Friday Boganomics: We Learned a New Term

10 06 2011

Rightly, the bogan hates being told what to do, hates having its movements restricted, and hates feeling obliged to anyone. This is an important reason why it loves purchasing investment properties; so it can tell someone else what to do, restrict their movements, and have someone feel obliged to them.

This free-thinking, independent creature is informed by its convictions, exhaustive research and by Brent down the pub. These resources have led it to believe that the best way to stay in the pink of financial health is to invest in property. Various credible people and publications have told the bogan that the only safe bet in the world is houses, because, well, they are ‘safe as houses, mate’. This message is reinforced by Brent who reckons ‘God ain’t makin’ any more of it is he?’. What, asks our libertarian crusader? ‘Land, mate. Laaaaand.’

The bogan has heard these same anachronisms being belted out by many a non-ivory type and knows it to be true. God ain’t making any more it, he’s retired and making less, all the time. Convinced of the endless profits and jet skis to be made from the property market, it decides to re-mortgage its McMansion and its right kidney to purchase a 3-bedroom townhouse in a leafy suburb only 25 minutes from the heart of the CBD.

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45 responses

10 06 2011
shakPower

haha i swear to god i’v heard that a few times before : ‘safe as houses, mate’ , followed by a lengthy smirk as it revels in its own witty remark…

10 06 2011
Pandabater

Don’t forget that the Bogan “owns” his 5 investment properties, must have paid cash for them. 😉

12 06 2011
cækcækcæk

..and considers the sum of “what he could get for ’em” to be his Net Worth.
Which he will then find a way to slip into any conversation.

“I’m worth 1.32million bucks but I just don’t see that Maserati can make a better car than HSV.”
“Well we’ve got 1.32Million but I still wouldn’t go for the Crows”
“I’ll bet my entire 1.32Million you can’t piss higher up this wall than me.”
“well I’ve got 1.32Million but I think forty bucks is too much for school shoes.”
“I’ve got 1.32Million, you can keep the change.”
“I’ve got 1.32million but I still just make the minimum payment on the Harvey Norman each month.”

10 06 2011
martin

Yes and the bogan takes pride in how it was really smart and made money out of the free market that was flooded with cheap credit. But when property prices start to go down the bogan insists the government step in to do something about it.

Joe Hockey exploited this late last year when the CBA rose it’s rates a stupendous zero point four five percent (still way below the long term average interest rate) and the bogan took great umbrage and nearly started a violent coup because only it is allowed to make money, everyone else should be subjected to market forces except the bogan.

Aw man I hate these people.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

I was going to type a long rebuttal of Ash’s crack at AFL but it’s irrelevant really. Here in the more cultured south terms like gayfl mean nothing. We have all moved on from that sort of thing offending us, we are an open and inclusive society. I can’t help it if up north in redneck heartland this passes as an insult. We fear no slurs because we know we are right.

Re the photo, first time I have seen it. I seem to remember Reiwoldt saying he was caught just coming out of bed or something and the picture took him unawares. Sure, I always get out of bed waving my todger at the admiring crowd, who doesn’t?

10 06 2011
martin

It’s gay because our meatheads are more feral than your meatheads.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

Your meatheads are certainly the meatiest meatheads, no argument. They are meatier than an Indonesian abbatoir.

See how I’ve not even made a bum sniffing gag yet?

10 06 2011
martin

A bogan would never pass up the opportunity to make a banal, lewd, and trite “joke”.

Congratulations for not doing so.

10 06 2011
Ash - Glassin' 2 Carnts For Every VB Drunk

All valid, Simon, and I meant to qualify the insult with the next paragraph.

That said, the softest league player (let’s say, I don’t know, Ben Creagh) could still bash the hardest AFL player (is that Barry Hall bloke still playing?).

I feel dirty for arguing that Ben Creagh could bash anyone, but you can see my point.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

We don’t need to bash people, our game is interesting to watch!

10 06 2011
Ash - Glassin' 2 Carnts For Every VB Drunk

Whatever you say.

12 06 2011
cækcækcæk

waiting to see an AFL player transition to league.
won’t happen.
and I have the highest regard for AFL, but
It’s like the way motorcycle racers retire to car racing. it never happens the other way.

11 06 2011
Davo

Riewoldt has really gone to sh!t since his dick got made public

11 06 2011
Bag O'Turnips

So has the rest of the club…I don’t think we’ll be seeing the Ain’ts in the finals this year…the morale amongst the boys from Moorabbin has been definitely torpedoed.

Like other incidents involving football players—of both codes—whereby they use their celebrity to allow them carte blanche in pursuing unsavoury activities, eventually the arrogance goes only so far and foolish pride comes before the inevitable fall.

To conclude with another tired cliché, one will duly reap what they’ve sown, for no one can continue their capricious ways without liability, particularly if one believes that the Law and basic social mores do no apply to them, just because (presently) they are famous and have the money rolling in. However, one in that rarefied position—not just footy stars, but also rock stars, actors and those others who are simply famous for being famous—must never forget that this status is only ephemeral (very, very few attain immortal status—another thing never to forget!) and that if ageing doesn’t catch up and render them as yesterday’s heroes beforehand, they are only one major career-ending injury away from obscurity (or in the case of rock stars and actors, only one dud album/film or TV show away from being a has-been, only of interest to eccentric scholars and geeks), of whom can be quite easily replaced.

Every AFL player, while aiming to be a legend, must always accept that it’s extremely unlikely that they’ll never join the pantheon reserved for the true legends like Ron Barassi, Ted Whitten, Jock McHale and for modern times, James Hird. And if they ever feel sorely tempted to use their fleeting status as a star to swing any cheap thrills their way with total insouciance, they’d do well to remember that these legends of the game were folk who led by example, maintaining a generally sound level of decency and discipline to not only make it to the top, but cement their position as forever well-regarded heroes (sorry NRL followers: due to being a Sandgroper, I have little-to-nil exposure to your code, knowing virtually nothing as to who your eternal heroes of the game are, as a measure against whomever is a current boastful matinée idol that’ll be virtually forgotten in ten seasons time. So forgive my AFL bastion state-induced ignorance).

11 06 2011
Ash - Glassin' 2 Carnts For Every VB Drunk

Well, to be fair one of the two great players of the past 15 years was a professional farkwit off the field.

11 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

Both codes have their fair share. I wll see your Johns and raise you a Carey.

10 06 2011
Bag O'Turnips

These alleged “investors” actually do nothing to improve the economy in the long term…there are far, far too many “mum & dad” investors out there in the residential investment property market, most of whom would never been able to participate 20 or 30 years prior; it’s only because of a complacency bred by sustained historically-low interest rates (which itself has begot a sense of entitlement to this), a more deregulated finance system (meaning easier access to credit) and a more favourable Capital Gains Tax (CGT) regime (half of the 1985-1999 amount), that these specufestors have flooded the market, pushing up the price of housing, itself aggravated by the lack of broad-based access to public housing (which acts as a yardstick to keep the private market in check) and this instead being replaced by cash subsidies, such as the First Home Developer’s Owner’s Grant, which simply adds salt to the wound by pushing the price by exactly the grant amount, and then some.

In a bittersweet way, one almost hopes for a collapse in the over-bloated housing market, though lots of single-home owner-occupiers will get burnt, especially if either they bought at the top of the market (late 2006-mid 2007 in Perth), or have drawn into their equity for a loan: there is a very real scenario that these folk too, though slightly less culpable (especially the former), will end up in negative equity, thus will wear the consequence of various vested interests in keeping this zeppelin-like bubble afloat…one just hopes that it’ll slowly leak and land reasonably gently, but the chances of the hydrogen of low-interest rates (or easy credit) igniting explosively due to a tear from economic turbulence are far higher than most will admit to. And the captains of industry and finance—though mocking of the nouveau bogan as some risible caricature—utterly depend on them to pilot these overinflated housing airships to get them too across.

17 06 2011
Bazza

I was calling for a correction in housing many years ago. It looked like it was going to happen too, but the bogan baiting measures employed in order to avoid a recession (which the LIberals would have loved, given their election campaign seemed to be centred around the logical fallacy that Labor = recession) re-inflated the market.

Every other asset class seemed to bear the brunt of the GFC, but residential property were somehow kept inflated. Now the missus and I have scrimped and saved, taken our losses on the chin and bought a house for ourselves, the market will finally correct, and we’ll bear the brunt of that too.

The even worse pill to swallow is that we own a unit (paid off completely – no debt) and I believe we can’t exercise the tax incentives that heavily indebted bogans can.

Fortune doesn’t seem to favour the brave nor the prudent. It favours the stupid.

17 06 2011
Mick

Bazza, this is a point that has been made over and over again. The dingbats living high on debt aren’t going to be the ones hurt when it all comes crashing down. They’ll scream that the guvmint should do somfin. And the guvmint will.

The prudent savers will have to pay for it. That annoys me greatly. The bogans won’t learn from their greed. They’ll actually prosper from their misdeeds. My savings and investments will drop in value. And be taxed more.

It’s f#cked.

10 06 2011
Pandabater

Can someone explain property investment?
I would imagine that most people take out a mortgage
when they buy a property. But you pay back 2 1/2 times
what you borrow. When the property is sold for 10%
more than the buying price this is considered a “profit”
but you owe 250% of the purchase price. How is this
a “profit”. Confused Panda.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

Panda,

Allow me
It’s the vibe of the thing.

10 06 2011
Pandabater

Ahhh the vibe.

All cleared up now.

*smacks forehead*

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

Don’t let maths get in the way Panda, bogans won’t.

10 06 2011
moar caek

extraordinary that these “Captains of Industry” and “Leaders of the Free World” seem to bring out the most dull, banal, incredulous, simplistic, ignorant… (you get my drift) in Humanity. from @dotnetn00b and @wakeup2thelies to G.W. Bush and Sara Palin, serious logic gaps, circular reasoning and confirmation bias seem to substitute for reason. I’m not even being facaetious. It’s a phenomonon, a defining characteristic. You’d think it would be the left who were off with the pixies….
My theory is that the dull sparks reckon associating with rich people makes them look smart.ditto climaet science denial. “look Ma I’m arguin’ with a Sciantist!” hur hur hur.
Truly. Frightening.

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

The more things change, the more they stay the same, here at …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

SCENE ONE: A ramshackle terrace house in a narrow side street in Redfern in 1958. The whitewash is fading, the flagstones on the kerb are cracked and dishevelled, and there are plenty of potholes in the road upon which boys in Davy Crockett hats and diamond-pattern acrylic jumpers are driving their billy carts made of apple crates while girls in cardigans are playing hopscotch. A green-and-cream tram is briefly visible as it slowly groans its way up the main road at the end of the street.

Seven-year-old DADDY BOGUE is in the backyard of this cramped, uncomfortable, bedbug-ridden terrace, cleaning out the outside toilet.)

POPPY BOGUE: (a fat slob with slicked back hair who emerges from the back door wearing a white singlet with baggy tweed trousers held up by braces, while taking a swig from a longneck of Resch’s DA in a brown paper bag) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this dunny spick-and-span by the time yer ma gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(DADDY BOGUE starts sobbing)

POPPY BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only queers and sheilas cry, y’unnerstand me? You nancy boy!

NANNA BOGUE: (a sooty, harried-looking woman in a big billowing dress and an apron) calls out from kitchen where she is serving tea) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

POPPY BOGUE: (runs back into kitchen and wags finger at NANNA BOGUE) Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut on the tramways, lifting two hundred pound lengths of rail in the blazin’ hot sun or the drivin’ rain to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

NANNA BOGUE: Speakin’ of the tramways, I read in The Sun yesterday that they’re talkin’ about closing the trams down. You reckon we should go easy on things in case you go out of work? Maybe go easy on the grog?

POPPY BOGUE: What? What the fark? I won four quid this arvo from the SP bookie at the Imperial on number five, race seven at Randwick, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

NANNA BOGUE: Kids! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your arses in here roit now!

(The family assembles at the dinner table)

POPPY BOGUE: Woohoo, mutton chops and mashed taters, me favourite! (cuts off one piece of the chops and eats it, spits it out and then throws his plate at the wall where the food falls to the floor) Urugghrurughgurhkurrghnt! Mint sauce? Mint sauce? You know that I only like mutton chops with Worcestershire sauce, you stupid dumb bitch! Can’t even cook tea for yer old man right, you dumb slag.

NANNA BOGUE: But the corner shop had mint sauce on special. Maybe if you didn’t waste all our bread on grog and the SP bookie, we’d …

POPPY BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

SCENE TWO: A fibro three-bedroom Housing Commission house on the Mount Druitt estate in 1985. The expansive lawns are overgrown and there is a rusty HQ Holden sitting on blocks in the middle of the front yard along with an assortment of kid’s toys such as tricycles and long-lost blobs of Slime. There are children riding their BMX bicycles on the street which is covered in skid marks from all the hoons who go up and down the street every night.

Seven-year-old BOGUE is out the back mowing the large lawn, while AC/DC is pumping out from the Sanyo ghetto blaster inside, almost drowning out the lawnmower. He is wearing a Transformers t-shirt and nylon Penrith Panthers shorts.

DADDY BOGUE: (a fat slob with a mullet wearing a black heavy metal band shirt, an unbuttoned red flannie and acid-wash jeans, taking a swig from a can of Tooheys Draught) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this backyard spick-and-span by the time yer mother gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(BOGUE starts sobbing)

DADDY BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only poofs and sheilas cry, y’unnerstand me? You crybaby girl!

MUMMY BOGUE: (wearing way too much mousse in her wavy hair, deep purple eyeshadow, hot pink leggings with a denim skirt and a top featuring purple hoops and a cloying depiction of two kittens on the front, who is busy getting dinner ready) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

DADDY BOGUE: (runs back into kitchen and wags finger at MUMMY BOGUE) Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut down at the television factory, driving forklifts and packing boxes all day, only to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

MUMMY BOGUE: Speaking of the factory, Brian Henderson on National Nine News last night reckons that the factory might be closing. He said sumfint about not being able to compete wiv them cheap Jap tellies. So maybe we should cut back on spending a bit, maybe not drink so much, in case you get thrown out of work …

DADDY BOGUE: What? I won forty bucks on Go-Lotto the other night, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

MUMMY BOGUE: (shouts from window) Kids! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your arses in here roit now!

(the family assembles at the dining table)

DADDY BOGUE: Woohoo, T-bone steak with Rice-A-Riso, me favourite! (scoops a fork’s worth of Rice-A-Riso into his mouth and spits and out, throws his dinner plate at the wall where the food falls to the ground) Urrghghurhgkurrghnt! What’s this? Curry flavoured Rice-A-Riso? How many times have I told you, ya dumb bitch, I only like the chicken-flavoured Rice-A-Riso!

MUMMY BOGUE: Well, the curry flavour thingos were on special down at Jewel. You know, if you didn’t waste so much dough on grog and Go-Lotto, maybe we could afford the chicken flavour …

DADDY BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

(SCENE THREE: BOGUE and BOGUETTE’s McMansion in Glenmore Park in 2011. The frontyard is immaculate, the pebblecrete driveway gleaming in the afternoon sun. There are no kids playing in the street; they’re all in their bedrooms with their Xboxes.

JAIDEN, with a buzzcut and rat’s tail and wearing a Ben Ten t-shirt, is out the back with a scrubbing brush and Ajax cleaning the Buddha fountain which is the centrepiece of the backyard which is just as small as in Redfern.)

BOGUE: (a fat slob with a Harley Davidson t-shirt and three-quarter length camouflage shorts emerges from the back door, while taking a swig from a can of Jim Beam & cola) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this fountain spick-and-span by the time yer mother gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(JAIDEN starts sobbing)

BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only poofs and chicks cry, y’unnerstand me? You crybaby girl!

BOGUETTE: (a bimbo with straight bottle-blonde hair and jet-black brows and lashes wearing skankwear from Supré, calls out from kitchen where she’s getting tea ready) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

BOGUE: Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut on the motorway construction site, driving bobcats and erecting barricades in the blazin’ hot sun or the drivin’ rain to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

BOGUETTE: Speaking of which, I read on news.com.au the other day that the guvmint is finkin’ of cuttin’ back on buildin’ motorways. Sumfint about sustainableness or sumfint. Maybe we should cut back on expenses in case you’re put out of work, maybe not drink so much …

BOGUE: What? What the fark? I won four hundred big ones on the pokies at Panfers with the boys last night, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

BOGUETTE: (sticks head out window) Aiden! Braiden! Jaiden! Kaiden! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your arses in here roit now!

(The family assembles around the dinner table)

BOGUE: Woohoo, chicken parma wiv chips and pasta salad, me favourite! (takes one bite of the pasta salad, spits it out, then throws the plate against the wall, where the food falls onto the ground) Urgghrukurrughurhkurrghnt! This is that “lite” pasta salad shit, innit? You know I only like the full-cream stuff!

BOGUETTE: But the deli counter at Coles had the lite pasta salad on special! Maybe if you didn’t waste so much money on grog and the pokies, maybe we’d be able to …

BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

THE END

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

And for those impatient to watch the latest episode of …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

… and I know that everyone here is impatient …. I have some news.

The good news: It’s already posted.

The bad news: It’s stuck in moderation.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

UUUrrrghkhurnt. I can’t wait, repost less offending words please Urban. The boys may have knocked off for the long weekend!

10 06 2011
Bag O'Turnips

Knockin’ off for the long weekend…that’s just being your average nice, middle-class, typical Aussie wanker, y’know the ones, the ones who bitch about the 15% public holiday surcharge at the café,all the while whingeing about WorkChoices. Typical middle-class twat behaviour, could be described as bogan in a roundabout way, i.e. only looking out for your own interests to the exclusion of others.

Knockin’ off for the long weekend and then takin’ a sickie on the Tuesday…now that’s most definitely bogan.

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

Now Simon, this is how much I want to keep my fans happy … just for you I’m going to repost with the words I forgot to alter altered. (The TBL crew can chuck my original out if they want.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same, here at …

THE BOGUE & BOGUETTE SHOW!!!

SCENE ONE: A ramshackle terrace house in a narrow side street in Redfern in 1958. The whitewash is fading, the flagstones on the kerb are cracked and dishevelled, and there are plenty of potholes in the road upon which boys in Davy Crockett hats and diamond-pattern acrylic jumpers are driving their billy carts made of apple crates while girls in cardigans are playing hopscotch. A green-and-cream tram is briefly visible as it slowly groans its way up the main road at the end of the street.

Seven-year-old DADDY BOGUE is in the backyard of this cramped, uncomfortable, bedbug-ridden terrace, cleaning out the outside toilet.)

POPPY BOGUE: (a fat slob with slicked back hair who emerges from the back door wearing a white singlet with baggy tweed trousers held up by braces, while taking a swig from a longneck of Resch’s DA in a brown paper bag) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this dunny spick-and-span by the time yer ma gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(DADDY BOGUE starts sobbing)

POPPY BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only queers and sheilas cry, y’unnerstand me? You nancy boy!

NANNA BOGUE: (a sooty, harried-looking woman in a big billowing dress and an apron, calling out from kitchen where she is serving tea) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

POPPY BOGUE: (runs back into kitchen and wags finger at NANNA BOGUE) Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut on the tramways, lifting two hundred pound lengths of rail in the blazin’ hot sun or the drivin’ rain to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

NANNA BOGUE: Speakin’ of the tramways, I read in The Sun yesterday that they’re talkin’ about closing the trams down. You reckon we should go easy on things in case you go out of work? Maybe go easy on the grog?

POPPY BOGUE: What? What the fark? I won four quid this arvo from the SP bookie at the Imperial Hotel on number five, race seven at Randwick, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

NANNA BOGUE: Kids! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your backsides in here roit now!

(The family assembles at the dinner table)

POPPY BOGUE: Woohoo, mutton chops and mashed taters, me favourite! (cuts off one piece of the chops and puts it in his mouth, spits it out and then throws his plate at the wall where the food falls to the floor) Urugghrurughgurhkurrghnt! Mint sauce? Mint sauce? You know that I only like mutton chops with Worcestershire sauce, you stupid dumb bitch! Can’t even cook tea for yer old man right, you dumb slag.

NANNA BOGUE: But the corner shop had mint sauce on special. Maybe if you didn’t waste all our bread on grog and the SP bookie, we’d …

POPPY BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

(SCENE TWO: A fibro three-bedroom Housing Commission house on the Mount Druitt estate in 1985. The expansive lawns are overgrown and there is a rusty HQ Holden sitting on blocks in the middle of the front yard along with an assortment of kid’s toys such as tricycles and long-lost blobs of Slime. There are children riding their BMX bicycles on the street which is covered in skid marks from all the hoons who go up and down the street every night.

Seven-year-old BOGUE is out the back mowing the large lawn, while AC/DC is pumping out from the Sanyo ghetto blaster inside, almost drowning out the lawnmower. He is wearing a Transformers t-shirt and nylon Penrith Panthers shorts.)

DADDY BOGUE: (a fat slob with a mullet wearing a black heavy metal band shirt, an unbuttoned red flannie and acid-wash jeans, taking a swig from a can of Tooheys Draught) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this backyard spick-and-span by the time yer mother gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(BOGUE starts sobbing)

DADDY BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only p00fs and sheilas cry, y’unnerstand me? You crybaby girl!

MUMMY BOGUE: (wearing way too much mousse in her wavy hair, deep purple eyeshadow, hot pink leggings with a denim skirt and a top featuring purple hoops and a cloying depiction of two kittens on the front, who is busy getting dinner ready) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

DADDY BOGUE: (runs back into kitchen and wags finger at MUMMY BOGUE) Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut down at the television factory, driving forklifts and packing boxes all day, only to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

MUMMY BOGUE: Speaking of the factory, Brian Henderson on National Nine News last night reckons that the factory might be closing. He said sumfint about not being able to compete wiv them cheap Jap tellies. So maybe we should cut back on spending a bit, maybe not drink so much, in case you get thrown out of work …

DADDY BOGUE: What? I won forty bucks on Go-Lotto the other night, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

MUMMY BOGUE: (shouts from window) Kids! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your arses in here roit now!

(The family assembles at the dining table)

DADDY BOGUE: Woohoo, T-bone steak with Rice-A-Riso, me favourite! (scoops a fork’s worth of Rice-A-Riso into his mouth and spits and out, throws his dinner plate at the wall where the food falls to the ground) Urrghghurhgkurrghnt! What’s this? Curry flavoured Rice-A-Riso? How many times have I told you, ya dumb bitch, I only like the chicken-flavoured Rice-A-Riso!

MUMMY BOGUE: Well, the curry flavour thingos were on special down at Jewel. You know, if you didn’t waste so much dough on grog and Go-Lotto, maybe we could afford the chicken flavour …

DADDY BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

(SCENE THREE: BOGUE and BOGUETTE’s McMansion in Glenmore Park in 2011. The frontyard is immaculate, the pebblecrete driveway gleaming in the afternoon sun. There are no kids playing in the street; they’re all in their bedrooms with their Xboxes.

Seven-year-old JAIDEN, with a buzzcut and rat’s tail and wearing a Ben Ten t-shirt, is out the back with a scrubbing brush and Ajax cleaning the Buddha fountain which is the centrepiece of the backyard which is just as small as in Redfern.)

BOGUE: (a fat slob with a Harley Davidson t-shirt and three-quarter length camouflage shorts emerges from the back door, while taking a swig from a can of Jim Beam & cola) Carn, get a move on, ya slowcoach! Work harder, you bludgin’ scum! I wanna see this fountain spick-and-span by the time yer mother gets dinner ready! Get a move on or I’ll beat ya black-and-blue!

(JAIDEN starts sobbing)

BOGUE: What are ya? Just a stupid girl! Only p00fs and chicks cry, y’unnerstand me? You crybaby girl!

BOGUETTE: (a bimbo with straight bottle-blonde hair and jet-black brows and lashes wearing skankwear from Supré, calls out from kitchen where she’s getting tea ready) Darlin’, will you give the kid a break? He’s only seven years old, for heaven’s sake!

BOGUE: Who the fark you fink you’re talkin’ to? I don’t bust me gut on the motorway construction site, driving bobcats and erecting barricades in the blazin’ hot sun or the drivin’ rain to come home and have me own bloody missus tell ME how to treat me own kids!

BOGUETTE: Speaking of which, I read on news.com.au the other day that the guvmint is finkin’ of cuttin’ back on buildin’ motorways. Sumfint about sustainableness or sumfint. Maybe we should cut back on expenses in case you’re put out of work, maybe not drink so much …

BOGUE: What? What the fark? I won four hundred big ones on the pokies at Panfers with the boys last night, I’ll spend me own money on whatever I want, thank you very much, woman!

BOGUETTE: (sticks head out window) Aiden! Braiden! Jaiden! Kaiden! Tea’s ready! Youse kids, get your arses in here roit now!

(The family assembles around the dinner table)

BOGUE: Woohoo, chicken parma wiv chips and pasta salad, me favourite! (takes one bite of the pasta salad, spits it out, then throws the plate against the wall, where the food falls onto the ground) Urgghrukurrughurhkurrghnt! This is that “lite” pasta salad shit, innit? You know I only like the full-cream stuff!

BOGUETTE: But the deli counter at Coles had the lite pasta salad on special! Maybe if you didn’t waste so much money on grog and the pokies, maybe we’d be able to …

BOGUE: What? So it’s my fault now? Yeah, everyfint’s always my fault, innit? Why you little …

THE END

10 06 2011
Pendant

Nice one UR. Now I have something to link to when people claim that TBL have ‘made up’ the modern bogan, or they’ve slapped that label on people who have nothing in common with the bogan of yore

10 06 2011
betterthantheoriginalwally

Modern bogan mum cooks?

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

If you call “heating a tray full of Bird’s Eye frozen chips in the oven, microwaving some McCain chicken parmigiana and spooning out Coles deli counter pasta salad” cooking, then yes, the modern bogan mum cooks. 🙂

11 06 2011
Ash - Glassin' 2 Carnts For Every VB Drunk

The Evolution of the Bogue. Nice.

That said, I know and love many older bogan types.

10 06 2011
Simon - Glasser at Arms, Constant source of Randomness

Thanks dude!

10 06 2011
Blueballs

My straight talking financial advisor went one step above the hackneyed clichés about God not making anymore land or the ever reliable “safe as houses”
“Mate, there’s a word for fuckheads that spend all their money on piss and cars: ‘Tenants’

10 06 2011
ric

This message is reinforced by Brent who reckons ‘God ain’t makin’ any more of it is he?’. hahahaahahhahahahaha

10 06 2011
Edward

Have you considered collating all the episodes in one place, Urban ? There are now quite a lot of them, and it would obviate the need to google, which may bring them up out of order. Perhaps TBL would agree to fencing off some space ?

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

Hi Edward,

The thought has occurred to me – not so much now, but if TBL decides to call it a day, I’ve thought of archiving the B&B Show on my own blog and publishing new episodes there – so I can still provide a place for all us anti-bogans to hang out online. In fact, you raise a good point – googling DOES bring them all up out of order, though they do all appear on Google (except for the very first “Brazilian” episode which didn’t have a title) – just all out of order.

Come to think of it, it might be a good idea for me to archive them on my computer (backed up onto a USB) in case TBL ever disappears suddenly. *writes it on “list of things to do” on his fridge, to complete after exams finish next week*

10 06 2011
Edward

I’d keep on logging in every Friday.

10 06 2011
Edward

And good luck with your exams .

10 06 2011
urbanreverie

Thanks Edward 🙂

10 06 2011
Edward

On the subject of the blog-post, is or isn’t God making more land ?

The theory of plate tectonics would suggest that spreading and subduction faults balance with each other. Approximately as much new surface is created as is subsumed back the mantle. Buckling faults produce a contraction, forcing an amount of land into a smaller space. Rifiting faults really only move the same amount of land around, in the long term. But the process which has created the Hawaiian Islands and Iceland, there’s an issue. no part of the iceland is more than a million years old, most of Hawaii is less than 500,000 years old. That depositation of abyssal materials represents a redistribution of a log term basis from the mantle to the crust. At least in terms of volume, there is a net gain at the surface, with a commensurate loss to the mass of the core.

Any geophysicists or geologists out there ?

10 06 2011
Blueballs

So true, yet technically everyone who says ‘God isn’t making any more land” is corrrect.

Not only is God not making anymore land, God does not exist and was never responsible for creation of land in the first place.

12 06 2011
cækcækcæk

an excellent point.

Dubai made more land. Ditto Holland, Tokyo and Honkers off the top of my head. But not god
but back to Dubai.
I saw something recently to the effect that the Kimberley could be a new Dubai. A fly in fly out millionaire playground. One of the potentiators being the ability to generate massive amounts of cheap power due to the large tidal … thing.
Certainly a pretty place (as long as you only look west), and we have tons of cheap labour sitting on their hands in detention camps…
Just Sayin’
but this has got Bogan Bucks Suck writ large apon it. Most of them are already up there anyway…

14 06 2011
rawrrrrrrrrrr

love the blog
may i suggest a topic for the future: bogans at their kids sports game.

i’m a basketball referee and when i’m on court all they seem to do is shout buzzwords at me like “travel” “foul” and “three seconds”. they also like telling their kids what to do…similar to before but using phrases now like “post up brad”, or “take that shot matt”.

bogan parents are not coaches, nor are they players. they are spectators, but they can’t seem to get the message.

/end rant. excuse the lack of capitals

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