Filed under: the wagga blagga
Wednesday November 08th
I’m (semi-absolutely and pro-totally) utteringly warning you, you won’t like this one one one bit. Yes, “At last, a real job” responds to the string theory of complaints from the sorts of people who:
(1) think “penultimate” is a sophisticated way of saying “ultimate”;
(2) accept the popular view that extreme has something to do with skateboarding down stairs;
(3) (for all I care) wholeheartedly believe that exasperation and exhalation are peas in the pod of meaning;
(4) attempt to “point out” that birdsong is as musical in intention as anything emanating from cheerful boutiques along the poultry slaughterers’ end of Fitzmaurice Street;
(5) wish to encourage me to undertake a ranking of public bars with piss-weak criteria such as “ambience” and “juke box selection” — I point out, Gary, that ambience is the assemblage of company, and that juke box selection is an activity in context, and that the Duke of York’s tap beer is not demonstrably gasier;
(6) hope to elicit advertisement that the carrot cake is better in Hay (why?)
(a) anyway, why all the food stuff?
(b) and lack of foodstuff;
(7) demand that I apologise for anti-western humour (it was an occident);
(8) try to reason with me about (7), which surely I should understand was worse than the Duke’s gas;
(9) call me the pessimist.
Response: I’ll tell you tomorrow.