Why Stefan Dennis is My Nemesis

It was a beautiful stagnant morning. I looked out of my window to see the postman shitting in a burnt out tyre just outside my door. He gave me the v’s when he caught me looking and this experience really set me up for the day. I knew I was bulletproof and nothing could soil my sunny disposition. I reached into the value bin bags ,where I keep all my best clothes, for my favourite tracksuit and striped t-shirt ensemble that enhanced my gunt to perfection. Acres if gunt goodness protruded below my waistand. I admired my reflection and fought the urge to knock one out, shedders, that’s how hot I was. I reached for my faux leatherette bomber jacket and pulled my hair into a scalp crucifying ponytail. I was just about to leave the house to have a look at the burnt out tyre that the postie had crapped in, when Stefan Dennis starts walking down my estate. He was all neckerchieved up and his slashed jeans showed an abundance of hairy leg. He says “G’day” to me and I pretended to pick the scabs off my knuckles. He persists, the mealy mouthed fool that he is. “I said G’day” he ventured. “Oh I hear you” I obstreporously replied ” but I thought I told you you’re not allowed to come near me as decreed by the papal bull issued in 1704. You tried to invade France remember? You admired their national preponderance of wearing neckerchiefs and their backpack wearing sensibilties. You wanted to sexually posess them as a nation, you sick fuck”. “Yes” Dennis blurted excitedly, “but I heard that there’s a great burnt out tyre to shit in outside your gaff and I couldn’t fight the urge any longer”. His eyes were writhing in his head and I noticed a distinct v shaped sweat stain on his t-shirt. Depsite the terrible atrocities Dennis had commited in France, such as installing discrete tombolas in every home and making the French sing “Don’t it make you feel good” every time they washed their hands (even after a wee!) there was no denying that preventing Dennis from seeing the burnt out tyre was barbaric and a punishment far weightier than his French atrocities. “There it is” I sighed, pointing at the burnt out tyre fatalisitically. “Knock yourself out” I turned away as Dennis lowered his trousers. I let him have his moment.

When I grow up I want to be…

Dear, sweet smelling shedders

Ladies, let me ask you a question (I’ll answer for you though).  What did you want to be when you were a child, or a teenager?  That might sound like a existential question, Foucault, but I’m asking about your career aspirations, your goals, your ideas…

Let me share mine, indulgently.  That’s what having a blog is all about.

I wanted to be a teacher, a policewoman or a radiographer.  Not all at once.  Taking x rays would prove difficult in in front of a classroom jam packed with offenders. Standard aspirations though, I’m guessing. I’m sure many of you had similar aspirations, be it dentist, lawyer, a champion of human rights, a scientist or an author. 

Well then, shed enthusiasts, let me update you on a worrying trend that has captured my attention.  Whilst driving to my regular polo neck wearers meeting I noticed a mini with a playboy bunny motif on the reg plate.  This is not the first time I have noticed such an abomination.  It’s becoming an all too common occurrance.

Being a deep thinker, even beyond that of the French Philosophers of the Enlightenment (this one’s for you, Descartes!) I found myself thinking about the meaning of this.  We all know that we choose motifs and emblems that in some way have a personal resonance, that speak of some value, commitment or principle that you hold dear.  Or perhaps a motif to the world about the way in which you wish to be seen. 

This stationary lends gravitas to any letter or essay.

So, what is it about playboy that young women aspire to?  What values does this reflect about things that they hold dear?  What can we assume is the personal resonance of the motif to the modern young lady, so much so that it would compel a young woman to seek out a personalised reg plate specifically with the bunny on? 

Is it being seen purely as a sex object?  Being subjugated?  Being essentially a prostitute in a leotard?  And when did it become OK for children to wear playboy watches and t-shirts? What parent in good conscience could ally buying their 10 year old daughter a playboy bed spread?  “OOh, I hope this will help them be seen as a sexual object only”.  When did the playboy bunny become something that we want to aspire to?  When did the valuing of women on their sexual subjugation become de rigeur?  Why can’t we celebrate scientists, poets, artists, lawyers, nurses rather than hookers?

If you work really hard and study for your exams, you might get to have sex with this man!  Just think!

What next can young women look to for their dreams?  Crystal Meth addicts, Smack addled street walkers, benefit cheats?  Perhaps one day you can hope to order a reg plate with crossed syringes as an emblem or the logo of the local social services. Maybe just a crude drawing of a penis. 

Until that day, I can only dream.  


Call Antiques Roadshow!