Giving The Finger, Beeping And Yelling: The Typical P-Plater

Before I begin this post properly, a quick word to my non-Australian readers. Here in Australia in order to drive on your own on our roads, you have to finish 120 hours of driving with a driving instructor and pass a test, and even then you're on a probationary license which are called "P-Plates."

Now, with that established, you can consider yourself educated and full of worldly knowledge...Read on.

Recently I was talking to a close friend of mine about driving, as she's just begun to drive independently. She regaled me with a tale about how a bunch of teenage guys in a car with their P's yelled and beeped at her, and then literally drove after her in order to see which car she was getting into.

People are pretty cowardly these days. Whatever happened to the days of dragging someone you took a fancy to into a cave and just raping them mercilessly?

All rape jokes aside, though, P-Platers are often pretty disgusting people in general. It's like being able to drive independently gives them a god given reason to fuck over pedestrians.

Trust me, it doesn't. Because those pedestrians? When they find you walking alone in the street one day and you're dirt poor and giving blowjobs for petrol money, they'll be the ones fucking you over.

Literally.

Don't fuck over the poor pedestrian, because every dog has their day. And when this particular dog (me for instance) gets his revenge, shit will most definitely fly.

I had a similar experience to my aforementioned close friend recently, in which a group of P-Platers from my grade gave me the finger.

My first thought, aside from a frenzy of unexplainable rage?

His hand looked similar to a dick..Obviously much like his personality.

I only got a split-second glance at it, and it looked like a purple, veined cock. Obviously the fact that the middle finger was raised in salute and the other knuckles resembled testicles next to it didn't really help..

But yeah. That guy totally gave a new meaning to “whip it out.” I've seen a lot of things in my time, but a possible cock attached to the end of a hand has got to be one of the stranger of them.

Lesson: Check to make sure your hand doesn't look like a dick before you take the next step and try to make it look more like one. If you're considering it in the first place, often enough you'll find that your hand isn't the only thing with an uncanny resemblance to the male genitalia.

...And then there are the people who think they're cool because they have their P's, even if they do drive a really slow and shitty car.

Point in case: recently I was walking home with a friend and a group of P-Platers threw an empty bottle at me before attempting to race off with middle fingers saluting.

In reality though, an asthmatic sloth probably could have run faster.

It's times like that when I wish that stoning hadn't become illegal so long ago. If it hadn't, I'm sure I would've made Jesus' supposed death look like a dance routine from “The Wiggles” compared to what I'd do to a lot of new drivers on our roads.

Religious Meetings Are Just Funerals In Practise For The Real Deal.

Yawn..Morning, readers. How are we all today?

Tired? Dreading Monday?

Good stuff. I've got just the thing for you.

What is it, you may ask? 

The answer, dear reader, is simple: Church. Or rather, a story about it.

Before you race to the end of this post to hit me up with a raging comment detailing your newly found dislike of me due to my religious posting..Just hold on a moment, before you let your inner troll loose.

Unsurprisingly to those who know me, I would never try to convert someone to a religion. Fact is, I have quite the distaste for religion.

So no, I'm not trying to convert you, I'm regaling with one of my more recent churchly experiences. But first, you'll need a bit of background information:

I come from quite a religious family. In saying that, my mother is the main religious family member, whilst the rest of the family basically follow her lead in it all.

Me? I don't buy it.

There was a time when I rolled in it delightfully like a dog in shit, mainly right up to grade nine. After that, I veered away from it all pretty quickly, questioning the legitimacy of various biblical stories.

That's never stopped my parents from dragging me along to church and punishing me when I rebel against it all, though...Especially when I go about “corrupting” of the church's innocent youngsters..Tehehehe..;)

Anyway, back to the story. Today I was dragged along by my father (at my mother's bequest, of course) to a popular Christian group that meets once every few months, commonly known by the local community as “Men's Breakfast.”

On the way there, I realised that rather than fighting against going, perhaps going would achieve three things:

•  Give me something to laugh about with friends a few days later.

• Stop my parents and their religious nattering, at least for a little while.

• Give me something new to blog about.

And that brings me to the true beginning of my narration of “Men's Breakfast.”

First Impressions: A sea of bald and/or balding heads greeted me unenthusiastically from the door. Clearly, hair regrowth treatment is a foreign concept to Baptists and Anglicans alike.

Fifteen Minutes In: By now I'm offered food. As I start tucking into baked beans, a half scrambled egg and overcooked bacon unenthusiastically, I glance to my left and treat myself to the delightful view of an elderly man taking out his false teeth..He looks like he's about to drop off his perch at any moment.

Thirty Minutes In: If I hear the sentence “Jesus saved us” one more time, I think I'll start tearing out my hair. Then again, perhaps I've just discovered why most of the people in here are bald..

Forty Five Minutes In: I've taken to looking at the fingernails of the old people around me for entertainment. There are some real shockers here, that's for sure.

An Hour In: Okay, so my life is now changed forever. Changed forever in that I've lost an hour of it that I'll never get back.

 I think you've got the picture.

But why are so many old people religious? Well, judging from the smell of imminent death in that room, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that perhaps it's because they're not so far from the age in which the bible was written in the first place.

Conclusion: Old people like to congregate to celebrate their impending death, gumming their food together amid a chorus of “Jesus saved us.”

Religious congregations are just funerals in practice for the real thing – there's a reason they're always looking for new blood, and if you ask me, it's generally just because they want a good turnout for the real deal.