#200 – Shane Warne

6 12 2010

65.5 million years ago, there was a large-scale mass extinction of animal and plant species in a geologically short period of time. The Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction event, as it is known, caused large amounts of coccolithophorids, molluscs, omnivores, insectivores, terrestrial and marine invertebrates, archosaurs and mammal species to be wiped from the face of the earth. The species that survived did so out of luck, hardiness, or the ability to adapt. Even today, there are countless examples of animal species walking the earth that are largely unchanged from prior to the Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction event. They are the survivors, the examples of triumph over the shifting sands of time. They include crocodiles, mosquitoes, and Shane Warne.

Born at the conclusion of the summer to which Bryan Adams refers, Shane Warne grew up in Melbourne during the glory years of the old school bogan. As a teenager in the 1980s, Shane did all of the things that Shane felt Shane needed to be doing. He had a sweet mullet, he was good at cricket, pretty good at footy, and he coveted the VK Commodore. Despite his unwillingness to become fit, his rare cricketing talent propelled him onto the international stage in his early 20s. By then, it was the early 90s, and money was accumulating in his bank account at a swift speed. Sensing a changing of the times, Warne evolved. The mullet was gone, a gold chain appeared, and he signed a lucrative endorsement deal with Nike in 1994, releasing the “Air Flipper” shoe.

Despite the swelling bank account, international fame and sick Nikes, Shane was strangely unfulfilled. His career was devoid of the X-factor, that which would propel him to the dizzying heights of maxtremity, and secure his place as one of the foremost bogans since a mollusc named Trent some 50 million years prior. And then it began. First, some Indian bloke called “John” dangled multiple lakh rupees in exchange for information regarding pitch and weather conditions. Since Shane Warne does not know a damn thing about the frequency of sound, it is expected that he simply told John, “yeah, it’s going to be humid, eh.”  Subsequent to this gem of meteorological forecasting, Shane was charged with bringing the fine game of cricket into disrepute when he hated on portly Sri Lankan captain Arjuna Ranatunga. It is believed that a particularly hot curry that was served as ‘mild’ may have been the impetus behind the angst.

His bogan quotient soaring, Shane Warne intuitively knew that in order to reach terminal velocity and truly rupture the hymen of boganic admiration, he must be involved in a sex scandal. Preferably one with maxtreme pornographic appeal. Like bombarding a British nurse with lewd messages. TBL believes that the content of these messages contained multiple references to spinning on his third leg, which were suffixed with LOL.

His appeal to the bogan rising like a particularly venomous flipper yet to reach the apex of its flight, Warne was caught taking last year’s designer drug shortly before the 2003 World Cup. Unwilling to simply fess up and count his millions for a year, Warne came up with arguably the most piss-weak excuse of all time, claiming his mum gave him a tablet to help with his weight problems. Although the ACB banned him for a year, Warne landed on his feet once again, and Channel Nine came to the rescue by offering Warne a sweet commentary job for the tenure of his suspension. Even better for Warne, Australia won the World Cup anyway, once again proving our complete awesomeness at everything, and giving the bogan the opportunity to engage in another of its favourite pastimes: forgiving celebrities. Strangely, the same logic would not be applied to Sri Lankan off-spinner Muttiah Murilitharan, who despite having his action ruled legal by the ICC, would forever be abused as a “chucker” by the bogan, a cry that would become more vociferous when Muralitharan overtook Warne’s wicket record years later.

Of course, eventually, the ravages of time and scandal led to Warne’s retirement. With more than 700 wickets under his belt, he had achieved enough to allow the bogan to ignore the Sri Lankan’s superior tally to this day. But in retirement, Warne remained an unstoppable force of raw bogan power. After playing and missing for years, he finally managed to middle his marriage, sending it flying over the Paddington end boundary. He then decided that his post-cricket media career should begin in earnest. After nipping, tucking and microdermabrading the fuck out of his face for three weeks, ensured his surgically implanted hair was still in place, then set out to conquer the media world, armed with a fake tattoo sleeve.  Which brought us this:

In which Shane Warne and his face collaborate to ingratiate himself and us to his friends. In week one, about 854,000 bogans watched his new show. One week later, that number was 480,000. Perhaps even Warnie, he who bogans like more than all others, has jumped the bogan shark.

So, ummmm…

14 12 2011

An apology is probably in order for the absence of posting. In the wake of writing books and holding down day jobs, many of us have decided to decamp for foreign climes for some time. And some of us had no time to post because Skyrim. Now that some are back, expect a bit more frequency with the posting.

In the meantime, here is a list of things that happened that we could have written about, should we have had the motivation. Please feel free to add suggestions.

  • Teenager arrested in Bali for purchasing marijuana.
  • Bogans assume he is guilty
  • Bogans then assume he is innocent
  • Bogans decide to wait until he’s sold his story to 60 Minutes
  • Shane Warne gets engaged
  • Shane Warne burns finger
  • Trashmedia pay equal attention to both events
  • Interest rates dropped
  • Bogans took the opportunity to lament how Tough they are Doing It
  • Kyle Sandilands something something
  • Andrew Bolt was found to be a racist in a court of law
  • Bogans blame political correctness gone mad; claim loss of free speech

What else happened?

#241 – Theatre Restaurants

10 08 2011

Despite the best efforts of their marketing departments to abandon their traditional audiences, theatres around Australia remain only occasionally of interest to the bogan. This occurs during the runs of things such as Shane Warne the Musical, Puppetry of the Penis, and the farewell tour of something they once fleetingly liked.

However, there is one type of theatre that the bogan has maintained a hunger for. A theatre whose exterior is so maxtreme that it couldn’t possibly contain things that bogans do not like. Theatre restaurants have been present in Australia’s capital cities for decades, and also can be found in bogan strongholds such as Newcastle and the Gold Coast.

While theatre restaurants may appear to be particularly bogan, there is a brutal subtext to these venues. The people who theatre restaurants pay to amuse the bogan on stage are very unlikely to be bogans. Generally, they are inner urban uni students or drama graduates who have failed to take Hollywood by storm. As punishment, they are forced to spend the rest of eternity dressed up in corsets and plastic fangs, clumsily overplaying physical comedy so that the bogan knows when to laugh.

Because the actors and hosts at the restaurant all look ridiculous, this gives the bogan the green light to express its own sartorial personality when attending a theatre restaurant. An unfortunate side-effect of this, is that theatre restaurants are popular venues for hens’ nights. The boganic bride-to-be, adorned in enough penis-themed products to impregnate a latex sex doll, is in its element at a theatre restaurant.

These actors will cavort around the restaurant, barking into lapel microphones, and involving selected bogans in the hilarity. Meanwhile, the bogan chews its way through a plate of rubbery beef and blackbean, and offers the room unsolicited insight into what’s on its mind.

As the bogan gnaws futilely on its rapidly congealing meal, it pauses to consider the entertainment value of the miserable actors on the stage before it in silence. While it finds the entertainment to be awesome in the consistent way that the stars of the show will draw attention to the flaws of various other guests, and the buxom wenches seem to be hovering around its table quite a bit. But then, the host, Count Dracula himself, swaggers towards the bogan, eyeing its Elwood t-shirt and lycra sleeve ‘tattoo’…

#229 – Your Favourite Bar

30 05 2011

You probably think your favourite bar is too well hidden, too small and contains too many bearded patrons to ever appear on the bogan’s colonisation radar. An oasis of reason amid an ever expanding desert of bogan-inflicted chaos, your favourite bar is one of few remaining places with immunity to the boganic plague. Run by an owner-operator, it might host some low key live tunes, and is probably even within walking distance of your house. There is no dress code. There are no commercial remixes. No one ever tries to fight you. It’s never too full. There is no ‘list’. And there is never a line to get in.

But be warned. The bogan is coming. Once content with mass glassings and gropings to a top 40 remix soundtrack at high capacity beer barns located on major arterial roads and shopping strips, the bogan now has an inkling that it is missing out on something. Like a child coveting the toy that the other kid has because the other kid has it, the bogan wants to take your favourite bar from you not because it really wants it, but because it doesn’t want you to have it.

The bogan will learn of your favourite bar when the trashmedia report that an actor from Underbelly went there once. Like a moth to your computer screen in a dark room, the bogan will not be able to resist but get in your way. When the invasion begins, you will at first passively resist. If you just ignore them, they’ll have no reason to bother you, and they will soon realise that it’s not their scene, you will think to yourself.

But things will soon begin to change. Despite the bar’s stunning variety of local and imported beers, Corona and Becks will dominate sales, along with any kind of explosive beverage. Orange-skinned femme-bogues will start dancing in the middle of the place, even though there is no dancefloor and it’s never really been a place where people dance. They will then get bored and complain loudly that they’ve “never heard this song before. Play some Kings of Leon!’ Drinks will cost more after bashings and glassings see the bar attain ‘high-risk’ status leading to higher liquor licensing fees, and bogans are willing to pay for more for far inferior drinks. Finally, your favourite bar will be purchased by a football player, or Woolworths, and turned into a pizza bar.

Game Over.

PS: Check out last week’s post at Macrobusiness, which we forgot to link to last week…

Friday poll – Making headlines

11 02 2011

This week, partners in rage Tony Abbott and Matt Newton proved themselves to be far too intemperate to love, Eddie Maguire stated his distaste for Mediterranean cuisine, and AFFPM took a leaf out of Bob Hawke’s book, giving bogans a very real Prime Ministerial Tear. In news most titillating to the bogan, a certain “sexual Everest” of a celebrity hurled herself into the plump arms of Australia’s best cricket bogan.  This caused nationwide panic amongst the bogans, as they attempted to come to terms with the fact that someone only slightly less famous than Russell Crowe was being mounted by Warney. In other news, political correctness continued to go mad in Egypt.

Results of last week’s polling indicate that the news which drew most attention from the bogan was ‘the terrifying news that Weetbix and bananas are no longer an economically viable breakfast option,’ which really hit close to home for the bogan. At the other end of the spectrum, responses suggest that the bogan’s concern for the sanity of political correctness does not apply to North African or South Asian countries, with ‘political correctness going utterly apeshit in Egypt’ proving least popular, just behind news of  increasing sanity regarding the correctness of Nepalese politics as ‘Jhalanath Khanal elected Nepalese PM, breaking 7 months of political stalemate, after the Maoist party withdrew their candidate.’

#205 – Dickileaks

22 12 2010

TBL Disclaimer: We apologise for the AFL-centric thrust of this post, but it’s too bogan to ignore

While the bogan reserves the right to be sneaky and dishonest at all times, it demands utmost transparency from others. If at any time the bogan feels it is not experiencing this uniquely boganic form of ‘fair go’, it is aware that either political correctness has gone mad, someone needs to be sued, or some cunt needs to be glassed. Despite this maxtreme quest for the freedom of other people’s information, the bogan has failed to truly embrace Wikileaks. The bogan’s finely sculpted media consumption needs fitted poorly with the story of a grey haired renegade computer geek, and abstract diplomatic and military revelations on matters for which the bogan cares little, such as decade-long wars.

A literal uncovering of notable football players leaked by a renegade sexy schoolgirl, on the other hand, is a cause that the bogan can really get behind. We now know that if Julian Assange was a cheeky, bronzed teenage girl in a bikini, the bogan would have been on the first flight to London to post bail. In contrast to nerdy dweebs in dark rooms performing unfathomable computer wizardry, the bogan can actually relate to , as its friend’s sister knows someone who went to school with the girl, and it is certain that she’s “like, totally smokin’”. Thanks to the irresistible blend of sex scandal, celebrities, sports stars, facebook, and nudity, the male bogan diligently set to work on justifying its compulsion to view the penises of other men. The end product of this self-reflection to temporarily bypass its homophobia has generally been “haha, he’s got a small dick”. This allows the male bogan to seem both masculine and uninterested.  It also allows the bogan to tangentially refer to the superior size of its own manhood, something evidenced in photos of a similar kind that nobody will ever want to look at.

Tantalisingly for the bogan, the renegade sexy schoolgirl assures her twitter fans that she possesses an additional 18 photos of naked footballers from a variety of AFL clubs, and will dripfeed them in an Assange-esque manner. The bogan can gleefully speculate on whose penis it will be able to view next, in a totally heterosexual way. Also, now that all the facts of the story are available (courtesy of witnessing a footballer’s press conference and seeing an interview on A Current Affair and Today Tonight) the bogan can begin to opine on who is at fault. This tends to fall into a single category: she’s a slut. The bogan is preternaturally predicated to assume that in any he said-she said situation, if he or she is famous, then that particular he or she is telling the truth. QED.

What this reveals about the bogan is not that it is interested in looking at leaking penises, or even that it is interested in what hot schoolgirls have to say. What it tells us is that, when faced with a choice between real news of global significance, and news generated for maxtreme sound and fury, but signifying absolutely nothing, the bogan will choose the latter every time.

#196 – Farewell Tours

24 11 2010

The bogan knows that Riverdance, that ridiculous slice of mid-90s faux-multiculturalism that involved people awkwardly linking arms and bouncing to fiddles which was embraced heartily by bogans for about a decade, is crap. About five years after the world cottoned on to the inherent lameness of Michael Flatley and Michael Flatley’s hair, however, the bogan began to realise that it was no longer cool to pretend to like Irish dancing.

The bogan also knows that it is Doing It Tough. Despite offering lip service to fiscal austerity, the bogan is congenitally incapable of foregoing anything today in order to afford something tomorrow. And while Tony Abbott and Tracy Grimshaw keep telling it that interest rates are too high and utility bills are unbearable, its food budget remains under threat. Eventually, when it is out of money, while demanding ever greater subsidies, ever cheaper credit and ever stupider television shows on ever larger televisions, it must forego things for which there is no offer of instant finance; like live music and performances.

However, there is one marketing tool at the disposal of the entertainment industry that is a rolled-gold guarantee of luring bogan bucks away from the latest piece of cultural wallpaper to be resurrected as a song and dance spectacular, and to a different recycled bogan cultural phenomenon; The Farewell Tour or, as we call it, the entertainment equivalent of the “Limited Edition Shane Warne’s 253rd Wicket Print”.

The bogan, faced with the limited edition farewell tour is stung into maxtreme action by the mere mention of not having the future option of buying something that it does not need. The Eagles are only going to tour again when hell freezes over?! Goddammit, let’s get the limited edition $560 platinum seats!

This method is so effective that the bogan, Pavlovian marionette that it is, can be lured into purchasing tickets to multiple farewell tours by the same artist. Hence, Riverdance. Despite the fact that the bogan once grew weary of it, the very fact that this is The Last Time the bogan can ever see a bunch of anonymous people bouncing in green tights means it will fork out exorbitant sums to see it. This applies equally to John Farnham, Hey Hey It’s Saturday and, speaking of puppets, David Fucking Strassman.

While Hey, Hey has its roots in faux 1980s nostalgia, Strassman is the only ventriloquist the bogan will tolerate. Because his puppets swore. While this was risqué in 1989, today, the bogan has its own litany of profanity, and needs no help from a stuffed toy. Yet, Ted E. Bear is having a farewell tour, in the only country that still gives a shit. Bogans will flock.

Friday Bachelor of Bogan (BBo)

17 09 2010

Hello, there. E. Chas McSween here on behalf of Michael, Intravenus, Hunter, Flash and Enron, collectively known as the Things Bogans Like travelling troupe/freak show. As you are no doubt aware, our illustrious former Friday activity, Bogan Bribe Watch, was cruelly cut short (after being cruelly extended) last week when our parliament managed to cobble together some semblance of a government.  Taken aback by the lightning-fast resolution to what we hoped would be an ongoing constitutional crisis that would result in months of bogan-baiting, and a verdant source of material for Bogan Bribe Watch, we hastily convened in our Bogan Cave, to pit our fiendish wits against one another and develop an incredible new addition to the TBL universe. The plan was that we could provide you, the reader, with the end-of-week intellectual and ego-stroking boost you no doubt require.

After about twenty minutes, several brief bouts of fisticuffs and half a slab, we decided to revert to our stock in trade, which is to pilfer from others’ good ideas. As such, we present for your weekly edification, the Friday Bachelor of Bogan (BBo). Forthwith, we will present you with a weekly quiz, to see how closely you have been paying attention to the bogan news stories, or general trends, at hand. Click on the correct answer and you will be fired through science to the source of our bogan mirth. Fail to click on the correct answer, and your face will melt like those Nazis in at least two Indiana Jones movies.

You have been warned.

1. Kyle Sandilands wants a new mega-mansion party house because:

a)      He got dumped by his Scandal’us (sic) pop-singer girlfriend

b)      He needs extra garage space for his burgeoning Rolls Royce collection

c)      He’s a prudent investor with an intuitive understanding of the property market.

d)      He needed an efficient way to collectively bribe multiple hate crimes investigators.

2. Why did Miss Universally Bogan, Jesinta (sic) Campbell recently approach Eddie Maguire?

a)      She likes eating pies

b)      She’s in the market for a slumdog millionaire.

c)       She would like to attend the Brownlow Medal with a skilled football player

d)      She accidentally thought Eddie Maguire was Donald Trump.

3. Sexy French newsreader Melissa Theuriau has convinced the bogan to fork over its hard earned for:

a)      Acai berries

b)      Colon cleansing

c)       Slimming teas

d)      All of the above

4. After watching channel nine’s new reality program, The Real Hustle, starring chk chk boom girl Clare Werbrloff and Gyton Grantley, bogans will:

a)      Never fall for another scam

b)      Have finally discovered the secret to getting rich quick

c)       Have definitive proof that racism does pay

d)     Mistake the series for Underbelly season 4: Carl Williams’ greatest secrets revealed

5. Victorian jet ski drivers are:

a)     Dangerously undernourished

b)    Incapable of backing their oversized car/trailer combo into a small dam

c)     Elite athletes

d)    Environmentally aware

6. This week, Ed Hardy stores:

a)    Remained in receivership

b)    Put out a press release saying they were going into receivership, the retail equivalent of a maxceleb going into rehab

c)     Denied that they were ever a brand in the first place

d)    Were not shit

Bogan Bribe Watch – July 23rd

23 07 2010

What Woman Problem?

Here at this illustrious font of intense philosophical and boganic thought, we have delved deeply into the male bogan’s thoughts on gender. While words like ‘neolithic’ and ‘Neanderthal’ emerge regularly during such discourses, we respect the man-bogue’s right to consider women to be the inferior vessel that impedes its abilities to be maxtreme at the pub with its mates.

If, however, we were running for elected office, and we were in opposition to a government who apparently commands approximately 6000% of the femme-bogue vote, we would perhaps be a little bit circumspect when it came to drawing attention to the fact that, in all likelihood, 51% of bogans are female. We would attempt to dissuade the male of the species from holding such views, that women were objects of scorn and objectification, that mockery was an effective means of proving our ability to govern better than the Powerfox. It would seem sensible that, in a country with compulsory voting and a reasonably enlightened view of female emancipation, you would not fuck with the woman vote.

Not to the Liberals it’s not. Unable to afford to even set up an effective campaign headquarters within four days of the election being called, and with an obsession with budget surpluses that the bogan finds appealing for no greater reason than its own inability to balance the credit card, they find themselves in the unusual position of not being able to afford any bogan bribes.

What to do?

Why, insult women, of course! The party that coasted to government for over a decade on the bogan back has decided that the bogan vote is comprised almost entirely of blokes called ‘Dunno’ whose level of respect for women veers somewhere between ‘scathing disrespect’ and ‘Warney’ on the scale of immense hatecrimes against women. Former treasurer, gutless wonder Peter Costello, barred from appealing directly to the male bogan after proving he didn’t have the stones to challenge, decided to impersonate AFFPM at a function full of old white men. On TV. With all the grace and tact of the upstart private school arsewad he appears to be, he adopted a nasal whine and busted out the bogan slogan ‘Moving Forward’. To great mirth. Except, the male bogan is already likely to vote liberal, after deciding that it enjoys REAL ACTION (the Hungarian-produced erotic video series, volumes 1 through 25). Thus, the femme-bogue is all-important to the Coalition. The femme-bogue remains unimpressed.

Then, Joe Hockey, the bloke who had the stones to run for party leader, but was so unimpressive that Tony Abbott won the ballot, decided to compare Wayne Swan’s relationship to budget surpluses (again) to Paris Hilton’s apparent sluttiness. Not only could this potentially alienate vital slutty voters, it will also offend pretty much every bogan. The she-bogan to this day holds Ms Hilton in the highest regard for her unerring ability to be famous at all times and do what she wants. The male bogan likes Paris Hilton because he believes there is a genuine chance that, like Millsy, he might get to nail her one day.

But all this innuendo and tomfoolery is distracting from one vitally important thing: the cut of Tony Abbott’s budgies. So obscured have they become in the argy-bargy of political horseplay, gender-baiting and bogan-whispering, that soon the bogan will forget how epic Tony’s rig is. The less the bogan sees of Abbott’s maxtreme capacity to hand boat people the biggest asswhooping available outside an active warzone, the less the bogan likes about Tony Abbott. Expect him to wheel out the big guns before too long. Perhaps on Hey Hey.

Liberal Score: 1 pantsless celebrity out of 10

#158 – Party Buses

19 07 2010

The bogan does not like public transport. It will, whenever possible, burn the maximum amount of fossil fuels it can in order to get from A to B, occasionally via L. While it has, over the course of the past five or so years, migrated swiftly into newly gentrified inner suburbs, the bogan has brought its deeply held love of driving any distance more than 200 metres with it. As such, despite now living less than five minutes walk from almost every necessary service, the bogan will drive three minutes to the gym to walk on a treadmill for half an hour or lift weights of Warner Brothers-esque proportions. The bogan won’t be seen dead on a train, unless it’s the first train on a Sunday morning, which it can then advertise to its cohorts in an effort to demonstrate its capacity for maxtreme partying. Trams are for latte-sipping poofs. Buses are barely mentioned. But there is one bus, aside from the Vengabus, that no bogan can resist the lure of: the Party Bus.

A mobile bogan convention of epic proportions, the Party Bus (or in the original Latin, Buseus Boganicus) has become the vehicle of choice of partying bogans with short attention spans who cannot afford a stretch Hummer or know too many other bogans to fit in one. The party bus will take the bogans to many, many bogan venues over the course of four hours, charge the bogan great amounts of money for what is in effect a large, smelly taxi. Irregardless, the Bogan Bus is now home to every conceivable bogan celebration. Of which there are three; 21st birthdays, bucks nights and, especially, hens nights. During these sessions, the boguettes will engage in a variety of thrilling activities, from truth or dare games, to pole dancing competitions, to fake orgasm competitions, all guided by their trusty host, Steve.

No one knows where these hosts go during the day, but they appear to be some kind of supra-bogan. It is as if they were once bogans, but have transcended into a state of pure boganic energy, emerging in corporeal form only to guide confused and disoriented bogans around the CBD to ever more seedy bars before popping last year’s designer drug and trying to nail the hen’s best friend/drunkest chick there.

If you encounter a Bogan Bus in the wild, the wisest course of action is not to turn around, not to run. Instead, resist the natural human inclination to flee, and simply back away slowly until you are at a safe distance; at which point you should calmly turn around and take to your heels. Once you’ve gone, the participants in the maxtreme bogan party session will search for Rachael, who was last seen at Velour Bar with the host, before heading off, leaving her to catch the first train home tomorrow morning.