#240 – Cruise Ships

1 08 2011

When it’s not travelling on budget airlines to the exotic countries of Phuket and Bali, the well travelled bogan enjoys sailing the high seas on one of P&O’s floating pleasure palaces.  The cruise ship represents the epitome of bogan travel, permitting it to chalk up to six stamps on its passport in 8 days, visiting foreign countries like Noumea, Port Vila and Suva, without travelling more than 500 metres from a major port and while enjoying all the comforts of home.

Like big things and shopping centres, the bogan is attracted to cruise ships due to their sheer size. A typical ship weighs in at over 70,000 tonnes, has hundred of rooms, multiple levels and comes equipped with everything a bogan requires: restaurants, nightclubs, casinos, gyms, IMAX theatres and comprehensive in-cabin entertainment; allowing the bogan to eat steak and chips every night, drink stupid quantities of overpriced liquor, gamble, get huge, watch Avatar in 3D and enjoys reruns of Underbelly from its cabin.

Every day, the cruise ship stops at a different, non-descript South Pacific port, where the bogan briefly disembarks from its Neptunian chateau to be greeted by some P&O employed, Polynesian-themed dancers. This will prove the closest the bogan will come to a cultural interchange all day, as it spends the next five hours getting bronzed, snorkelling and trying to haggle with more P&O employees at the gift shop for a Pacific themed woodcarving. After a quick coconut cracking demonstration and sarong tying class, the bogan reboards the Pacific Princess, feeling for all the world like Captain Cook.

That night, the bogan struggles to peel a prawn from its towering buffet plate, regaling its peers with stories of its near brush with death at the tentacles of a giant killer squid and joking how it saw Lote Tuqiri three times that day. After dinner, it drinks wholesale quantities of Corona and hits the nightclubs, hoping to lure a female bogan back to its cabin where it can feed her this year’s designer drug and breach her hull.

#239 – Talking About Joining the Army

25 07 2011

The bogan likes talking about things it never intends on doing. Loudly. The bogan’s love of killing things is manifested in many ways; oversized pets, burning fossil fuels, paintball, and glassing cunts, but perhaps the most devoted bogan love is talking about joining the army. For there is nothing conceivably more maxtreme than talking about shooting an x-treme gun, in x-treme temperatures, in countries and terrain that it is x-tremely unaware of. All in the name of the most x-treme of all causes, National Security. The very thought of talking about defending its shores and bestowing freedom to some funny brown coloured people feeds its highly strung temperament like a tonic distilled from crack. The merciful warrior, the apotheosis of freedom and soldier of peace simply cannot wait to talk about joining the Armed Forces. Once its back recovers.

The bogan cannot actually join the army for a multitude of reasons. Whilst the appeal of driving an enormous armoured vehicle is certainly undeniable, the bogan’s normally unwavering enthusiasm for killing things seems strangely lacklustre when it comes to actually enlisting and becoming the thing. Upon deeper reflection, the reasons for such paucity of endeavour become even clearer. Neither Iraq nor Afghanistan boasts clubs where it can get loaded on Jagerbombs and glass cunts. But it fails to realise that both countries have abundant quantities of real bombs and its inhabitants can quite easily shoot cunts, should they so desire. There is also the issue of a distinct lack of flesh exposure amongst women in these war torn lands. The bogan knows this and doesn’t like it.

The bogan is never one to stray too far from its comfort zone, and the army requires it do too many pesky things that get in its way. In a curious discord from its usual pit of ignorance, the bogan it seems, realises that joining the army is nothing like being Jason Bourne. Or Matt Damon, for that matter. The bogan concludes this landmark glimmer of introspection by inwardly vowing to go and work in the mines, while continuing to verbalise a feigned plan to surpass Australia’s victory at Gallipoli.

#238 – The Australian Dollar

20 07 2011

The Australian dollar is the only currency that the bogan believes in. It’s the currency that last year’s designer drug can be purchased in, it’s the currency that Centrelink can be defrauded in, and it’s the currency that can be acquired in wholesale volumes when one goes and works in the mines. While Australia’s economy was doing very well through the middle of last decade, there was a problem. Other nations were also doing well, and the exchange rate of the Australian dollar was not high. This weighed heavily on the bogan’s heart whenever it proposed to venture to Thailand, Bali, Thailand, or Bali.

Having a moderately valued currency was like getting beaten at cricket by Bangladesh. Bogans were unhappy. Unable to afford yet another Contiki Tour, a meeting of bogans was convened at the local glassing barn. The first idea raised was that everyone should join the army, and go and f**k up other countries in order to cripple their economies. This suggestion was received positively, but due to the fact that bogans mainly just talk about joining the army, it was not practical. The second idea raised seemed irrelevant, but turned out to be inadvertently genius. “Bugger this, I’m going to go work in the mines”, uttered one bogan from underneath its Von Dutch trucker cap. And so it was, even more bogans moved northwards and westwards to dig holes for their Chinese overlords.

Soon after came the subprime mortgage crisis in the United States, which subsequently became a debt-crisis that engulfed the developed world. But not Australia; it even avoided a recession due to the ongoing Chinese demand for Australian holes. Miraculously, the Aussie battler dollar began to rise from the canvas. Unsteady at first, it lurched past 90 US cents in October 2009, falling back again in mid-2010 due to the deferral of interest rate rises. While deferring interest rate rises pleases the bogan, deferring the inflation of the Aussie dollar displease the bogan very nearly as much. Hence, like the little ANZAC that it is, it came again. Mind you, much of this was due to the US Federal Reserve was desperately trying to devalue its currency in order to revive its own uncompetitive and/or obsolete export industries.

On Monday, 31st January 2011, the bogan woke to find the lemon-coloured morning sunlight playing whimsically on the folds of its Ultimate Fighting Championship bedspread. On this glorious day, the Australian dollar had surpassed the US dollar for the first time since its float in 1983. The bogan reclined in its bed, entertaining pleasant fantasies of Thai ladyboys throwing themselves at bogans in exchange for one Australian dollar, and monstrous bright pink Hummers costing just a week’s salary. The bogan was king of the world, right where it belonged. Chants of “Aussie Aussie Aussie, oi oi oi” could be heard rattling up the McMansion-lined avenues of suburbia.

Sensing its patriotic duty, and with the “stuff is cheap online” mantra of people who dared to disagree with Gerry Harvey rattling in its ears, the bogan jumped on its computer, and bought things from overseas websites, wielding its Australian-denominated credit card like a samurai sword. To complete the forgiveness process of Tiger Woods, it purchased a $2,000 Tiger Woods Tag Heuer golfing watch. It would have cost heaps more a few months previously, and this purchase would be the perfect way to breathe life back into the abandoned “get my golf handicap below 10” new year’s resolution from 2004.

Unwittingly, the bogan’s acquisition of foreign products was limiting the dollar’s capacity to rise further, but the bogan did not care, because more holes were getting sold to China, and if Western Australia endures Queensland-esque flooding, those holes will become completely sick places to do some maxtreme jet-skiing. While Australia’s non-mining export industries (like… um… Keith Urban…) are suffering due to the value of the dollar, Keith’s problems do not register on the bogan’s radar unless expressed in song form, preferably in a duet with Bernard Fanning.

So for now, the bogan strides along the glittering promenades of its local Westfield with a spring in its step. Its Aussie dollar is totally sticking it to the yanks, its Aussie dollar is totally enabling boganism to ascend to the next level of consumption, and its Aussie dollar is currently driving BHP Billiton to develop an Olympic-standard hole in South Australia that brings with it the hope that the Australian dollar will supplant gold as the one true store of value. Unless China decides that it prefers Mongolian or Brazilian holes, but that won’t happen, because the bogan knows that Australian holes are the best in the world.


#237 – Conspiracy Theories

15 07 2011

The bogan knows things. It doesn’t know how it knows; it just knows. Often, things that the general population is not aware of. Even more often, the bogan knows things when the information is presented to it in a facebook group, a trusted news source, or in Andrew Bolt’s column. The bogan just knows.  The bogan’s desire to lap up conveniently edited pieces of information and then parrot them back as the comprehensive truth is a conceptual combover capable of cladding even the baldest of theories in half a dozen tenuous strands of delusion. The bogan’s ability to rapidly determine the true nature of things spares it from the need to learn the context, alternatives, or ramifications of any area of knowledge it turns its attention to. This renders the bogan more efficient than the rest of society, freeing up time for it to go out and be extreme at awesome stuff while everyone else plods along like suckers.

Not content to just hastily weigh in on standard topics, the bogan seeks out preposterous claims that nobody else has ever heard of. Who could have known for example, that the unassuming rodent-canine hybrid known as the Chihuahua can cure asthma, or that sneezing seven times in a row releases the same endorphins as when having an orgasm. The bogan knows these things.

Its insatiable need to know things also extends to more complex issues such as assassinations, the chemical composition of drinking water or the veracity of global warming. While the world’s thinking community remains vexed, the bogan’s verdict is in. Climate change for instance, is nothing but a ‘Trojan Horse’ for power-hungry scientists to force their big taxing, redistributive socialist green left agenda on ‘hard working Australians’. The bogan also seems convinced that much of the country’s drinking water is contaminated ‘with that filthy fluoride stuff’, an assertion it will loudly bellow while cooking in its non-stick pan, hosing its Buddhist-iconography garden ornaments or cleaning its swimming pool (all being made from inorganic fluoride). The knowledgeable bogan will then espouse the safety benefits of drinking vitamin water while punching out an SMS at 110 kilometres per hour.

The bogan also knows that ‘climate change’ (the bogan always places air quotes around this phrase) is a conspiracy by latte-sipping greenie ivory tower affogato-belt eggheads trying to get more research funding/establish a One World Government. To paraphrase Heathen Scripture: Climate change is a theory now, ‘like gravity. And Adelaide.’

Further still, if a bogan sees evidence of a celebrity with a conspiracy theory, its truth value becomes gospel multiplied by max. The primary exception to this is the bogan’s scepticism towards Tom Cruise and the Church of Scientology, which attract great boganic mirth. After all, Tom Cruise’s aliens look different to the drawing that uncle Mick did of the time that he saw martians after being offered a funny cigarette at the pub. In fact, Scientology is a sinister scheme devised by the government to channel taxpayer dollars into getting aliens to overthrow Palestine and steal all of the oil and feed Elvis to George Bush who is actually the guy from the Da Vinci Code. The bogan just knows.

#236 – Sex Addiction

8 07 2011

The bogan likes having someone else to blame. This is the default strategy for mitigating its inability to manage its own behaviour. Celebrities have also worked out some time ago that they can be excused from blame in this manner. So in an attempt to more effectively adopt the morally bankrupt ethos of Two and a Half Men, the bogan seeks to bed as many massive canned blondes as possible. A maxtreme sex life is the only sex life a bogan could want. And like Charlie Sheen himself, the bogan is pleased to be able to blame this sexual compulsivity on a credible-sounding quasi-medical phenomenon – sex addiction. While the bogan may not be sufficiently equipped to ponder the troubled epidemiology of addiction, the bogan knows that sex addiction offers a convenient justification for its seedy promiscuity. After all, the next (il)logical step from its love for spurious allergies is the love for spurious and clinically dubious compulsions. Sex addiction is definitely the bogan’s favourite fake addiction. After all, it is the faux addiction du jour in the celebrity world.

While the bogan may feign outrage at the prospect of an immensely beddable, world-famous, thirty-something-billionaire-celebrity cheating on their partner, it will proceed to forgive them and realise that it also suffers from the same crippling condition. So when it finds itself repeatedly self-administering the stranger one Friday night, it does so safe in the knowledge that it shares the same ailment that allowed Tiger Woods to cheat on his wife. The endless and mysterious quest for ‘tapping that’ is finally a medical condition, much like leprosy or gout. And the bogan is well and truly afflicted.

Successful marketers are quick to milk the potential of a bogan/celebrity crossover, and have previously seen good returns from selling elaborate ‘cures’ for the bogan’s fictional conditions. Upon learning that David Duchovny’s raging sex drive was quelled by a self-help book, the bogan will happily drop $49.99 for a copy of Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction, and wishes it too could sign up for a $60,000, six-week treatment program somewhere in California, simultaneously being titillated by tales of infidelity featuring Hollywood’s hottest and horniest. Alas, this is but a dream, and the bogan is destined to continue suffering under its crippling sex addiction. It must go on sharing its parlour of boganic pleasure with as wide a range of sexual desperados as it can lure home from suitable glassing barns.

#235 – WAGs

5 07 2011

At this point, it barely requires mentioning that the bogan lusts for celebrity and its trappings with a fervour that would shame the randiest 13 year-old bogan upon the discovery of RedTube. Of course, the bogan is more than happy to live vicariously through those who can achieve fame in their place and sportspeople are among the most prominent of these. They are often local, and are willing to engage in maxtreme behaviour in public which the bogan can be outraged at, then forgive. There is, however, a celebrity that appeals even more greatly to the bogan than the footballer or cricketer. Their girlfriend.

By their early twenties, even the most self-deluded male bogan has reached the conclusion that it is not destined for a lifetime of sporting glory and fawning groupies, instead spending their time at the local footy club drinking Mexican beer and discussing how awesome it would be for all seven of them to shag one chick.

The femme-bogue, however, has an alternative. One she can cling to for at least another decade. One that is more appealing, as it requires little more effort than the willingness to endure multiple penetrations from seven smashed athletes. She still has a chance to be a WAG. The WAG is, to the bogan, famous, yet has achieved little, if anything, beyond appearing on the cover of Zoo Magazine under the guise of being Nathan Bracken’s missus. She has a bloke at her side willing and able to fork over for cosmetic enhancements of all sorts, and actively encourages her desire to paste herself a sinister shade of orange and bare her newly-massive cans in the mens’ magazines or red carpet.

Moreover, the WAG has only two genuine obligations; to attend football matches (watching said matches is optional) and stapling an expensive-looking dress covered in sequins to its breasts once a year at the sport’s awards night. Beyond this, the WAG can pursue any and all goals it chooses; from hosting a travel show to interviewing other WAGs on the red carpet.

The result of all of this culminates in the femme-bogue deciding that becoming a WAG is her calling. Her destiny. It is what she was put on Earth to do. This results in weekly pilgrimages to weekend haunts known for containing athletes, where the femme-bogues stalk their prey with a single-minded, ruthless determination more commonly witnessed among rutting caribou. By the end of the night, the female bogan has passed out in a tangle of arms, legs, sequins and shame and its male counterpart is in the hospital, having been glassed in the side of the face by the half back flanker it thought was hitting on its missus.

#234 – Fender Stratocasters

1 07 2011

Despite having a lifelong, unfulfilled ambition to have sick chops on the guitar, the bogan is generally a novice when it comes to musical instruments. Often, a bogan will consider purchasing a new electric guitar, but guitars cost at least $250, and the fully sick ones can cost as much as a ginormous plasma screen. Besides, in the past the bogan’s attempts at this sort of thing have been strangely unrewarding. It’s relieving, perhaps, that it instead picks up a $100 Guitar Hero guitar to play Guitar Hero: Metallica on its $350 Xbox.

The bogan likes playing Guitar Hero because the bogan is on an inexorable quest for maxtreme awesomeness. And in the age of bogan-friendly shredgaming, the inability to play guitar is no obstacle to a bogan proclaiming itself a massive axe god, and talking about melting bulk face on the weekend. With key influences including Wayne, Garth, Bill and Ted, the bogan is ready to enter the halls of rock guitar Excellence. And no rock guitar has more bogan cachet than a Fender Stratocaster.

The Fender Stratocaster (or ‘strat’ as the bogan will call it, the nickname perhaps implying a bond between the bogan and its instrument,) is the world’s best known guitar. It is the one guitar the bogan needs to know, which is lucky because the bogan mistakes the names of all the other guitars for Cars or strange foreign food (link). The bogan also likes the Fender Stratocaster because it’s what Slash played, out in front of that church in the desert, wailing out massive chops in November Rain.

The bogan loves to hold the exact Strat that Slash is famous for playing, except maxximised for shredgaming, and nail sophisticated fingering and picking techniques after a few goes. Then after the outro is done, it’s straight back with another soaring classic, with the bogan centre stage, playing more Epic Leads.  Even when the game throws up some wierd poofy music, the bogan still likes playing its Strat. It can just focus on nailing the timing of objects coming down a 3D-looking fretboard, all the time watching an animated muso in tight jeans rock out for maximum crowd points. It is fair to say the bogan doesn’t realise the animated muso-hipster probably drinks soy lattes and reads Henry Miller, and idolises its proto-bogan forefather rockers, who actually knew their way around a genuine Fender Stratocaster. That doesn’t matter, because when it comes to Fender Stratocasters, the bogan has no complaints. The bogan likes Fender Stratocasters.


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