The Four Reasons Bogans Are Happier Than You Are

People are unnecessarily mean about bogans. Sure they sometimes err on the side of being a bit yucky with their Southern Cross tattoos and their ridiculously broad Australian accents, but they also have a zest for life that to be honest, most corporate, conservative, clean-shaven types do not have. I would know this because my pedigree is roughly three quarters bogan. I pronounced yellow like “yallow” until I was at least 20, I would give my right arm for a turbo charged diesel Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel and a two inch lift, and my favourite drink EVER is a passionfruit UDL. Whenever I get too stressed out by corporate or classy life, I take a breath and remember the four bogan commandments…

Thou shalt not be too precious

When I was 11 we visited a wildlife park in Tassie. They had animal feed which was sold according to an honour system. Unlimited bags of feed were piled into a bin with a moneybox attached into which you were supposed to pay 50c per bag. Being 11, I had very little money or regard for rules, and the temptation to become the ruler of these animals with an unlimited supply of feed at my disposal was just too strong. My parents must have noticed that I had more feed that the $2 they gave me would buy, but just let me go about my business, as they were always wont to do. Ten minutes later, tiny arms laden with feed, I was bailed up against a fence by a donkey that was ferociously snapping not just at the food but at my clothes and hands too. My parents thought it was hilarious and took as many pictures as my supply of feed and their 24 exposure film would allow. At no point did they try to intervene. I’m still scared of donkeys.

Thou shalt have no shame

I went to a high school where my dad was a teacher. Most people I know whose parents taught at their school kept a safe distance. Not my dad. Every December my school would see out the year with a concert called “lip sync” where everyone mimed to pop songs. Usually reserved for cool girls with crimped hair and boob tubes singing Brandy and Monica “The Boy Is Mine” my dad and I broke the mold performing a duet together every year. Over the course of my high school career dad and I mimed in full costume, to the entire school, the following hits:

-       Sonny and Cher “I Got You Babe”

-       Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow “Cruisin’” (in which I mimed Huey and he mimed Gwyneth in drag)

-       Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers “Islands In The Stream”

-       Sandy and Danny “You’re The One That I Want”

-       Jasmin and Aladdin “A Whole New World”

Sometimes people would ask me why I was performing duets with a teacher. My dad maintained that I should have told them that he was my boyfriend, just to freak them out. That’s another thing bogans like – incest jokes. And let’s be honest, they are hilarious.

Thou shalt never be subtle

Sometimes my dad would decide that he would like to do our clothes shopping for us. For months afterwards my brother and I would be getting around town in hideous shirts, emblazoned with “AUSTRALIA” featuring cartoons of koalas bouncing on trampolines, purchased for five for ten dollars from Go-Lo. In a further attempt to win “father of the year” my dad would take out his false teeth (he only has a couple of missing teeth, so don’t judge him) and would chase me around the house, gnashing his good teeth and growling. I’ve never asked my dad why he’s missing teeth, but I certainly enjoyed all the laughter it brought me. And never let it be said that stereotypes aren’t accurate.

Thou shalt always observe the rule that bigger is better

My parents would scrimp and save every dollar they had. They worked hard, but they worked even harder at squirreling away their cash. When I was tiny my dad would smuggle the bladder from a wine cask into Pizza Hut so that he and mum could top up their wine on the cheap.  Once dad even claimed an abandoned car, which had been left out on the street – which is apparently a thing you can do. It eventually burst into flames while he was driving it. And good on them, because with the money they saved we always had the BIGGEST TELEVISION EVER. We may have had cheap clothes and basic food but we sure could see every detail of the news. Other items that expounded the bigger is better/more is more principle in our house included: the four separate entertaining decks we had, our super loud outdoor sound system and our endless supply of dried beef snacks and smoked almonds.

To conclude, bogans live a magical life. A life where children like their parents enough to make a dick of themselves in front of all their peers, a life where you’re taught to shake off injuries that probably need stitches and a life where laughter reigns supreme. So let me say boldly and unashamedly I AM BOGAN, HEAR MY V8 ROAR.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby.

“STOP IT! YOU’LL SCAR THE CHILDREN!” is a sentence very rarely heard before the child version of yourself is mentally scarred. When your parents want to tell you about sex for example – no one is ever there to stop them. When someone sits on your guinea pig and it dies slowly in your arms while yellow stuff dribbles from its mouth – no one is there to shield your eyes. In my experience, the only time anyone actually intervenes on your childly behalf is when they want to stop you doing something fun. Like watching R rated films, using a homemade slingshot or eating an entire tin of sweeten condensed milk - all of which I was personally denied as a child. And, of course, the one time I really could have done with an adult running in screeching their head off and covering my ears with their hands, not a soul arrived to stop the mental scarring which is still evident on my psyche today…

This may come as a shock to you, but I was in a “gifted” year six class. We were treated like little savants; given algebraic maths problems and acting out our own mock versions of parliament, debating the pros and cons of genetically modified food. We were such little geniuses in fact; that I think our teacher would often forget that most of us still had majority baby teeth. This was never more apparent than during our daily “Reading Time”.

I’m sure most children’s experience around “Reading Time” is immensely pleasurable. Sitting calmly on the floor, tummies full of lunch, as the teacher enthrals you with tales of Charlie and his Chocolate Factory, Charlotte and her web or perhaps even Harry Potter and his Philosopher’s Stone (or “sorcerer’s” stone if you’re a stupid American). This is pretty much the exact opposite of what reading time was like for my class. Cue the horror.

The first book we were read for the year was called Pink Balloons. It was about a charming little five-year-old girl. She was kind and sweet and beautiful. Oh, and she was dying of AIDS. A true story, the book chronicled her slow death. The sentiment “don’t judge a book by its cover” has never rung more true – book cover: shiny pink balloons. Subject matter: agonising death of a child.

Pink Balloons however, paled in comparison to what has to be the most age inappropriate book I have ever been read - Night John. Night John made Pink Balloons look like a romp in a field with some fucking gerberas. Our teacher obviously felt that 11 was definitely the age that we finally learnt about the Jim Crow south. Night John followed John, a slave in the Deep South during the 1800s, as he attempted to educate himself under the cover of darkness. Throughout the novel I learnt the following things:

• Racism is a thing
• Sometimes slave owners raped their female slaves to produce baby slaves. This was done with the aid of a clever raping contraption – a board with shackles nailed to it for holding lady slaves in place 
• Lynching is the practice by which black people were dragged through the town naked, beaten and then killed – then, quite often, hung from trees. All to the glee of the white town folk
• Scary shit as per the above makes baby Maz feel not very good inside

So that’s the story of the time I learnt what rape was. Comment below and let me know about your own induction into the world of sexual assault :)

The Things Nick Says To Me: Part 5

On his confusion at the "selfie" craze.

Nick: The only time I take a photo of myself is when I'm checking to see if I have boogers.

Maz Reviews Bruce Springsteen's Ass

There is nothing lazier than people who speak in clichés.  Katy Perry’s Roar for example is entirely made up of clichés (I’ve got the eye of the tiger, already brushing off the dust, Cos I am a champion gah!). Instead of inspiring me, Roar makes me want to punch Katy right in her ass. Same goes for motivational quotes on facebook. I don’t feel inspired by a picture of a wishing well captioned with some inane shit like “Dream it. Believe it. Achieve it”. Because really, when you’re reeling off the clichés you’re just saying a bunch of stuff that’s been said so many times it’s become, well, clichéd.

I do however, have to vouch for a motivational image I saw the other day of a little fellow reaching towards the stars. It was captioned, logically, “reach for the stars”. Yes it’s your everyday sub-par vom inducing meme, but I actually did reach for the stars recently and it felt pretty damn delightful.

As you may or may not know, I have a very slight obsession with Bruce Springsteen. My car is called Bruce, I listen to his music every day, a whopping 20% of my instagram posts are about him and most importantly, he is my number one celebrity crush, my religion and my muse. When he announced his latest tour I spent $1000 dollars on tickets for my family, who all get equally as excited about our lord and saviour, Bruce. I made my parents go and queue in the rain hours ahead of time in order to ensure we would be right at the front of the stage so that, just maybe, I could touch that beautiful hunk ‘o’ man. And touch him I did!

Figure 1: My Dad's enthusiastic response to the news I had acquired sold-out Bruce Springsteen tickets for both he and my Mum

Springsteen is the most enthusiastic performer you will ever see. He does three hour-long concerts with more energy than a hessian sack full of toddlers, and during these performances, he likes to crowd surf. Enter the ultimate “it would only happen to Maz” moment. During a particularly badass rendition of Spirit in the Night Bruce launched himself into the crowd. Falling backwards onto the welcoming sea of hands like Janice does after slamming Regina George at the end of Mean Girls, he continued to sing as the audience slowly delivered him to the stage at the front of the arena. As The Boss approached, I craned my neck to see whether or not he was going to pass over my head, and could vaguely make out a figure up and to the left of me. Using my finely honed basketball attack skills, I dropped my shoulder and charged left until I was right in the path of the almighty Bruce.

Time stopped. My heart rate hastened. My mouth dried. I saw his leather lace-up boots, and then his ankles and suddenly the moment was upon me. Bruce Springsteen’s tight little bottom was directly above me. I reached up and with my full, open hand, grabbed his right bum cheek and squeezed. Oh, the ecstasy. For that one beautiful second, I was molesting the man of my dreams. It was a little sweaty but let me tell you, it was firm and pert and round - everything a good ass should be. Before I knew it, he had been placed gently on the stage and, overwhelmed, I burst into tears. I cried on Nick and then turned to my dad and cried on him too. There is very little I will be able to achieve now that will trump the time I grabbed Bruce Springsteen's behind.

And that is the story of the time that I groped the 64-year-old man I am in love with and then cried snot onto both my 61-year-old dad and my husband in celebration. So follow your dreams kids, it’s like the saying goes: reach for the stars, even if you miss, your hand will touch his moon. I know that was feeble, but you get what I was trying to do there.