its Qantas Club card, along with a glass of 12 year old whisky with coke. Then a selfie. And another selfie. A third selfie. Then 10 minutes searching for an Instagram filter named “$wag”. All of its friends were commanded to be totes jelly of the amazing lounge. The $485 of value thus secured, the bogan waited for its plane.

Astonishingly, the cabin crew led the bogan to the economy seat specified on its ticket. “I’m a fucking Qantas Club member; I demand to see your boss!”

The request was not granted.

The bogan gulped from its massive can, and contemplated the catch 22 irony of its plight. Its job as an Executive Account Coordinator Manager Consultant Specialist did not pay well enough for the bogan to afford the 400% price premium of sitting at the front of the plane, yet the real managers at the company sometimes got to fly business class for free.

To ward off these thoughts, the bogan placed its Qantas Club card on the fold-out tray table, and commenced searching for a camera angle that gave the illusion of expansive space. It was time to gloat to social media about its free business class seat upgrade.





#260 – Marilyn Monroe

16 04 2014

We have been harsh on the bogan, in the sincere belief that we were also being fair. We told you that the bogan is an empty vessel, a gaping maw just begging to have celebrity-of-the-month gossip regurgitated into it. We dared to suggest that the bogan stands for nothing, falls for everything, and possesses no enduring convictions beyond the urge to demonstrate its own loathsomeness.

Lies. All of these were lies. The bogan is actually a classicist; a person of timeless taste. The bogan is a… candle in the wind. Because the bogan likes Marilyn Monroe.

Monroe, born as someone else 90 years ago, turned a string of “dumb blonde” movie appearances into a brief tenure atop a subway air vent, a few better movies, three husbands, and an overdose death at age 36. But to the bogan, Marilyn is not a 1950s actress. She is evidence of how the bogan is a good person.

 

The 53.5kg Monroe, who represents a mandate to become overweight

The 53.5kg Monroe, who represents a mandate to become overweight

Firstly, Marilyn Monroe embodies the myth of the “real woman”. The female bogan will confidently inform you that Monroe’s size 16 frame represents “real beauty” in the “real world”, and that it justifies the bogan’s unwillingness to exercise its restraint at the dinner table, or regularly exercise its body away from it. Sadly for the bogan’s excuse-mongering, a British fashion journalist who had the chance to try on some of Monroe’s clothing confirmed that Monroe blew out from a size 8 early in her career, to size 10 at her biggest. Using Marilyn Monroe as validation of being size 16 is like using Oscar Pistorius as validation of wearing socks and sandals together.

But it gets better. Not only does the bogan use Monroe’s 23 inch waist as permission to let itself go, it also uses her as a philosophical mandate to be a shit human in a general sense. Monroe has numerous well-known quotes to her name, but one of them has been embraced with far more fervour than the others, infecting Facebook walls, Tinder profiles, and anything else with a text box that stays still long enough for the female bogan to mash the quote into its keyboard.

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I’m out of control, and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” When recited to a non-bogan, it might be interpreted as a message encouraging humility, pragmatism, and loyalty. But to a bogan, it’s a massive green light for any and every pig-headed thought, utterance, or action that can possibly be imagined.

Unfortunately, the bogan will rarely exhibit the “best” which lends some sort of balance to the quote, but why should it have to… the Marilyn Monroe in the bogan’s mind has already commanded it to eat another burger, start another fight, and cut to the front of another queue. The bogan likes Marilyn Monroe.





#259 – Necks

30 01 2014

The neck has spent years out on the bogan frontier. It was only after sweet tribal sleeves, some mad calf tatts, and some sick chest and back pieces of dragons that the bogan would start nominating its neck as  prime real estate for the newest visual representation of its soul. Similarly, it has been willing to have any number of its orifices (orifii?) violated in preference to turning up somewhere with a plum-coloured hickey bruise on its neck. Yes, the bogan’s neck has always been sacred, save for being used as an occasional hanging place for shark teeth and Tiffany logos. Even Pandora and Livestrong were unable to colonise the space from their stronghold on the bogan’s wrist.

But that was then. In 2014, the bogan has mutated once more. It is currently unable to open either a liquor bottle or a social media platform without contemplating its neck, and nominating it. Like a smug giraffe, the bogan will marvel at its own neck, and declare that none of its friends have a neck quite so splendid. Which is to say: bogan is filmed swiftly consuming alcoholic beverage, and then nominates someone to do likewise. Being the creature of excellence that it is, the boganic spiral towards disaster commences.

Neck being used to full potentialJust as the bogan giddily embraced planking in 2011, a fad that led to an unfortunate death from a 7th floor Brisbane balcony, so it will presumably be with neknominating. In the case of planking, the slower mobile data speeds and smaller data caps of three years ago meant that the bogan was generally limited to merely posting a photo of itself planking on Facebook. But the arrival of 4G has allowed the bogan’s creativity to flourish. It’s not simply about consuming the beverage, the twenty seconds of footage is also a thrilling platform for a talent/stupidity contest. Can the bogan think of something fucking idiotic to do before/during/after having a drink? Yes it can.

Careful scriptwriting is now required, with intense pre-video deliberations occurring to determine the more theatrical components of the video. New footage from the field reveals an audacious neknominate effort that involves hanging off the bottom off an airborne helicopter without a harness, and smashing down a delicious 375ml of Victoria Bitter. In another, a bogan nails its scrotum to a wooden board, then consumes its drink. No female bogan has yet had the balls to emulate that feat, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that one will choose to give a bit of lip in return. And the Mexican wave of boganity continues.

Just as Australia’s rampant prosperity creates ever more bogans, it also taketh them away. Darwin is not only a city where bogans ride crocodiles and make the NT News Australia’s finest newspaper, it is also an –ism that will spare no corner of the continent. The Abbott Government’s plan to water down the National Broadband Network stands out as a beacon of hope to save the bogan from itself. With excessive data speed comes an uncontrollable deluge of bogan exhibitionist daredevil idiocy, which has the capacity send the bogan the way of the Tasmanian devil. So, next time you see the bogan risking its nek, nominate Tony Abbott to strangle its interwebs for its own good.





#258 – Knowing the Future

16 07 2013

“The future is a foreign country,” says the bogan wisely as it looks up from The Daily Telegraph, comfortable that it pulled that quote that it heard on A Current Affair that one time. Quotes always make you sound wise.

Bogan whispererBut deep down, it knows that actually the future is terrifying; a dystopian nightmare without royal babies, without taurine-fuelled drinks in infinite varieties, without Kyle Sandilands doing flips onto a shooting star.

The bogan is afraid. Always has been. The massive guns, the melanin, the colourful attire, the carefully rehearsed poses for those weird photos they take at the nightclub; they’re all a hastily constructed veneer to show the world that everything’s cool. But rather, the bogan is terrified; thirsting for knowledge. For understanding what comes next.

It’s no longer worried about its children now that they’re baptised and Ray Hadley tells it that climate change is rubbish. But what about its own future? Its job security? Its plans to retire at 53 without actually having saved anything, but chucked a few quid into Apple shares?

First, it turns to Ross Greenwood on Channel 9, who has some feelpinions about the future, then tells the bogan to stop spending so much on flatscreens and save some money. Disgusted, the bogan looks elsewhere.

Housing. The bogan knows there has never been a safer bet than throwing all of its money into a rental property, negatively gearing this shit out of it/renovating and ‘turning it over’, then counting the dollars.

But where to look? Who could provide that needed certainty? The hot tip on where to buy a house in that suburb that is a dead-set certainty to be the next boomtown but the bogan would never live in?

Enter: News Limited.

Enter: News Limited’s resident Australian Real Estate Psychic, Elisabeth Jensen.

In further incontrovertible evidence that no individual, organisation or business has its finger as firmly pressed to the bogan pulse as Rupert’s Australian outpost, the stable of tabloids and websites that fall under the News Corp banner have employed ‘2010 Australian Psychic of the Year’ Ms Jensen to provide a regular column answering readers’ (bogans’) questions about all things real estate.

“I was guided to the home I live in, I saw it in a vision, I went there to have a look at one I really wanted but couldn’t buy the unit.

“A month later another unit came up in the same block and that was much better because the other one had problems at a later date,” said the bogan whisperer Jensen.

News Limited feel confident in her ability to assist bogans in finding out the sweet place to buy, or whether “there’s a problem with any property.”

“People come to me to see me for a psychic reading, asking what’s wrong with a particular house, that it feels very strange, asking ‘are there spirits in this house’,” Ms Jensen says.

“I’ve sent away bad energy or difficult spirits, sometimes they’re lost souls, people who don’t know they’re dead.”

After consulting with the property medium, the bogan will then be consulted on the likelihood via binary online poll.

Looking up from its copy of the Tele, the bogan exhales, relieved. It has certainty again.

 





#257 – Just asking questions

14 06 2013

The bogan is perpetually curious. As the world rockets from dial-up porn to broadband porn to live-streaming HD NBN porn, from Carlisle to Gaga to Skrillex, from real politicians to ‘female’ politicians, it can all get a bit much, and the bogan periodically needs to take stock and assess the state of the universe.

So it Asks Questions.

Powered by an overwhelming desire to know The Truth, the bogan will diligently Ask Questions about the things that are troubling it in this crazy ol’ world.

“Oh, so you’re coming back from maternity leave?”

“What even are male hairdressers?”

Something something slush fund?”

“Ashby inquiry now?”

“This criminal government?”

The bogan embarks on a one-eyed pursuit of truth

The bogan will also, being the generous, community-minded soul that it is, Ask Questions on behalf of other bogans. It understands that not everyone has the ability to take their Important Questions That Need Answering to the proper forums, so will shoulder the monumental burden themselves.

Sometimes these bogans are, of course, Shock Jocks.

In pursuing Answers to these important Questions, perhaps then the bogan can clairify – even confirm – what it knew all along, shortly after it stopped pretending to have elected Australia’s first female Prime Minister, that she’s actually a misandrist bitch who stands against everything the bogan represents. Clearly, if the Questions are True, and her partner is a (sotto voce) ‘homosexual’, then all of this is proven, no?

These kindly, caring bogans will fearlessly pursue The Truth with their Questions. A voracious reader of Derrida and Foucault, the bogan knows that it cannot simply make assertions, as there are many forms of truth. But it needs to search.

“Tim’s gay. that’s not me saying it. But you hear it. He must be gay, he’s a hairdresser. It’s not me saying it. It’s what people…”

And now, having Asked Questions on behalf of people (bogans) the bogan can take a brief holiday, before resuming its job with higher ratings than before.





#256 – Superfluous Ingredient Descriptors

19 03 2013

It is just plain wrong to categorise the bogan as a straightforward, simple creature. There is nothing simple about naming a child “Mhadeziyn”, attempting to perch atop a revolving system of four different interest-free finance facilities, and clutching seventeen different mutually exclusive conspiracy theories about foreigners, allergies, and corporate fat cats.

That’s right, the modern bogan is a seven-sided Rubik’s cube of mystery. Gone are the days where it would happily lunch upon a humble beef burger, a packet of salt and vinegar chips, and a can of Sunkist. This caused much hand-wringing in snackfood and fast food boardrooms around the nation. “Had the bogan become less ravenous?” one asked. No, the bogan had not become less ravenous. “Had the bogan become more tasteful?” another well-intentioned staffer enquired. No, the bogan had not become more tasteful.

A Contiki Tour in three 200 gram boxes.

A Contiki Tour in three 200 gram boxes.

The boardroom clocks ticked loudly, and a few board members shuffled their papers to distract from the fact that the meeting had ground to a complete halt. Others in the room awkwardly looked out the window, wishing for an urgent reason to be elsewhere. Out the window, down in the car park, a bogan was doing doughnuts in a fluorescent ute. Attached to the ute was a trailer, on the trailer was a Jet-Ski, and on the Jet-Ski was the bogan’s friend, riding with no hands. Seconds later, the Jet-Ski rodeo bogan was thrown off the Jet-Ski, landing in a puddle of its own elbow cartilage. Clearing his throat, a board member addressed the room. “The bogan has become much more deluded”. Yes.

Six weeks later, the snackfood company re-released its salt and vinegar chips. As “Rock Salt and Balsamic Vinegar”. Salt from exotic rocks. Vinegar from exotic… balsams. The bogan didn’t mind that the price was 50% higher. After all… rock salt! Sales soared. The constantly mutating vagaries of the bogan mind had once again been skewered by nonsensical branding. Soon, no bogan wanted a beef burger unless it was an Angus Beef Burger. And “blood orange” flavoured soft drink was seen as both more maxtreme and more prestigious than stupid old plain orange. It was thrillingly irrelevant whether there was any discernable difference in ingredients or taste. This is because the bogan wants to remain deeply within the comfort zone of its palate, whilst still projecting the illusion of fashion and progress.

The bogan craves these superfluous ingredient descriptors, and consuming something pointlessly, functionlessly overwrought adds additional layers of meaning to its existence. An Ed Hardy t-shirt for the mouth. If Arnott’s releases a gourmet version of Shapes called “Cracked pepper, Mediterranean feta, French onion, crispy chicken, flame grilled steak, roasted garlic and peppercorn” (all of these terms have appeared in Shapes names in recent years), the bogan’s biscuit-purchasing fervour could  only be heightened further if the product was also dubbed “limited edition”.

The bogan is a moron.





#255 – Living Once

23 01 2013

The bogan understands the universe. From the big bang that started everything approximately 13.75 billion years ago, to The Big Bang Theory that started on Channel 9 on March 12, 2008, the bogan soars over space and time, like a golden, winged Jet Ski with the ability to transcend all of existence.

While we're at it, these Keep Calm posters can fuck right off tooContemplating its own constitutional right to eternity, the bogan intermittently sought refuge in the afterlife offered at its local megachurch. Returning to its McMansion, it would then ponder Buddhist reincarnation while focusing its eyes on the various pieces of Buddhist iconography that it had commandeered as domestic decoration. As the complexity of rebirth and multiple lives began to reveal itself to the bogan, it realised that it would need at least four of its child’s Ritalin tablets to complete this train of thought.

The bogan, it did not sleep that night. Pacing between its rumpus room, its family room, its lounge room, its formal living room, its theatre, its dining room, and its informal eating area, concepts flew like lonely comets in the vast expanses of inky black sky. Karma, immortality, birth, death, lifespans, heaven, purgatory, rebirth. The first light of dawn brought no more relief than the three massive cans it had gasped down since 4am. It would need to drive its car. Driving its car would bring freedom. The ability to speed away from its troubles.

But going 80km/h didn’t work. Paralysing thoughts of universe still present. 100km/h. A slight improvement in wellbeing. But the bogan did not aspire to a slight improvement in its wellbeing. It wanted maxtreme wellness. To be so well that it shat multivitamins. At that moment rays of sunlight scrambled over the Bunnings Warehouse on the horizon, and everything was illuminated in the bogan’s mind. All of these big ideas about reincarnation and eternal life could be completely scrapped. You Only Live Once.

“Fucken YOLO!!!”, the newly liberated bogan whooped, plunging its foot into the accelerator pedal. The subsequent 8 minutes between this moment and the flashing lights of the police car were pure existential bliss.

YOLO neatly distils boganity into a blunt, four letter weapon that the bogan can use to attack anything that has a passing resemblance to a good idea, and embrace anything that is profoundly idiotic. Angry Angus burger with 56.5 grams of fat? YOLO. Interest-free finance with an interest rate of 20%? YOLO. Saving a portion of its salary each month? Nah, YOLO. 150km/h therapeutic morning spin through the suburbs? YOLO. Back alley Thailand tetanus tattoo of YOLO in gothic font? Well… YOLO. The bogan only lives once, and is determined to make that once as brief as possible.

Temporarily deflated by its run-in with the local constabulary, the bogan rolled back to its McMansion at 5km/h below the speed limit. Still jittery from the heady mix of Ritalin, caffeine, guarana, adrenaline, and a $400 fine, it resolved to pull a sickie, and soothe itself by watching the hilarious adventures of Leonard, Sheldon, and the whole Big Bang Theory gang on its Blu-Ray 3D LED LCD HD HDMI USB 100HZ TV. There would be no more troublesome thinking that day.








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