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Archive for the ‘Masterchef’ Category

See all my Junior Masterchef recapshere.

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Like any decent television program, Masterchef is successful on more than one level. First, you have the cooking. Both series one and two have presented the viewer with a veritable alacarte menu of dishes ranging from the simple and childlike to the outrageous and impossible. In series two, for example, the contestants had to cook lamingtons (and failed) and then had to make some ridiculous contraption with a cone (which no one, I repeat no one, had the benefit of smoking beforehand) covered in purple and red macaroons.

On another level, you have the contestants. They are as wide ranging as the food. At one end of the spectrum you have the lawyer, who is looking for a career change, and is female. Yet at the other end of the spectrum you have the lawyer, who is looking for a career change, and is male! Could they be any more different? It’s like chalk and cheese! Where the cheese looks and taste remarkably like chalk.

Yet there is a third level which makes Masterchef so successful, and that is the willingness of viewers to engage in a conversation about the contestants, judges, guests and food via social media tools such as facebook and twitter. Perhaps this is a consequence of the show being popular. Or perhaps the ease in which comments about the show can be made in these forums has increased its popularity. It is the old chicken and egg debate isn’t it. You know, the “Daylight savings drives chickens mad and makes them eat their own eggs!” debate.

It is on this third level that I have really engaged with Masterchef this year. During the first series I was a twitter virgin and all I did was watch the show. I learnt about ingredients and how to cook simple and complicated dishes. I learnt about techniques that could make me a better cook. Pfft! What a loser! This time, however, I engaged in the name calling and belittling of certain contestants (all in the name of good clean fun of course). Now, let me add a caveat here. I was not one of those who wrote venomous and derogatory tweets about Joanne, the existence of which was written about in various articles published in a number of national dailies. No sirree! I saved my spite for Aaron!

But seriously, the best tweets were the one’s that were not spiteful and hateful, but were insightful and humorous. Now in saying that, in order to produce such tweets, one has to engage in some form of criticism of the contestants, whether it’s the way the look, speak, dress, cook, or walk. Although it was relatively good natured, there was a hint of nastiness there.

Which brings me to my problem: I want to have the same experience with Junior Masterchef as I had with Masterchef. But how, exactly, can I make pithy, ironic, caustic, and other words whose meaning escapes me, comments, about children? Don’t get me wrong. I really do want to. I mean, Isabella and Anthony anyone? But the fact is, I feel bound by societal constraints to exercise a modicum of decorum and not take the piss out of children. If they were over thirteen and under eighteen it would be easier, because, well, teenagers. Enough said? But the clever dicks at Junior Masterchef have cast nine to twelve year olds (apart from that old timer Jack) and have thus, in a word, neutered the twitter personality of Masterchef.

Now the twitter stream of Masterchef is full of “Ooh, isn’t she cute!” and “Wow! I wish I could cook like these kids!” and “OMG! LOL! ROFL! etc. etc.” You get the picture, yes? It’s all sweetness and light in there, when in fact I am looking for something a little more realistic. Not quite #qanda whenever Barnaby Joyce or Cory Bernardi is on, but something in between.

On some level you need to be allowed to make fun of these people. Anyone who puts themselves in the public eye should expect a little flack when they talk about their “journey”, even though their journey consists of traveling from one end of the Masterchef kitchen to the other. They should expect to be openly criticised when they struggle with basic language skills and used the word “literally” whenever the experience a single element of surprise, shock, trepidation or fear. They must accept the repercussions when they appear arrogant.

The Junior Masterchef contestants are no different then there senior counterparts. They say the same things and they act the same way. They are a (slightly distorted) mirror of the other. Yet when it comes to twitter, we hesitate. We don’t treat them the same way. Why not? What stops us? Is it because we look back at our own childhoods and remember the innocence, the long summer days, the camping trip with our friends when we went to see that dead body by the railway tracks? Is it because we know that youth is fragile and we don’t want to do anything that could damage someone in later life?

I don’t think it is any of these things. I think we are all scared that these children will have some sort of telepathetic powers and lighty up eyes, Village of the Damned style, wreaking vengeance of a kind unlike anything seen on Australian television before.

That’s what I think.

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As I watched the final Masterclass on Masterchef (or as I like to call it, masterhchef*) last night, as I sat there chowing down on KFC Hot and Spicy and guzzling beer in my tracky dacks and ugg boots, tweeting away, it suddenly occurred to me that my days of being relatively popular are numbered. The days when people like what I say and find it funny, funny enough to repeat it to their friends are fast dwindling. In fact, there is only one more day left!

Having real friends just isn’t the same as twitter. For example, if I were at the pub and said something really witty about Masterchef, which I am bound to do, it isn’t likely that someone at the next table is going to disengage themselves from the conversation that they are having with their friends, pick up their chair and place it at my table with my friends, suddenly declare themselves to be my friend, and then start repeating things I say to their friends, which in turn leads their friends to pick up their chairs and join my table and start repeating things I say to their friends, and so on. That situation seems utterly unrealistic.

What is even more unlikely is if I am sitting at home in my tracky dacks, eating Hot and Spicy KFC and guzzling beer, making witty comments about Masterchef to no one in particular, with my wife next to me rolling her eyes, when all of a sudden a horde of people come banging on the door, declaring that they just “happened” to be passing by and heard my incredibly funny and sexy remarks, wanted to befriend me in a totally non creepy way, and just wanted to sit and listen to my amazingly inciteful commentary while they phone their friends and repeat everything I say.

I mean, neither scenario seems realistic does it? Would any of my followers reading this be willing to set themselves up outside my door on a semi-permanent basis just to hear what I have to say? I hear 2 yeses and multitudes of “no way creep”.

So what am I going to tweet about once Masterchef finishes? Neighbours? “Hey Stef, way to lose a friend to cancer”. Don’t think so. Home and Away? “Flamin heck Alf, it IS suspicious how many under 18s you hang around with”. Nope. The 7pm Project? Only if Andrew Bolt is on. What about Idol? Is that even on this year? If it is, it’s not something I want to watch and frankly I really don’t want to provide any succour to the Hillsong community.

Look, don’t get me wrong. The end of Masterchef does not mean the end of tweeting for me. I still have QandA. I still have Insiders. I still have 7.30 Reportland on occasion. But these tweets are political. I need something a little less important to fill the Masterchef void.

Now, I have a few ideas. Some may seem a little strange, but please bear with me to the end.

My first idea would provide both entertainment to my followers and allow me to learn something new everyday. What I propose is to begin learning a language and to re-tweet my witty Masterchef remarks in this new language. For example, if I were learning German, I could say, “Fisch und Gemüse. Was ist interessant daran?” which is a translation of my tweet of last night, “Fish and vegetables. What’s interesting about that?” Or how about “Sesamöl ist das, was Bert an haarlosen Körper Ernie’s reibt nächtlichen” which translates to “Sesame oil is what Bert rubs on Ernie’s hairless body nightly”. What does everyone think? Hmm. Your silence is deafening.

Another idea is that you could hire me to live tweet your parties and functions. When I say live tweet, I don’t mean actually use a computer and write things about your event on twitter. I mean actually standing in the middle of everyone and just yelling out random things of 140 characters or less about the people around me. For example, at a wedding, I could yell, “Why is she marrying him, he’s two inches shorter. #marriagesmadeinhell”. Or, at a bamitzvah, I could scream, “Did you keep the foreskin? #thingstoreplaceyourfanbeltwith”. Your guests would love it wouldn’t they? No? Oh well.

But I think my best idea is to produce a book and accompanying recording of me reading some of my best Masterchef tweets. Can you imagine it? You sit down in your comfy lounge chair, by the roaring open fire. You slip on the headphones, press play on your i-pod, and lose yourself as my dulcet tones constantly criticise Jimmy for being unable to cook anything that doesn’t start with “c” and end in “urry”, bring into question George’s realtionship with the human race as he displays his eating skills, or once again wonder why Aaron chose that particularly over the top fashion ensemble for that day. The bonus, of course, will be that you will be able to underline some of your favourite bits, as well as some of my tweets. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, bits.

Well there you have it Australia. The end of Masterchef does not have to mean the end of me. My relationship with you, my followers, can take us down new and interesting avenues, never before traversed in the annals of twitter. We can still meet up on a regular basis and share my wit. If you don’t like any of my suggestions, please feel free to leave your own. I am sure to discard them as nothing more than a used tissue, but don’t let that stop you.

*To understand what this means, you need to read my Masterchef of tweets of Friday, 23 July 2010.

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And here I was thinking Masterchef was just a television show. Every night I have been sitting down and partaking in what is now clearly, to me at least, an exercise in subjugation of the worker on a grand scale. Don’t believe me? Then let’s try a little exercise.

First, go and read this blog by Justine from the first series . “Oooh” I hear you say, in your stunningly effeminate voices, “this is a well written entry about the travails of a Masterchef contestant by someone who has some inside knowledge”. Shows how much you know you knuckle heads. What you have in fact just read is a cry for help from the proletariat against the harsh and cruel treatment meted out by her bourgeois masters. Don’t agree? Well consider this.

The first word that Justine provides us with is “Hi”. That’s it. No, “Hello there” or “Howdy Masterchef fans” or even a “Why don’t you sad losers get a life”. Just an economical “Hi”. It is as if she feels constrained from displaying her true feelings. It’s as if she is fearful of showing herself as a person of artistic expression lest she be singled out for re-education.

But it get’s worse. In the first paragraph Justine reveals the horror of the gulag like conditions in the Masterchef compound. Every week, two contestants are eliminated, indicating that not only are they subjected to something akin to a concentration camp, but for those truly intractable subjects, the only effective treatment is to dispose of them. It’s killing by death and it’s lethal. Then she says “light at the end of the tunnel”. These poor bastards are being forced into some hideous mine, suffering untold hellish conditions just so Matt, Gary and George can have their precious cargo of truffles. Finally, Justine confirms that contestants need only make a tiny mistake to be dispatched, when she says that “it only takes on hiccup to send you home” and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the phrase “send you home” is code for “NOT SENDING YOU HOME”.

By the next paragraph it gets even worse. It seems clear that accommodation wise, the contestants are forced into living quarters that are no bigger than a box. And clearly, the state of the box is unknown to them before entering and this is why they refer to it as the mystery box. Perhaps when they have done something wrong, they are put into a smaller box. Perhaps when one of the contestants becomes an informant for the judges (Jonathan) he is entitled to a slightly larger box as a reward. Perhaps they are forced to share the box with wild animals, or drug taking, overweight, dole bludging teenagers. Who knows? You? I doubt it.

And sustenance for these poor unfortunate political prisoners? Snails. That’s right, snails. Justine confirms this in the same paragraph. But she also confirms so much more. I cannot imagine how bad the food is. Perhaps they are served rotting flesh of the corpses of the eliminated contestants. Perhaps they have to eat from a fresh dung heap. It is unclear. What is clear is that snails is the BEST thing that they have to eat. We know this because Justine says that the snails are the stand out ingredient. If they are the stand out, what horrors are they being subjected to?

I’m sure by now your heart is breaking for these people…. except maybe for Jonathan and Aaron. But you must read on. By the next paragraph in Justine’s piece it is clear she has become delusional and now thinks that Masterchef involves some form of cooking. She talks of roast chicken and yummy stuffing and oranges, and on the surface this just seems like a description of an ordinary cooking test. Yet, further on there is an indication of the nature of Justine’s insanity where she confuses Claire with a horse.

Lucidity seems to have returned to Justine somewhat in the next paragraph, and she is able to describe to us some more of the hellish conditions that the contestants must endure. Apparently, the camp “komandants” like to set up weekly “challenges” for the contestants, known as pressure tests. From my reading of history I know that the Nazis submitted prisoners to some truly horrendous experiments, and I wonder if the Masterchef contestants are being forced into hyperbaric chambers, with the pressure turned up to extreme levels, until their eyes, ears and spleens are at bursting point, in these so-called pressure tests. It also sounds as if the contestants must physically abuse each other, and Justine notes that there are severe consequences for “under beating or over beating”. Finally, they are forced into excruciatingly difficult manual labour, being forced to build a tower, much like Egyptian slaves were forced to build pyramids I would imagine.

In the final part of Justine’s article, we get an indication of how the contestants are used at to support the “judges” private, 100 man strong army. And Justine reveals her fear of Callum, one of the contestants, with his ability to “cream” things and his total disregard for orders from his superiors. It sounds like some of the contestants minds may be unraveling.

The judgment is in people. The evidence has been led and it has been found compelling. Masterchef is nothing more than a microcosm of the class struggle. The bourgeoisie fat cat judges force the poor contestants to cook banquets for them nightly just so they can stuff their bloated faces. They force the them into hideous challenges, placing enormous stress on their bodies, just for the judges own amusement and pleasure. And when they have outlived their usefulness, the contestants are eliminated and thrown on the scrap-heap or fed to Donna Hay.

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As dawn broke over the quite, suburban neighbourhood, George “Little Georgie” Calombaris slept soundly in his racing car bed, his stubbly upper lip quivering as he drew his breath in, and his lower, less hairy lip, doing likewise as he exhaled. His tiny little toes and feet danced quietly as he dreamed a dream of jumping up and down on the spot in throes of excitement as he tasted delectables and quizzed cheffettes. The odd murmured “allaments”, “allagant” and “yeah?” could be heard every now and again.

He had slept fitfully through the night, the excitement of the coming mornings festivities almost too much for the hairy little man to handle. His two best friends, Smooth Gary and Big Matt were coming over in the morning and they planned to cook a banquet of classic dishes and humongous pastries, and enjoy it sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Little Georgies’ big screen television, recently purchased from Retravision, while watching the entire second series of Friends. Because that’s what they were.

Yesterday Little Georgie had headed out to Coles to round-up the ingredients and equipment necessary for the banquet. Unfortunately, as a result of Coles not having any of the ingredients or equipment required to cook decent, restaraunt quality food, Little Georgie had instead been forced to locate and attend sundry quality butchers, bakers, and grocers. Still, it had been an enjoyable and rewarding excursion, and he had successfully managed to avoid being knead in the face by passers-by, most of the time.

Of course, whenever Little Georgie went out there would be at least one unsavoury incident, but these days that was par for the course. As a result of his difficulties with the English language, Little Georgie would invariably find himself misunderstood or misinterpreted. Just yesterday, when asking the owner of the first fruit and vegetable shop he had patronised that day for some celery, the owner had taken offence and refused to reveal what he was paid on a weekly basis, subsequently throwing Little Georgie out of the shop before he had been able to buy a single item. Only the week before, all sorts of hilarity had ensued when he had asked a prostitute for sex, and she had promptly produced a saxophone and began playing a stirring rendition of “Making Your Mind Up” by Bucks Fizz.

****

Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, an other worldly figure swaggered as he followed the path to Little Georgies’ house. This colourful character was larger than life in every sense of the word.The dark brooding eyes sat midway up a huge round face. The devilish grin belied the big man’s gentle nature. The luxurious dark hair bounced in time with his step. The purple and orange cravat flapped in the wind. The pink trousers blinded a passing motorist which caused him to crash headlong into an oak tree resulting in him being jettisoned through the windscreen and onto a nearby dung heap. This big man was hard to ignore. He was, of course, Matt Preston, Big Matt, food critic extraordinaire, and he was coming to spend the day with two good friends.

Only the night before, Big Matt had been the toast of Tinseltown. Well, not really Tinseltown, more like tackytown, as Big Matt had attended Australia’s night of nights, the Logies. Ostensibly there as a representative of Masterchef, he had in fact stolen the show when he was surprisingly named best new talent. This was an award that was usually reserved for vacuous starlets such as Holly Valance, Danni Minogue and Kerry O’Brien. However, last night had stunned the nation, nay the world, when he had won the award with a record 107% of the vote. He had also stunned the nation with his stunning strapless tuxedo, held together only by double-sided tape. Now he strutted the back streets of greater Melbourne on a fine and temperate Melbourne day, with a funny little man under his arm, and for once it wasn’t George.

****

“Smooth” Gary Mehigan lay in his bed, swathed in silky smooth purple sheets. He had been awake for some hours, lying there staring at the ceiling. He knew today was a special day for little Georgie, but he couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that engulfed him like his pyjamas engulfed his backfat. He had a feeling of dread so powerful, so overwhelming that he barely had the strength to get out of bed.

Yesterday had seemed another normal day. He had shopped, he had cooked, he had judged amateur chefs and ended their dreams mercilessly. He had joked and joshed with Little Georgie and he had lavished every dish he made with copious amounts of animal fat. Yet the whole time he felt like someone was watching him. Someone who was judging him, sizing him up, tidying and styling him as if he was being made ready for a magazine shoot. Someone who wore heels that were too high and occasionally overdid the fake tan.

But that couldn’t be possible, he thought to himself. She was dead, wasn’t she?

****

In another part of town, down below street level in a dark, dank cellar, a woman cackled as she maneuvered the overhead lights. She picked up the camera and adjusted the lens, then pointed it towards the object of her affection. Through the lens, she could see the rotting flesh of the decapitated badger as the maggots feasted on its delectable entrails.

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Masterchef has become like Herrod’s Salome*, dancing sensually before our eyes, writhing in glorious pleasure, as we await, slack-jawed, eyes wide open and tongue lolling to the side, akin to John the Baptist’s head on a platter, for her to reveal her forbidden naughty areas.

Well, not really. Quite the opposite in fact. While they teased us last week with the promise of a surprise twist, I don’t think anyone was surprised when the surprise twist turned out to be the unsurprising fact that they were bringing back some of the eliminated contestants. It would have been a surprise if Kate had gotten through to be one of the returning contestants. Actually, I was quite surprised that Kate was still alive and hadn’t succumbed to Salmonella. But that was the extent of the surprises for me.

Now, I’m not one to complain, but it seems to me that the reality television format of the surprise twist has followed a fairly well-worn path. The path of bringing back past contestants. It was not exactly a surprise to see the familiar faces (and not so familiar faces of Devon and Courtney) come back for another stab at the crown. It appears to be the only shocking twist available to the producers of reality television, and they bring it out regularly. The complaints of the non-eliminated contestants that the eliminated contestants do not deserve to come back is also unsurprising as it to appears to be the likely reaction in these situations. How these people think they deserve their places on this show, including their free trips to London and Paris, over people who were eliminated because, for example, they said dried apricot instead of apricot jam, is beyond me. The sense of entitlement amongst people today astounds me. But I better stop there before I begin to sound like a dickhead.

What I would like to see is Masterchef introduce some truly pants shattering twists. You know the kind I’m talking about. The kind that makes you do a double take so hard that you wrench your head free of your neck. The kind that makes your jaw drop so far that it lands on your big toe and causes a small amount of pain. The kind that makes your eyes bulge out of your head, steam come out your ears, and causes you to hover off the ground for three seconds while horns blare in the back ground. I want that kind of surprise.

So what follows is a list of suggestions for what would be a truly massive twist. The choice is yours Masterchef. You know how it contact me. You know what I want.

1. George and Rhonda
In a surprise twist, it is revealed that George is not George. One Friday night, in front of the contestants lured there by the promise of another Masterclass, George removes his latex “George suit” to reveal hidden inside is in fact the leggy songstress herself, Rhonda Birchmore, and is on a quest to find her replacement as the next big thing on Hey Hey Its Saturday.

2. Brothers and Sisters
Each of the contestants learn that they are all in fact descended from the same celebrity chef. The nightly orgies are instantly stopped and Callum and Matthew postpone their wedding.

3. Literally Literal
The next time a contestant says something is literal, they must be forced to do the thing they actually said is literal, so that they can learn to understand what literal means. For example, if Alvin says “I literally cannot see the ingredients in this cake”, his eyes need to be gouged out so that he “literally cannot see”. If Callum says, “I literally put my heart into this”, his heart needs to be removed and placed in the dish.

4. Surprise Chef
Sure. I know it’s been done before, but not this way. The contestants have to go out into society and find your average family, take them home, and cook them.

5. Bring em back!
Instead of bringing back the already eliminated contestants, why not eliminate all the current contestants in one go and then bring in 7 new ones, who we’ve never seen before. That’ll teach them to complain about returning contestants. The 7 new contestants are all grateful for the opportunity and for a free meal, because they are chosen from the ranks of the homeless.

6. Getaway
Forget about London and Paris. Boring! People cook there all the time and it’s hardly a challenge. Why not send the contestants to some truly exotic locations. Make them cook kebabs in the cave frequently occupied by Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan! They may even catch a glimpse of the bearded one. What about roasting a duck on Uluru, while a French stripper dances in the background. Or, for a really stunning backdrop, how about they cook Vietnamese on the mean streets of Cabbramatta. Oh that’s right. They already did that. Well kudos to you Masterchef.

7. Handee
The contestants complete a mystery box challenge. All that waits now is for the judges to select three to taste. They ask Aaron to bring up his dish of Oysters Wanked Over. George doubles over and takes his usual position before eating. He chews the dish slowly and stares at Aaron. Aaron looks nervous while at the same time looking like a washed out Kirk Pengilly (and that’s hard). Suddenly George knocks the plate off the bench and oysters and white sauce spill all over the floor. Matt Preston races over and begins cleaning up the mess ….. with an ORDINARY CLEANING CLOTH!

Of course, we don’t have to limit this new policy of actually having surprising surprise twists to surprise twists. We could also use our imaginations to think up some truly devilish challenges to throw the contestants off and stir the pot.

1. Kill, kill, kill
The contestants are taken by chopper to a remote part of the blue mountains with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, a sleeping bag each, and a fully functional Smeg 6 burner oven. They parachute into the wilderness and must hunt, kill, skin and gut a seven course degustation menu. With guest judge Bear Grylss.

2. Awesomely gutted
The contestants must get through an hour-long program without saying awesome or talking about being “gutted” or “shattered”. Similarly, the judges and celebrity chefs need to get through the show without referring to the simplicity of a dish.

3. George is a tool
Every time George says “yeah” or “allamants” the contestants must stop what they are doing, run around with their hands in the air, and shout “ALOOOO” at the top of their voices, for about 2 minutes. While this may not be an accurate reflection of their cooking skills, it should provide riotous entertainment for the viewing public.

4. Clare smiles and Peter says something interesting
Nah, just kidding

5. Foot and mouth
It is easy to cook something with your hands. Anyone can follow a recipe and throw the ingredients together, taking advantage of the opposable thumbs so richly undeserved, yet apparently bestowed on all humans. So the contestants should be provided with a challenge whereby they must only use their feet and mouths to cook, Christy Brown* style.

With these suggestions above, I think that Masterchef can become more than just another record-breaking cooking show that brings in million dollar advertising contracts and get’s viewed by more people than Bettina Arndt has breeding windows. Each suggestion has the ability to change the complexity of the competition and leave us gasping for more. Each suggestion allows the contestants to truly test themselves and in some cases actually eat themselves. Each suggestion creates the possibility that anyone out there, anyone of us, could be a Masterchef, or Rhonda Birchmore.

*I’m not doing your research for you. Look it up.

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This letter was emailed to me today. I have no idea who wrote it and I have no idea who sent it. I’m not even sure if it is real. What is certain is that it is from a sick, depraved mind. Of that there is no doubt.

It’s a funny thing is Masterchef. At the moment, it is all the rage in newspapers and online to defend Joanne and decry the outrageous behaviour of the cowards and haters who hide behind their anonymity on twitter and Facebook, by going online referring to them as cowards and haters and vile and disgusting people, all behind the mask of anonymity.

Apparently there has been some naughty behaviour online, bordering on the psychotic, directed squarely at Joanne. There have been reported sightings of the use of the word hate, slut, scumbag, whore, harpy and harridon to describe her. This is truly outrageous behaviour. I cannot understand why anyone would spew such venom towards her. Sure, she may not be everyone’s cup of tea. But people, please a bit of restraint. She is just a contestant on a cooking show and she is certainly not deserving of your contempt.

Aaron is. Aim it at him.

But seriously, the continued media focus on this issue raises a valid question: how do I know what is in good taste and bad, what’s right and wrong, what’s out of line and what’s not, when it comes to online hate mongering? Because when I engage in online hate mongering (known as OHM) I want to be sure that I am not crossing the line. I take my hate mongering seriously, so when I call Aaron a lame arse wannabe with greasy hair, how do I know which part of that description is over the top? Does he have to have an actual lame arse for it to be valid? Does the fact that he uses product in his hair restrict me from referring to it as greasy? When I refer to Jonathan as a smug know it all bastard, am I taking things too far when I call into question his legitimacy? When it transpires that he doesn’t know everything, can I claim to be vindicated? When I call Joanne a cat arsed mouth waste of space backstabbing witch (this is just an example all you haters and cowards out there. I don’t mean it) do I need to prove beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law that she has backstabbed and has the mouth of a cat’s arse? Because if that’s what it takes I’ll do it.

“Just don’t say anything” I hear you say. Well firstly, what are you doing in my house? You should leave right now. And secondly, not saying anything is not an option. This is how I express myself. Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? Oh, that’s right. You’ve gone.

But back to matters at hand. I take my OHM seriously. For me, this is my profession. I may not get paid. I may not be a productive part of society. I may not be mentally stable. But I do what I do to bring joy to others. I do what I do to make a difference. That and the fact that it gives me a stiffy. So it’s hardly fair for all of you critics to write your fancy little articles calling me a hater and a coward just because I hide behind such pseudonyms as “jizzonmyface”, “naziswallower” and “Chrisd_Owens”. Those names are an artistic expression of my true self, and if you can’t see that you’re blind.

You might have your profession. You might have your social life. You might have your family. You might have sex. I don’t have any of those things. This is all I’ve got. If I can’t do this, then either I cut myself, or I cut someone else. And that could be anyone. But probably me.

So call me a coward or a hater if you want. But I’ll throw those words right back at you, because you’re wrong. I don’t hate you. I FUCKING hate you. And I’m not a coward. I don’t regret what I’ve said and I stand by everything I’ve said. No, I’m not a coward. I’m NOT a coward.

Anonymous

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