Category Archives: Sir Rantsalot

Beliebers – Surely it’s time to find a new messiah?!

Australian Beliebers: HOW can you still beliebe in your messiah when it’s clear that he has deserted you??

During a deposition hearing in the US this week (your messiah has been very naughty) Bieber asked his entourage if he’d ever been to Australia. The poor soul honestly couldn’t remember.

Well, let me break this down for you. Bieber was in Australia for approximately 2 weeks during November-December 2013 in which he played 8 (EIGHT) shows at very large arenas. Mind you, I’ve read that a few geniuses are losing interest in ‘the petulant one’ and not all of those shows were sold out. Still, we’re talking THOUSANDS of shows at $100+ each.

Humour me.

Let’s say your messiah sold 80,000 tickets at an average of $100 each. That’s $8,000,000 (8 MILLION dollars!!). Recent data indicates that the median Australian wage is approximately $60,000.

SO – it would take the average HARD-WORKING Australian 133 years to earn that money. Even if this said hard-working Australian works from birth and lives to 133 years, they’d STILL lose out because inflation is a bitch and $8m won’t even buy you a concert ticket in 133 years.

…Yet, even after you shelled out 100 smackeroos (or more!!), your messiah still doesn’t remember you. Nope, he needed to check with his entourage (which you paid for, mind you). Clearly, the incident on Sunrise and Bieber’s Gold Coast graffiti turdlings didn’t jog his memory. I guess when you’re Bieber and you do a bunch of crummy shit around the world, this might be tough ask. I’ll give him that.

But still, your messiah has NO idea he came here and has no recollection of his ‘adoring Australian fans’. Hell, he probably referred to each of his Australian shows as ‘the best ever’, or followed the names of cities his entourage told him he was at with the words ‘you’re the best, I love you!’

Clearly not…

So, I don’t get it. Why do you persist with the love? Why don’t you get out in the street and burn all of his shit, delete his BS twitter account and (for the travel-inclined) graffiti HIS home. Hey, it won’t hurt his feelings – he doesn’t even know who you are.

I know you Beliebers love death threats – so feel free to send them through. I could do with a laugh. On that note, in case you don’t beliebe me – I’ve linked the video of Bieber’s classy deposition below.

Time to find a new messiah, guys…

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This cat and dog found the meaning of life. What they did next was amazing…

Jesus, what have we become?

My Facebook is littered with dogs fetching beer (admittedly cute, and handy if you like beer + you’re lazy) and barking along to one of the Biebs’ many hits…

…and cats – like when they’re surprised by another cat/electrical device/their owners coming home early, or when they do something that shows people who’s boss (I’ll give you a clue – it’s the cat – guys, cats are the boss, OK?) or, hell, even when they’re just playing with wool (aww cute)…

All this is fine, but it seems that people can’t be arsed endorsing or linking to anything substantial anymore. A quick scroll down my Facebook feed reveals countless ‘likes’ for these beer-fetching, wool-chasing pets and little else. Occasionally I’ll see support for a written piece – sigh, it’s on ‘how to tell which city you SHOULD have been born in’…

Hey guys, I like cats, dogs and general variety pap as much as the next person, but are we already finished with the pursuit of something better? Are we done thinking? Are we done reflecting on life and what it actually means to be alive? I hope we’ve not resigned ourselves to the ‘junk food’ of reading material because life is amazing. It’s not perfect, but it’s such a mysterious mess of good luck, bad luck, sadness and joy, for which there is no sure-fire recipe. Best of all, we get to make it up as we go and dream of better things.

But that’s the point, we should be dreaming! Thinking. Laughing. Cats and dogs are great, but they can’t be the wallpaper of our lives, surely? Yeah, I’m having a whinge here – and rightfully so. Where’s our fucking passion? Why can’t we talk about things that matter? Real things!? Hell, let’s just talk about ‘things’ in general (anything!), even the embarrassing moments of our lives that we could only possibly laugh about afterwards?

Make no mistake, I love the cute things in life, but life isn’t just cute. It’s agonising, glorious, hilarious and at times terrifying. Let’s talk about all that stuff, too…

For now though, I leave you with my family dog, Rocky. What a cutie :-)

 

What a cutie :-)

What a cutie :-)

 

Things that make me go Grrr

I woke up this morning and grrroaned…

So now you’re going to hear all about it. That’s how it works. I get grumpy. You read. We all go back to doing what we were doing before my sook.

Schapelle

That name, the boogie board and the 4.2kg of dope that she didn’t quite get into Bali (well, not in the right hands, anyway – teehee). Anyway, I don’t want to hear about it anymore. She did her time and now we should leave her to celebrate her freedom with the other bogans in Bali. This morning I spotted a ‘headline’ in the Age which read: ‘Schapelle’s friends wait for party text’. What – how is that news? Apparently the party is going to be ‘low key’ given public interest (note: I did NOT read the article – everything I’ve given you was included in the blurb). But seriously…’public interest’?? There’s the problem. If we don’t give a shit and just treat her like every other drug trafficker (i.e. avoid), then everything can go back to normal and the media can focus on more important things. There ARE more important things.

Toilet Awkwardness

I overheard someone singing ‘Que Sera, Sera’ in a public toilet cubicle the other day. NO – that is NOT a song you sing in the toilet. I don’t get the context and I don’t want to know, either. Things are already awkward enough in the bathroom. I mean, there are people literally pooping their guts out within metres of you. Then they sing Que Sera, Sera? NO.

Running out of Stuff

I know that stuff is generally limited. Still, it doesn’t make me feel any better when stuff runs out. In particular, I seem to get unreasonably annoyed when I run out of staples. I know it’s going to happen, but I can’t help but feel invincible when I’m stapling away…like I’m never going to run out of staples. Then I do – and it’s pretty much the worst thing ever.

The Winter Olympics

I fully acknowledge that the Winter Olympics are the same as the Summer Olympics (except with 100% more snow!!). I do. But I don’t care. People are all like, whoah did you watch the triple inverted wind-tunnel luge last nite? Nope, I didn’t. Everything else was a better option. I dunno, I guess I only have room in my life for one Olympics. Even then, I find that I lose interest with 95% of the Summer Olympics as it is. I’m pretty much done after the 100m sprint, swimming and a little discus.

David Spader’s hat in ‘the Blacklist’

Horrible.

…and just like that, now I feel grrrreat!

Sir Rantsalot

The Power of Delete

Disclosure – I’m going to sound like an asshole.

If you don’t like people sounding like/being assholes, then this think-piece is not for you. Maybe just sit this one out and return tomorrow when I discuss how the queen (I refuse to capitalise the q) is super poor now.

I remember when Facebook stormed into our lives. We all flocked to the loving embrace of Mark Zuckerberg and his sweet new clubhouse. Yeah, I poked, was poked and rejected game/page invites with the very best of them. I must say, I haven’t lost any of that charm. I’m still rejecting and ignoring stupid requests like a pro.

What I didn’t do very well was refrain from gathering friends like they were redeemable coupons. I accepted and added everybody. Hell, I even accepted a friend request from a woman who shares the same last name as me. We’re not related, but I guess she thinks that we are. She looked nice enough, so I adopted her as a fake auntie (cousin?), and now she’s in my life – totally normal.

For some reason, I added people I loathed in my younger years. I assumed that these morons had changed and grown into decent human beings, despite being genuine pricks back in the day. So, through Facebook they watched me at the beach (weird), witnessed my wedding and drooled at the many self-indulgent pictures I’ve posted of food (yeah, I’m one of those people). I caught the occasional glimpse into their lives and for the longest time I mocked, lambasted and scoffed at them. I disliked their words and actions just as much as I did the first time we were thrown into the same pool.

Nothing ever changes. So I decided to delete them.

One by one, I ‘unfriended’ people I’d foolishly allowed back into my life. In just a few short moments, I unfriended 20-30 chumps. I’m not a petty person, but seeing these twits fall off my map warmed the cockles of my heart. The problem is that I’ve become so addicted to the rush of hunting these unwitting ‘victims’ that now I’m running out of fresh blood. So I’ve decided to ‘ration’ out the deletions in order to prolong the magic. Instead of mass deletions, I pick people off in groups of 2 or 3 so I still get my fix. Just this afternoon I rewarded myself for a good sesh at work by deleting a jackass from my past. It felt great and I was as peppy as hell during the afternoon. Look, I’m no egomaniac and I don’t believe for a second that they would even notice my absence – but I don’t care. It’s not as if I’ve posted one of those passive aggressive messages on Facebook in which I tell of the exodus and warn of more bloodshed. This is just about me and the somewhat perverse pleasure I’m getting out of exercising the same discretion I exercise in the real world. You know, choosing who I do and don’t associate with.

Who needs drugs/skydiving/tattoos when you have a delete button? It’s the ultimate rush.

HI HO HI HO – where the hell did my holidays go?

After 16 days of non-work-bliss, I am now preparing myself for the sad trudge to the coal mine tomorrow morning. I almost don’t mind the walk itself because, by then, I have pretty much resigned myself to the reality of what’s ahead. Much like a discussion in one of my favourite films, Fight Club, it’s like the oxygen has dropped and I succumb to the inevitable.

I actually quite like my job but the allure of kicking around in my jocks every day, playing the PS3 and pondering my next activity/the meaning of life/whether I can justify lunch #2 is appealing.

The dread rooted in the ‘transition’ from holiday to non-holiday is easily the worst part of the whole process. The CONCEPT of returning to work chills me. It actually commences its dirty work the second you step out of the office and lingers until it materialises upon your return to work. It’s the urban grim reaper. It’s the dark cloud that follows you until it’s time to rain. I like to think that (the odd grumble aside) I’m a glass half-full kind of guy – but it’s hard not to at least THINK about the fact that at some point you’re going to have to get your ass back to work.

It’s actually kind of funny. There is always a moment during the holidays where I think to myself: geez, this whole living thing is actually pretty easy. I mean, there’s nothing to it really. I choose the time I get up, the time I get out of my PJs, and there is no pang of guilt when I go to bed late. Obviously, I’m an idiot because this is clearly stage 3 of the transition back to work. If it were a leaflet in a waiting room, it would be titled: ‘so, you’re going back to work (holidays are over, chump)’ and look something like this:

• Stage 1: Conceptual dread – you know you’ll have to return to work, but for now it’s just a date and nothing more.

• Stage 2: Distant dread – the return-to-work date is approaching, but it’s still so far away that you can afford to scoff at it.

• Stage 3: ‘Work’s not that bad’ dread – you’ve been falsely lured into thinking that life is actually quite easy. You think that everything will be this breezy when you return to work, but you still don’t want to go back.

• Stage 4: Looming dread – the date is fast approaching and you start to sweat. You think about the work waiting for you on your desk.

• Stage 5: ‘The MOMENT’ dread – this is the exact moment you resign yourself to the knowledge that the holiday is overrRRRR. This usually occurs around dinner time on the eve of your return. This is dread at its purest.

Please let me know if you would like a copy of the above leaflet. I imagine it will have my sad face on the cover.

Happy New Year 

JUST A FISTFUL OF DISAPPOINTMENT…

A friend recently told me he’d accumulated enough frequent flyer points to travel to South America. Shit. While that lucky sod will be flying across the world, I’ll be here chasing my own damn tail, it seems.

You see, I enter almost every competition I come across. Not those competitions that require the application of skill, of course – my almost comical lack of skills sees to it that I don’t bother insulting anybody with my half-arsed attempt at whatever it is they would like me to do in exchange for the possibility of some win.

I’m talking about the vanilla-variety competitions where you put your name down to win a scooter/holiday/pumpkin. It goes something like this: I SMS my details to win stuff, they say they’ll let me know of the outcome and I either never hear back from them or I’m told I have been ‘unsuccessful on this occasion’. Um, that’s plainly wrong because I am unsuccessful on EVERY occasion.

What angers me is that everybody else I speak to on this point tells me about the time they won a scooter/holiday/pumpkin. So why the hell can’t that be me? Am I doing it wrong? How can I enter a competition wrong? Am I supposed to wink when I hand the competition slip back to the promo person or stand on my tippy toes when I send the SMS? Who the hell do I need to shake down for a free gift??!

What makes it worse is that I can’t even get reward points right. I can’t even EARN a freebie. Hell, I’ve had plenty of cards over the years that were supposed to reward me for my errant spending habits. No joke, I have accumulated points and companies have just point blank told me that they’re cancelling the points because the card I use is no longer eligible. It’s like they know who I am and they want to continue this life long tradition of really sticking it to Sean.

So, basically – I can’t win and I can’t even get what I’m entitled to. I’m essentially the worst at receiving goods that I haven’t directly paid for. The worst. No scooter, no holiday and no damn pumpkin. Just a fistful of competition flyers and no free bag to put them in.

The Smiths said it best when they (very politely) asked for what they want. This is a version by one of my favourite bands in the world – Deftones. Enjoy.

 

I May Need to Relocate to the Moon

Y’all ready for this?

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ll remember me and herald me as an oracle of sorts. It wouldn’t be out of the question to erect a bust of me in the busiest district of your city. I’d be happy to cut the ribbon, of course.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock (and believe me, I’ve tried) the royals have brought a new bloodsucker into the world. Another do-nothing, self-entitled drain on our economy (and my sanity) will soon be suckling on the teat of his mother, and then everybody else after that.

Now, the aggravating part won’t necessarily be the mooching, bloodsucking or even the suckling. It will be the fact that the baby is going to be shoved IN OUR FACES at every possible opportunity. It has already happened with the birth itself. Deaths in China? Egypt in revolt? Boats sinking en route to a country not tearing itself apart? Nope, relegated to pages 6 onwards of the newspaper. Pages 1 to 5 have been allocated to the baby. I inadvertently came across an ‘article’ yesterday that spoke of whatsherface’s ‘extraordinary’ effort. Nope, it wasn’t the birth itself. It was her choice of dress, and how it was a ‘sentimental nod’ to Diana. UMM WHAT? I think we need to regroup as a people and collectively agree on the meaning of ‘extraordinary’. Here, I’ll help us all along – it is something that is EXTRA…ORDINARY.

Oh God, you know how your friends have a baby and then post pictures of their little bundle of joy on Facebook every day? That’s fine, but what irks me the most is when I am informed of how the baby is 13 weeks old, then 16 weeks old etc. Umm, that’s NOT a thing. It’s a point in time between a thing and another thing. Here, some more assistance. Birth = a thing (celebrate). 1 year old = a thing (celebrate). 16 weeks = not a thing! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to sound grinchy here. I’m not a parent yet, and time will tell whether I will post pictures of my kids at 16 weeks. I’d like to think that instead of posting pictures, I’ll be spending time with my kid, teaching them how to fish. While I’m at it, I’ll teach myself how to fish. Come to think of it, 16 weeks may be too early for fishing. This is probably why I am not yet a parent.

My point is – if you think that’s bad, just wait and see how the royal baby’s progress is relayed to us. At least with Facebook I need to log in, or turn my phone on. This royal baby’s 16th week, 18.5th week, 85th poop, first contemplative stare, first handout etc will be broadcast in our faces EVERY DAY. You won’t escape it.

The worst thing is that this isn’t Facebook. It’s life; and there’s no option to filter the monarchy or hide ‘posts’ from bloodsuckers. I may need to move to the moon. Knowing my luck, the ‘Daily Moon’ will keep me posted on the suckling etc.

Sir Rantsalot

Hey, Life: Y U no Let me Win the Lottery?

I’ve played a few hands in the lottery lately. Just for clarification, I’m not speaking metaphorically here. I’m not referring to the lottery of life. I transferred some of my hard-earned monetary funds into the actual lottery, ignored the trillion-to-one odds and hoped for the best. Much to my surprise, I’ve not won a damn thing. Instead, I’m left with a stack of virtual receipts and a strange sense of wonderment (specifically, how quickly and comprehensively my money has vanished into thin air). No, wait – I know where it went. It’s currently forming part of the winnings of the lucky sods who DID win. Just this Tuesday night passed, 2 people won $25m each. Which leads me to the obvious question – hey, life – Y U no let me win the lottery?

It’s not that I expect to win the lottery. It’s just that I don’t expect NOT to. I understand the odds. I know it’s next to impossible. But I see other people winning. We’re not so dissimilar. They’ve got shoes and a stupid look on their face, just like me. I bet they’re also considering whether they can incorporate a 30 minute nap into their Sunday evenings without losing their street cred. Yeah, we’re the same – except one of us doesn’t have $25 MILLION DOLLARS (hint: me)!!

I’ve  had the strangest things happen to me over the years. People say it all the time – wow Sean, that was like a million-to-one. Behold:

  • I have been hit by cars (both in forward and reverse), and walked away without a scratch. Every time.
  • I was chased out of a client’s house with a broom. On another occasion, somebody used their car to chase me out.
  • I was asked out by a junkie, who fell asleep right after she asked me out.
  • An 80 year-old German woman told me (in front of stunned onlookers at a supermarket) that she had ‘dreamt we slept together’ and that it was ‘fantastic’.
  • I nearly blew up my mum’s kitchen (and perhaps the house) after I fell asleep while cooking caramel.

I could go on…

I understand these aren’t  ’trillion-to-one’ sorts of things, but they’ve all happened to me, and they continue to happen to me. They were all strange, far-fetched and completely unexpected. You know what else would be strange, far-fetched and completely unexpected? WINNING THE LOTTERY.

So, honestly – Y I no win the lottery already?

Jay-Z’s Got 99 Problems, But Money Ain’t One…

Jay-Z (or Hova, depending on how you would like me to address him) is really bothering me right now. I’m feeling especially ranty. I get it; he’s released some fairly iconic tracks over the years (Hard Knock Life, Izzo, 99 Problems, Empire State of Mind etc.).

 BUT – I kind of feel like the law of diminishing returns has hit him really hard. With each album he releases, the ratio of (stinker / bloated mess) to (great track) is steadily increasing. It’s 2013 and he now seems to be operating at the (15:1) level. Hell, that’s the success rate enjoyed by Train and Smash Mouth. Remember them?

 I just can’t get over how much people idolize this guy. Everyone bangs on about how he’s the ‘best ever’ (really??). I don’t get it. Maybe someone just needs to sit down with me and explain how Hova (whose albums over the past decade have been average, at best), has everybody so freaking enamoured with him.

 Oh, then there was the ‘look at me, everybody, I’m retiring – you better come and see me at my farewell shows and buy some sweet overpriced merchandise’. Oh wait, he didn’t REALLY retire. In truth, he wasn’t even retired for 2 years before he ‘launched’ his ‘comeback’ album and tour upon his faithful masses. TWO YEARS? Umm, that’s the USUAL gap between albums for most artists. Well played, Hova.

 His upcoming album is called ‘Magna Carta Holy Grail’. Shit, the title itself is a self-indulgent bloated mess – imagine what the album is going to be??! Not only that, but he’s graciously giving it away for FREE to the first 1 million people who purchase the new Samsung 4 (note: Samsung has graciously paid Hova Jay-Z for those albums). In my opinion, he’s now ‘subjecting’ people to his albums. He is ‘stock’ phone music – selling out to the man. According to Hova, the album is about ‘this duality of how do you navigate through this whole thing, through success, through failures, through all this and remain yourself’. Sound like rubbish to you? Yep! This is the man who sold his ‘artistic piece’ to Samsung and is married to the pop icon who sold her soul to Pepsi for $GAZILLIONS

 I dunno, maybe I’m just a hopeless cynic. I just think there are far greater musicians out there who don’t get a slither of the attention poured onto Hova.

 Hova HAS remained himself, though. I’ll give him that.

 He’s got 99 problems, but money ain’t one.

 Sir Rantsalot

Crunchinator – Crunchement Day

To the ‘crunchers’ out there – yeah, you know who you are. You specialise in crunching through noisy foods in the workplace at the maximum volume possible (Extreme Eating). You pretend to be blissfully unaware of the tremors you cause with each bite. You eat apples at the worst time ever. I’m sitting across from you, talking to a client on the phone? Oh please, never mind me. How about you pick up the most annoying fruit of all time and smash through it at a pace aptly (some pun intended) described as ‘apple casual’? Wait, there’s more? You then make annoying chewing noises beyond the point where the apple has been reduced to a size sufficiently small to pass through your oesophagus. Of course. You’re like the Terminator, however, instead of being sent from the future to kill Sarah Connor – you’ve been sent here with the sole task of pissing me off. Well, the good news is there’s no need for a sequel. You’ve achieved your goal. You can head back to the future and tell your friends (the crunchinators?) that you’ve crunched your way through Sean’s brittle psyche.

Yeah I’m angry. These crunchers have had it way too good for way too long. You know what bothers me even more than the crunching? When these guys insist on crunching extra slowly. Um, hey guys – this doesn’t make the crunching sound any softer, it just PROLONGS the pain!! You’re no food ninja. You don’t sneak into the workplace and eat in the shadows. You eat with the rest of us. Out in the open, where sound travels at, umm, the speed of sound (fast enough). We know all about your tasty crunchy snack the moment you’ve taken your first crunch. Not only do we know, but we wait for the rapturous moment when you’ll release us from the punishment you so mercilessly dole out.

Some of you will say I should just walk away. But I know how these crunchers work. They’re everywhere. In that way, they kind of are like ninjas. They hide in the shadows, ready to pounce on whatever serenity I’ve managed to rustle up. I reckon crunchers should get together and crunch each other stupid in designated crunch areas (DCA).

Crunch crunch chomp chomp crunch sjdhsjfhdsmn. It’s even annoying in text form!

Sir Ranstalot

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