On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Twelve groups a-crowbarred


People who ride those horizontal bike things, and especially when they ride them on the road. These tools are always in my blind spot when I’m driving, and due to the stupid shape of their bike things, are about as high as the gutter. Don’t blame me when I run you over. Get a real fucking bike, you idiots.

People who hawk gym memberships at shopping centres. I know it’s your job, but you can surely get a better one. I’ve got a good one, and I’m a fucking numpty. If I’m wandering around killing time for my lunch break, I don’t want to be harassed by some idiot trying to get me to sign up to a gym, or I’ll be doing more than killing time, if you get my drift. I’ll be killing them. Did I over explain that?

People who use television as a personality should be put into a horizontal bike and run over. Congratulations on memorising entire seasons of sitcoms, and thanks everso for repeating them back to me. I will allow a “Did you hear what Chandler said on Friends last night?” but I will not allow a “that reminds me of an episode of Will and Grace, where Will was worried about his job, and he said to Grace, who was worried about her boyfriend, that if you cut a starfish into many pieces, each piece will grow to become another starfish.” This is especially not welcomed when the topic of conversation was Voltron vs Power Rangers, and the entire convo is then worked not to starfish, but to motherfucking Will and Grace.

Busking children come out at Christmas as surely as Christmas beetles will hang on my flyscreen window when it gets hot at night. Note to busking children – a recorder is not an instrument, stop pretending it is one. You could be playing Mozart’s Unfinished Symphony in G, and it would still sound like a shit version of ‘Mary had a little lamb.’ The best kid busker I saw was this little dude who had a boom box (that’s right, a motherfucking boom box) and some awesome 80s music blaring out of it. The kid danced to the music like a key-tar player in an electronica band and didn’t let up for about an hour. He earned my twenty cents, I’ll tell you.

Spammers have been flooding my email box of late. Apparently I’ve won myself quite a handsome amount from the UK lottery, I’ve got some goat-herding millionaire in Namibia who wants me to look after a couple of mill for him while he sorts out his taxes, I’ve been selected to buy some cock expanding pills and some spanner I’ve never heard of wants me to buy some medicines from Canada. The best thing about spammers is their email address. I’m fairly sure that the UK lottery has a better email address than uklottery@hotmail.com. I can’t wait to get that money though.

I hate advertising campaigns that use models that look a little bit like celebrities. It’s not the model’s fault, but it annoys me when I have to do a double take because I think the guy posing for a Just Jeans ad is the guy that used to be on Buffy.

Motherfucking voice recognition phone line system things are shit. Vodafone are arseholes purely because of this. Useless pricks, keeping me on hold for a fucking month before I get put through to someone in Bangladesh who informs me that the customer service line is closed. A customer service line that’s always closed doesn’t help me pay a bill, tigers. It's also fairly impossible to order a pizza these days as well. I'm glad their new high-tech bullshit thing is saving them from paying a 15 year-old kid to answer the phone, but it's also costing them a trillion dollars in pizza orders. And they never remember the fucking chicken wings anyway.

Banks are shit as well. I understand that they don’t want me to use another bank’s ATM so they ping me with some exorbitant fee (they should really put a St George ATM outside every pub in the world; I’d be a freakin millionaire), but they also find it ok to charge me to use their ATMs, their internet banking site, their tellers and their accounts. Sorry bank, but you’ve kind of put a fee on everything, and you’re closed whenever anyone needs you. And none of your pens work. I should fucking charge you a fee for making me use my own pen. Excuse me for hating you.

I don’t understand why celebrities feel the need to give their kids shit names. Nicole Kidman and Keith Kidman-Cruise squeezed out their puppy and named it Sunday Rose. Yes, we understand there’s a story about an artist and a prostitute in there somewhere, but it’s still a stupid name (and the story isn’t flattering, just quietly). The Beckham astronauts keep fucking up names (Romeo, Cruz and Mr Sheen), which inspired Lleyton Hewitt and Bec Cartwright to name their latest Cruz as well – when did Cruz become a fashionable name anyway? But the winner of the Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Retarded Celebrity Couple Of The Year (Even Though I’ve Never Heard Of One Of Them) (MEBAFRCCOTY[ETINHOOOT]) goes to Ashlee Simpson (surprise) and Pete Wentz, who had some secks and named their cabbage patch doll Bronz Mawgli. I’m assuming they were playing Scrabble and started throwing tiles at each other to come up with that sucker. People with more money than brain cells should be forced to get a licence to procreate. I just googled Pete Wentz and found out he’s in Fall Out Boy. Ride that emo wave, Pete.

Bums in the city who will beg for $2 for a sandwich or a bus ride. Seriously, piss off. I need my $2 for my own sandwiches and bus rides. If you tell me what it’s really for, I might help you out. Ask me for a few coins to buy some cheap booze or some Horizon Filter cigarettes and you may just find a couple of silvers coming your way. Honesty is the best policy, underage drinkers, smokers and junkies of Canberra.

This one’s a bit generic – I hate idiot drivers. I got stuck behind a fucking stupid Renault the other day. I’ve never been in a Renault before, but I’m assuming that it has, you know, pedals at your feet to control speed, a big wheel thing that you turn to change direction, some dials on the dash to tell you all kinds of interesting things... why then, did the one I was driving behind suddenly stop in the middle of the road? Was it because the driver was a pelican? (yes) If only there was some kind of test that people had to pass before they were allowed to take control of a motor vehicle, huh? Life would be sweet.

People who complain too much about everything – people, places, TV, movies, some fucking football team that never fucking wins and then write a shitty blog about it... seriously, just get over it. It’s Christmas for fuck’s sake. Cheer up. Also, people who move to Canberra and then bitch about it because they go to a pub and can get to the bar within the hour, can hear what their friends are saying and live a maximum of 30 minutes by car from home to work... sorry, go back to Sydmelbelaide if you’d rather spend your life in queues.



PS. Merry Christmas.




Twelve groups a-crowbarred, eleven words of awesome, ten ads-a-crapping, nine nerds a-rofling, eight cancelled shows, seven bumper stickers, six Ponting problems, five drinking games, four random reviews, three ways to get rich, too many beers and a bright shiny new crowbar.