One day this will end badly, but I always try to fart into prams as I pass them on the street.

Recently, I’ve been getting out of the house a lot. Every two or three days I’ll be going to this place or that. This has lead me to notice that I wee quite a lot. I guess I hadn’t noticed up until now because I have a toilet in my house that doesn’t take long to get to.

I’m sure I didn’t used to wee so much. Like, every hour. If I have a one-hour meeting, I need to make sure I have access to a wee place (bathroom, etc.) immediately before and after the meeting. Even if there are no other people/animals at the meeting, it’s rude to get up halfway through to do one of the most disgusting things a person can do (I’ve never accidentally done a poo on my hands).

Another thing that happened a few months ago is that sparkling water was on sale at my local supermarket. I like sparkling water, it’s like wet Christmas in my hand. Without all the other people knowing about it. God Christmas would be great if no one else knew about it. I’d sit at home with a fuck-off-huge cake with 2014 candles and sing happy birthday Jesus and have no one tell me to ‘not be like that’.

This water is in 800ml bottles (1 pound, I guess) that I like. They’re pretty bottles.

I refill them with tap water which is great trick I learnt from my great grandfather as a way to not have to walk to the supermarket each time I want more water.

A note on sentences that start with “in my day …”  and end in a complain about the cost of things (yeah I just nounified ‘complain’). Right now, all of you have a choice to make. You can either grow old into the person that tells people that a meat pie was only $1 when you grew up. In which case you’re a jerk. Or you can tell people that when you were a lad a meat pie cost $1 and that since then the cost has risen roughly in line with your salary and that’s known as inflation.

So rather than buy a new $8 bottle of water, I refill it. Since I have stopped filtering my water (because a small part of me wants to die) the bottle refills more quickly. So refilling the bottle maybe six or seven times a day is no great strain on my time.

And that, I think, is why I wee so much.

For the purposes of this little rant, when I say politics I mean the democratic variety. And I’m not going tell you which team I go for.

And right off the bat, that’s half of why we love talkin’ politics.

It’s a Sport

A team sport! There’s team colours, people on the bench, substitutes. There’s even a championship every four years. If you’re super-keen you can even watch the training sessions on TV. There’s experts on the radio who will make predictions about the coming weeks and they will have someone to argue with who will precisely disagree.

We pick a team, we stick with them, and we argue with anyone that roots for the other team. It’s so obvious that they’re wrong and you’re right. Right? That’s illusory superiority my friend. And if you knew that was a thing and claim that you wouldn’t be a sucker for it, then that’s a bias blind spot my friend. We can do this all day.

And as with all sports, there’s an underdog. More on that later. But for now, reason number two that we love politics.

It’s a Soap Opera and Reality TV All in One

Oh my the characters! Take the synopsis from any cooking competition, shitty TV drama or house with cameras everywhere and you’ll see it’s almost exactly the same as the day’s political news. Here I’ve taken episode 10,135 of Days of Our Lives and replaced the names with some of your favourite political characters:

For the Aussies

Tony Abbott refuses to run away with Julia Gillard, insisting she must face her biological parents. While she showers, they burst in, tipped off by Bill Shorten who tracked Tony Abbott’s credit card use. Mindless Bronwyn Bishop nearly beats up Tony Abbott, who finally makes them realize she hates them, especially Eric Abetz. Back home only Joe Hockey controls himself, while Peter Dutton badmouths him again. Pauline Hanson is caught by Russell Broadbent at using Kevin Rudd’s computer to steal data she later slips to John Howard, but it’s Malcolm Turnbull who gets attacked as ‘vindictive liar’ instead for trying to denounce her.

For the Americans

Barack Obama refuses to run away with Hillary Clinton, insisting she must face her biological parents. While she showers, they burst in, tipped off by George Bush who tracked Barack Obama’s credit card use. Mindless Sarah Palin nearly beats up Barack Obama, who finally makes them realize she hates them, especially John Kerry. Back home only Mitt Romney controls himself, while Dick Cheney badmouths him again. Condoleezza Rice is caught by Al Gore at using Bill Clinton’s computer to steal data she later slips to John McCain, but it’s Michelle Obama who gets attacked as ‘vindictive liar’ instead for trying to denounce her.

But It Matters!

Unlike sport, or a soap opera, or reality TV, politics really matters. It shapes the world around us, it’s what separates us from the commies, right?

Well, sort of, but no. It matters that we have democracy. But it doesn’t matter which team is winning. Not a fucking lick of difference. I can’t change your mind, but you can change it yourself if you think real hard about it. Could it possibly matter which team is currently in charge? Think about it, you’ll get there.

[Girl From Ipanema]

You’re more likely to reassess the competition and adjust your selection next time you get a new car, fridge or phone than you are for your political party at the next election. You pick a side at a young age and stay with them for life. You – by definition – knew less about the political landscape when you first signed up than at any point since. If you have ever reassessed and switched sides, and you vote, then you might just not be one of the idiots.

Back to the underdogs. We love an underdog, in sports or in politics. That’s why nowhere in the world has one political party ever streaked ahead. Read that again. Even the mighty Godzilla Jimintō can’t manage a 50 year stretch on top. Why not? Because the further ahead one party gets, the taller the poppy they are, the greener the grass on the other side, and the more appealing the little guy. Mass psychology works its magic, the votes swing ever so slowly, and ever so slightly, and balance is kept. Just like the planchette on the Ouija board, no one thinks that they are consciously spelling out where grandma hid the gold, but together, all the idiots act as one giant idiot.

So not only is it irrelevant which team is in charge, it’s impossible for any one team to stay in charge.

So Why, Dirk, Why?

I’m not sure why we all care so much. I think about it a lot, there must be some reason, right? But I have no wisdom to fake on this one. If I had to guess (and for the sake of a summary, I think I do) I would say that giving a fuck about politics connects us to the world. We are a part of that sports team. We’re there on the field with them in spirit, and we are part of our political party. We’re supporting them in their fight, sharing in their pride, and that feels good.

And feeling good is good.

Few things make me more furious than inexplicable inequality.

I don’t mind a bit of prejudice where it makes sense. But inexplicable inequality is a sign of ignorance and needs to be quashed. And so, journalistic spirit brimming and forming a pool in the back of my mouth, I set off to discover why there are no Asian homeless people.

Luckily my local village is awash with homeless; I was spoiled for choice.

There’s the one that sits outside the 7-eleven. I hate him because:

• He sits and watches you go in to said 7-eleven, order something, pay with a note, get coins for the difference between the total purchase price of your items and the cash you handed over, then asks like a smug cunt as you leave the store “got any change”.
• He’s too young. Early 20’s or something. All homeless people should be older than me.
• He shaves more often than me.

So fuck him.

Then there’s Sneezy, a dwarf like man with a giant red lump with nostrils in the middle of his face. He’s the quintessential homeless man: raggedy clothes, musky stench, wine bottle in paper bag at all times. And he doesn’t want my change (I applaud financial independence in the destitute). But I walk past him every day; the last thing I need is another friend.

So I choose The Yipper. This one has something wrong with his brain that manifests in him yelping every minute. You know the chirps that prairie dogs do? It’s like just one of those, really really loudly, every minute. You can hear him from blocks away. So I triangulate The Yipper and sit down for a series of 59 second chats.

It was a bust. After the first YIP my ears rang for most of the 59 second intermission, and as my hearing returned I was busy thinking about how to spell tinnitus so I could Google it when I got home to see if I’d done any permanent damage. The second YIP caught me by surprise. Like an unsure teenage pot smoker, I thought I had weed in my pants. This man was not the font of information I was hoping for. I thanked him for his time, he YIPPED farewell, and we parted company.

The hunt went on, from homeless man to homeless man, searching for either the answer to why there are no Asian homeless men, or an Asian homeless man that would negate the question.

I never did find out, but I learned something else. Homeless people are so boring. They have, like, zero conversational skills and a really limited range of topics. Change, cigarettes, bus fares, that’s about it. So there’s a shitty ending for you.

I’m still worried about the tinnitus so I’ve broken off a length of ChapStick® in each ear. Strawberry flavour in the left and original in the right and I swear I walk in a slight curve to the left now.

I’m so sorry.

I’m not racist, I swear it. It’s just … well you look a lot like the last guy. What with the beard and the, um, kinda rough skin. I’m not saying you all look alike, but well … ya kinda do.

Anyway, I liked your predecessor, we got on well. We shared an interest in the current day’s weather. And his name really was Mohammed. So you see, I haven’t been calling you Mohammed these last few months only because you’re wearing a turban. I really thought you were Mohammed. “Hey Mohammed”, “How ’bout this weather Mohammed”.

I had been wondering why you’d stopped being so friendly to me all of a sudden, it makes sense now I realise you’re actually a different person with a different name.

I feel just awful that it came to the point that you snapped and screamed at me “Dude, my name isn’t fucking Mohammed, stop fucking calling me Mohammed you racist cunt. My name’s Alex. Fucking Alex!”

I’m not sure that the volume was required, we were the only two in the lift, and the lift was otherwise quite quiet. But I know your people have a bit of a temper so I guess you can’t really control that.

Anyhoo, have a lovely day and don’t forget to come and get me if the building is on fire.

When introduced to a new topic, I find it easier to learn in a visual way, rather than read page upon page of text.

So does FUCKING EVERYONE.

You are a lot less special than your mother told you. I am the only special one because I enjoy cleaning lint out of the little mesh thing in the clothes dryer. Surely no one else secretly finds that satisfying.

Having just failed to purchase a pair of shoes, I was walking to the bus when I happened upon a homeless chap sitting on a busy corner.

He had a sweet collection of bags, some cardboard bedding, some sort of receptacle for change (why do they all keep their spare change out where people can take it? It just doesn’t make sense.)  What set this particular homeless man apart though was his coffee table. A god damn coffee table. He must be the envy of all the other homeless people (do they have envy? I don’t know). I stood an stared. It wasn’t an Ikea jobby either. Beech, if I had to guess (although I would resent being forced to guess). Simple but elegant rail-and-post construction, turned legs, a light sheen, nothing ostentatious. The traffic light at which I was standing went Bip bip bip bip bip bip (and so on). It was time to go; I turned for one last glimpse of the coffee table and … what? Could it be? On the corner of the coffee table, previously obscured: an apple.

A granny fucking smith apple.

So many questions. Why granny smith? Why not a red delicious or a pink lady? Actually, the gala has always struck me the Homeless Man’s Apple. And why has he not eaten it yet? Isn’t he hungry, is that, like, a thing? Maybe he’s waiting for more apples and he’s going to make a pie. He’ll need a fruit bowl so they don’t all roll away. That would suck. And flour too. Actually he’s going to need quite a lot of pie-making paraphernalia. Wow, you never really think about how much equipment goes into a single pie. I guess that’s why you don’t see many homeless people making pies.

I walked over to his table and took a bite of the apple. Take that, jerk.

It’s about time we brought back eugenics, don’t you think? Improve the genetic quality of the population through the elimination of the ‘unfit’.

We’re going to redefine ‘unfit’ a little, but first, a history lesson. If the word ‘eugenics’ isn’t familiar to you, then a) yoo-GEN-iks. b) I’m sure the concept will ring a bell. You take a bunch of people. Kill the ones you don’t want to be part of your race, celebrate. In the wimpy version, you just castrate the ones you don’t want in your race. Lame.

Now to get started with a movement like this what you really need is FREEDOM of expression, and CAPITALISM so that people with lots of money can bankroll your efforts.

Ideally you’d like a big science foundation like, say, the Carnegie Institution for Science to look after the nitty-gritty of which bloodlines to eradicate to best create a sexy race.

You’d want a big foundation with deep pockets that is interested in humanity as a whole (and doesn’t mind having a bit of a clean up). Someone like the Rockefeller Foundation, that would be just super.

Lastly you’d need some sort of tycoon, just for image, really. A real monopoly-man type, preferably a rich old dude, nearing the end of his life, that is ready and willing to get this show on the road. “Hey, Ned Harriman, are you doing anything this afternoon? Me and the gang are going to do some ethnic cleansing down at Long Island, wanna come? … No, no there will be food there … OK, yes you can bring potato salad. There’s just the three of us. Well, yes them, but they don’t need to each. Just one bowl god dammit, it really doesn’t matter!”

If you’re wondering, this is all in the early 1900’s (it shits me when people say ’20th century’ – I don’t want to have to remember if I add or subtract a hundred each time, and it’s four syllables more, why would you?). Our dynamic trio spread the word to Germany where Hilter went a little bit crazy with it.

OK, poorly-researched history lesson over, back to me. I have a plan. We take everything that was learned from this early Eugenics movement (the USA part, not when it went all silly in Germany) and apply it to today’s population. We’ll tweak it the teeny tiniest bit and redefine ‘unfit’ to mean racist people.

We’ll get a great big family tree of everyone in the world and identify the blood lines of the most racist people out there and go about eradicating them. We’ll start with all the ‘Grand Wizards’ (the KKK senior management, not the black DJ) and their descendants. The National Association for the Advancement of White People should also have some good pickings, any neo-Nazis, obviously. And, well, I don’t think we’re going to run out any time soon, so let’s get sterilizing!