COVID-19… taking the piss

Now, where was I?

What a time. What an absolute clusterfuck.

Betsy enjoyed her lip-smacking Ivermectin

With slightly dodgy lungs, I’ve been desperately trying to avoid attracting the attention of the COVID-19 lurgy. So far so good… and thankfully now fully vaccinated, I’m still alert but not alarmed. 

Though sadly, like the rest of us, I haven’t been able to avoid nutjob anti-vaxxers, rabid anti-mask wearers and the heart-worming stories of people who think it’s a brilliant idea to combat COVID-19 by overdosing on the anti-parasitic agent Ivermectin, commonly used to treat animals… usually very large ones such as cows and horses.

You have to wonder who was the first person to try Ivermectin? “You know what Trevor? You know how Ivermectin cleared up Betsy’s heartworm, I reckon it’ll be good for my pesky COVID-19 cough, so I’m gonna whiz up an Ivermectin milkshake.” 

Yes, Ivermectin is just the latest in seriously fucked up COVID-19 “treatments” and “cures”. 

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There’s been anti-static clothing, “nano-silver” toothpaste, necklaces to ward off COVID-19 (sans vampire-warding off garlic I assume), a German vaccine beer, an anti-corona mattress, virus-killing deodorant, even activewear brand Lorna Jane claimed its boffins had come up with “LJ Shield Activewear” sprayed with “groundbreaking technology” that could protect wearers against “viruses including COVID-19”. Spoiler alert: It couldn’t and the company was whacked $5 million by the Australian Federal Court. 

Who could forget the orange former US president suggesting disinfectant and ultraviolet light could be handy protection against COVID-19? That seems like several lifetimes ago. I wonder what he would make of a wellness influencer touting the benefits of 30 seconds of sun on your butthole. The mental image of a nude Trump, legs akimbo, saluting the sun is not to anyone’s benefit.

But wait, there’s more. An Indian politician suggested drinking cow urine, unfortunately he wasn’t taking the piss. Then there was Belarus President Alexander Lukashenko who apparently suggested driving a tractor and drinking alcohol will prevent COVID-19, though I’m not sure if he meant simultaneously.

Unfortunately, when you combine ignorance, desperation and in a lot of cases rampant stupidity and throw in the viral impact of misinformation from seriously fucked up Facebook groups, bizarre YouTube videos and conspiracy theorists on radio and TV screaming at gullible people, you get a deadly cocktail.   

I’ll stick to the science, thanks.

Though in the words of John Denver, sunshine on my butthole may make me happy.

©Steve Williams 2021

Little sons of beaches

Dear people of the world. I don’t hate children.

Yes, actually I do, when I’m trying to chill out at an exclusive resort or expensive hotel.

“Hate” is slightly harsh, maybe “vehemently dislike”.

When I’m relaxing by the beach or pool at a sublime, tropical idyll, is it wrong to be searching my phone for the number of the Child Catcher or The Pied Piper to lead little (MUMEEEE DADEEEE WATCH ME!! , WATCH MEEEEEEEE!!) screaming Trevor into very deep, rip-infused water?

In fairness, it is not the kid’s fault, the blame should be laid firmly at the rapidly sunburning feet of the parents. Most kids have the attentive span of a gnat with ADD and become bored quite easily, unless they’re constantly entertained and catered for. What gets me are these selfish parents who take kids to resorts that are obviously “couples retreats” and then proceed to retreat from being a parent. Bored / ignored kid = pissed off other guests.

Hate to break it to you mum and dad, but things do change when you are a parent, you may not think it is très cool to be staying at a resort boasting “Kaptain Krokodile Kidz Clubz” but that is the life you created — literally.
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What also gets me are intimate, boutique resorts, or the “funky” hotels with bars that turn into nightclubs, which say, “we don’t cater for or encourage children”. They may not have the Kidz Klubz, but they often have kids’ menus, kids’ pool toys, happily provide fold-up beds, high chairs etc. Come on, show some intestinal fortitude and simply ban kids, it’s not like your food and beverage profit will take a major hit. How many fish fingers and babyccinos can little Trevor consume? The positive PR you will generate from your real target market will be worth its weight in mini-burgers.

There are an increasing number of “child-free” resorts around the world, even websites nobly dedicated to listing them, though I find it surprising there are not more adults only destinations. I’m not talking about those resorts where you get hit on by sagging, amorous, 75 year old nudists — not that there’s anything wrong with sagging, being 75, amorous, or a nudist, I just find that quadrella somewhat disconcerting.

Interestingly, when I embarked on painstaking, exhaustive research — i.e. Googled “child free resorts”, number four trumpets how “kids stay, eat and play free”.

Oh, the humanity.

Words and image ©Steve Williams

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au

Bastard Backpacks

Dear the bastard backpack wearing fraternity of the world.

I’m sure some of you are very nice people who enjoy tickling kittens under their chin, love unicorns, and liking everyone of your Facebook friend’s posts, but some of you are absolute bastards. Seriously.

When I refer to “bastard backpacks”, I’m not talking about the noble types who trudge around Kathmandu et al taking-an-undisclosed-period-of-time-off-to-travel-the-world type of backpacker, or kid-wrangling parents on a trip to the zoo lugging little Trevor’s favourite toys and his organic quinoa treats, or school kids struggling with their textbooks. That is, if kids still have textbooks. I remember having to wield the “Web of Life” biology textbook in my schoolbag – heavy as an absolute mofo.

But I digress, I’m taking aim at the commuting corporate warriors — I’m sure you know the type — the women, but mainly men (who most likely work in the financial industry) who infect trains, buses, ferries and planes with their massive cancerous growths on their backs, not giving a tinker’s cuss for you and me, as they take out innocent and unsuspecting citizens with every entitled swivel of their shoulders.

Credit: the very amusing @WeFixYourAdvert
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A question for you bastard backpack expletives, so when you put your backpacks on, does your spatial awareness suddenly evaporate along with what was remaining of your fashion sense?

Don’t you realise that when you have your laptop and other geeky apparatus strapped to your back like a dork baby koala, you may, just may, be slightly inconveniencing the rest of the world? No? Didn’t think so.

A friend of mine was catching a bus the other day and had a bloke resting his backpack on his head. As one does. As my friend said, “Words were exchanged”.

A friendly suggestion – take the f*cking thing off before you get on the train / bus / ferries / plane. There. That wasn’t hard was it? It’s called “consideration”.

The next one of your kind who almost dislocates my shoulder as you bump your way down the aisle of a plane with your backpack because you’re too much of a tightarse to check in your luggage… (but that’s for another serve of randomswill).

Words ©Steve Williams 2018

The Recorder – The sound of Satan

A friend of mine is currently enduring the ungodly sound of Satan.
My advice… immerse yourself in a bottle of gin and read my words from 2016…

So Australian insurance company AAMI has finally realised what we all have known forever, that the recorder is an instrument of Satan. “Yea, Lucifer forged a musical abomination in the scorching pits of hell with his cloven hooves” : Book of STFU.

The Prince of Darkness was working double-time

After a concerted campaign, AAMI thankfully edited a TV commercial that featured a brat kid blasting some ear-piercing “notes” from her recorder while her parents were broken down in the middle of nowhere. Just what they needed. Personally I would have abandoned her.

Harsh? Not at all. My hatred of the recorder was resurrected a few days ago by enduring the tormented tones of a recorder being “played” by a kid in a nearby apartment.

It’s always kids playing the recorder. I’ve never been to a concert hall to witness an acclaimed recordist, recorderer recorder player performing a stirring virtuoso rendition of Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata No. 1 Op. 666… for recorder.

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Why is it compulsory for every kid on the planet to learn the recorder?
I’m all for a musical education, but why this sonic assassin?

I did it — I remember in my first year of high school we had a rather highly-strung music teacher. These days he would be described as having “issues” and would be sitting by the pool at a Thai rehab centre favoured by rugby league players and D grade celebrities. Mr H. (name abbreviated to protect the psychopath) would make you perform a recorder solo in front of the class. To this day, it’s the most terrifying experience of my life. Not the playing part — but his reaction.

After Mr H. bellowed my name, I would gingerly stand up, shaking, all trembling fingers and asthmatic breaths attempting to play my reworking of Smoke on the Water (it was 1977) while waiting for the inevitable catastrophic critique. If you weren’t up to the maestro’s exceptionally high standards (which was always), he would scream at you — not in said arena concert fan style, but seriously full-on, hysterical (yes I used that word) frothing-from-the-mouth-ranting.

No wonder I f*cking hate the recorder… I’ll be by the pool at that rehab resort.

©Steve Williams 2016