Take, for example, the sound of people eating with their mouths open. For me, that noise is on a similar auditory scale to an Antarctic iceberg falling into the sea. I’ll struggle to hear a person right next to me on occasion, but someone starts making that wet smacking sound and I’ll be onto that shit from across the building. I have been on conference calls for work where people have insisted on eating directly next to the microphone as though this is somehow the most acceptable thing in the world. I plan on developing an airborne chemical that sterilises anyone who does this. We’ll be gross-eaters free within a hundred years!

Then there’s the seemingly benign clicking of a pen. There are many people who will testify to just how quickly this sets me off. I can be sitting in an otherwise serene state… but if there are more than two clicks of a pen in quick succession that world comes crashing down. I wish I could say it is rare for me to dismantle the pens of repeat offenders, but the small collection of springs in my bag would indicate otherwise.

Or perhaps people who block an entire escalator by standing right in the middle. There is a very precise unwritten law here in Australia that says: “stand on the left hand side, dickwad.” Better yet is when they put their hands out to clutch both rails. The only time you need this much stability is when the escalator you’re riding is in Japan. Just get over to the side and we’ll all be happy.

There are a mountain of others, but I’ll give it a rest for now to ensure I don’t become a bitter old man within the course of one post.

I like to take the piss a lot; it’s true. I don’t think I can go a full 5 minutes without making fun of someone or something, but every now and again I like to take a moment and talk about a serious topic. This isn’t a huge set up for an unsurprisingly juvenile joke. Honest.

I’m not about to write a post giving love advice, because anyone who knows me would liken that to beggar providing financial advice to an investment banker. What I will do, however, is give you my theory on what I think makes for a successful relationship. In my mind there are three things: common interests, common values, and the intangible spark.

Common interests is the most obvious one. To have a long term relationship be successful you need to be able to talk to and do things (not just each other) with your partner. Whether this is music, movies, books, sport, or whatever, it doesn’t really matter… If you don’t have common interests you end up being those couples who sit at restaurants and don’t say a word to each other… or just being fuck buddies – which is fine if that’s what you’re going for but it doesn’t fit into the “successful relationship” definition and I will therefore regard it as a relationship failure.

Common values is a tiny bit harder to explain… This is where life outlook, morals, and religion end up. I think you can actually go a long way without common values, but it will ultimately result in an irreconcilable difference. Think about it: if your partner wants kids and you don’t then you’ll probably be fine for a few years, but ultimately someone needs to make a very hard decision.

Finally, there’s the hardest one of all to explain: the intangible spark. This is what separates a romantic relationship from a strong friendship. This is the little flutter you get when you hold hands… or that ache you get when you miss them… or perhaps it’s just that pants-splitting erection. Regardless, you know when you have it and it can be heartbreaking when you don’t. Or when it goes away.

I’m not claiming this is a fool-proof theory. I have socialised it with quite a few people over the years and I generally get nods of approval, but inevitably someone will drive a truck through it for one reason or another. If people have experience contrary to this then I am keen to hear it.

Anyway, next week I’ll get back to boners, cats, and poop. I promise.

I really don’t understand it. I’ve been told stories about how it is perfectly reasonable for a dude to defecate in your filing cabinet after taking him home on a first date (now that’s a topic for a later post), but I admit to avoiding meat and suddenly I’m a step away from severe brain damage. The standard initial response is “really? you don’t look like a vegetarian.” Yeah? Well you don’t look like a fat, middle-class conservative either. Oh wait.

Then comes the attempt to convince me that my outlook on life is incorrect and I’ve been avoiding meat for close to a decade for entirely the wrong reasons. It’s as though they’re expecting me to break down and cry “You’re right! I hadn’t thought of the fact that humans are supposed to eat meat! You are truly smarter than I and now I will bathe in bacon fat to repent my vegetarian sins.”

Most people eventually get over it and accept me like their slightly daft nephew who is the produce of a past family reunion with attractive cousins and too much alcohol. That said, I don’t think my father will ever really get over it. Nine years later and he still offers me a steak at our Sunday night dinners. I conceded to him that I will return to eating meat the day that he tongue kisses another man. He has been looking for a candidate ever since.

Even then, I still have to deal with other vegetarians looking down on me because I eat seafood (yes, technically I’m a pescetarian – shut up). It’s as though there’s this hierarchy of eliteness that you must progress through in order to be the true ethical master. Upon reaching the apogee (level seven vegan) you receive a pat on the back and a certificate for wasting your entire life.

Now don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with people attempting to extend the amount of sexytime they are able to experience in any given day. The modern day man and woman may spend considerable time apart from their partner of choice and yet the involuntary pant tents and, I assume, much smaller scale bra tents, remain in an abundance. This leads to a level of innovation unseen in any other domain: how better to communicate current state of arousal.

Think about it. The first communication via telephone, Alexander Graham Bell’s “Mr Watson—Come here—I want to see you” could very easily have been “I want to see you…. naked.” The history books regularly leave out the juicier pieces. We all know just how raunchy the Renaissance got… Naked people were goddamn everywhere.

What about going further back? Were cave drawings actually an ancient form of naked MMS? After all, they are rarely of people wearing clothes.

Don’t even get me started on modern day technology. Apple’s FaceTime may as well be called GenitalTime in order to be completely accurate. Their ads may pluck the heart strings with a deaf person being able to sign to his or her deaf partner, but the more accurate picture would be the deaf person creating a circle with his index finger and thumb before slowly moving their opposing index finger in and out of the circle with increasing frequency. A devious grin would satisfactorily complete the image.

Though with all of this the potential for embarrassment is extremely high. Having your laptop examined by third parties is a little like playing Russian Roulette: one folder is set to image preview and has naughty pictures… but will it be the one they click on? Who knows? Stay tuned to our next episode of “Your friend is about to see your girlfriend naked.”

But all of this is for the greater good. Just think about how the world would be with more sexually frustrated people roaming the lands. It would be impossible to purchase any bottled or canned goods in a supermarket as their labels would have been almost instantly removed, road rage would erupt due to the catatonic state of many drivers, and bed sheets would need to be changed each morning. I, quite frankly, am not ready for the extra burden introduced from too many untamed boners.

Everyone seems to take this holier-than-thou approach to Facebook stalking, as though it’s something only performed by reprobates who are on a break from mugging the elderly and racing the mentally disabled (it’s rigged; the autistic kids always calculate the quickest route). I want us all to hold hands and admit the truth for a second… We all do it. You do it, I do it, and your mother does it (and she wants to know who that guy is who constantly likes your posts… you haven’t brought a girl home in a while either… very interesting).

There shouldn’t be this negative stigma about it. It’s a good thing. Prior to 2004 the basic process upon meeting a new person was as follows:

1. Meet person
2. Exchange pleasantries and small talk
3. Farewell person
4. Forever wonder about whether they were actually cool or not.

Now, thanks to the pleasures of Facebook stalking, the process is this:

1. Meet person
2. Exchange pleasantries and small talk
3. Farewell person
4. Add person on Facebook
5. Observe that the person has an extraordinary number of photos of themselves with their extensive collection of Stephanie Meyer novels
6. No longer wonder about whether they are actually cool or not.

If, on the off chance that you have somehow confirmed that they are indeed awesome (more than likely by seeing that they have liked “threesomes”) then you can just send them a message along the lines of: “Hi, I think you’re cool. I want to put your bits and my bits together and try to start a fire through intense rubbing.”

You don’t even have to worry about real-life rejection because somehow “ur freakin uglee” in text is less offensive than in person. Plus there’s the added bonus of knowing that their grammar is poor and, as a result, they will likely die in a gutter in the immediate-to-near future.

Sadly, it does cut both ways. Visiting my Facebook profile will more than likely yield links to this very site, which, as we all know, is not the greatest supporter in my case for sanity. My profile also has far too many pictures of cats. Who wants to date a guy who seems to be in love with the wrong type of pussy?

This is quite confusing for a number of reasons, though specifically because I don’t actually like men. Don’t get me wrong; men are cool. I just don’t generally have a great affinity for having my bits in their bits or vice versa.

It’s also quite confusing because I have little idea what I do to elicit these types of questions. I don’t generally check out guys (unless they’re really hot) and I also don’t have a habit of frequenting all male bars and insisting my name is Pedro (in the spirit of disclosure, I did have a very dirty moustache for a little while).

Though if I were to be completely honest, there are a few isolated incidents that I could possibly see being misunderstood. One of which involved a coworker viewing a preview message on my laptop when I received a reply from a friend. The conversation had gone like this.

Friend: Have you ever kissed a guy?
Pedro: Sure, but only on the cheek.
Friend: How did he feel against your lips? Stubbly?

Of course, the preview that flashed up on my screen was “How did he feel against your lips…”

You’d be forgiven for thinking that would make things awkward between us, but not so. The next day my coworker asked me if I want to go to a concert with him. I declined.

I have also been told my dress sense could be regarded as a little less than heterosexual. Calm down, people. It’s not as though my wardrobe consists of several pairs of leather chaps (though they would be nice and airy in the summer…). You wear a pink shirt once and suddenly you’re getting on top of a mardi gras float without any pants. And my love of skinny ties is not because they make better whipping instruments (studies have shown… er.. wait..).

Clothes aside (not literally), my interactions with actual gay men have not been wondrously clarifying either. Recently I was at a comedy gig where I made the mistake of sitting in the front row. After the comedian singled me out for a comment or two at the start of the show I casually asked if he would like my phone number. Little did I realise that the entire show was to be centred around how he is a raging homosexual and regularly deals with prejudice. Not only did the whole room think I was a confused gay man, they thought I was a confused gay jerk.

And then there is my quite serious mancrush on Hugh Jackman…

All that said, I don’t think I’m really cut out to be a man’s man. My house is in constant disarray, I have little patience for musical theatre, and I find copious amounts of hair kinda gross.

I’ve kinda forgotten where I was going with this post, as I think any attempt to pre-empt the topic in question has well and truly failed. Perhaps I need to wear a sign saying “No, I’m not gay, but I may reconsider if you dress as Wolverine…. in leather chaps…”

The day starts with actually trying to get to the location, which is no doubt chosen for its superb lack of decent public transport. It’s as though the organisers came from the future where Futurama-style transport tubes are prevalent. In reality, you’re more likely to be packed into a tin can where your crotch is actually rubbing up against the guy with the southern cross tattoos in front of you. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but generally I leave this type of behaviour for the times I am with my partner or while I am in a really packed lift at lunch time (though then I generally have to try to be inconspicuous).

Though perhaps through what can only be called legendary perseverance, you finally arrive at the designated dust bowl only to begin the gradual descent in to madness which should be the subject of first year psychology students. I have visual aids to demonstrate this:

It starts as the casual, friendly “sup?” to a stranger during the first band, then transitions into the overly friendly “SHOW US YOUR BOOBS” by the fourth or fifth band and then finally culminating in “I TOTALLY JUST PISSED IN THAT BOTTLE AND THREW IT AT THAT GUY” by the end. Forget conch shells and thinly veiled societal metaphors; this is the true Lord of the Flies.

Let us not forget the result of a visit to the toilets which is likely to be our generation’s version of a war story worthwhile telling to our eventual grand children. Our eyes will glaze over and we’ll begin “Oh my child…. The things I have seen…” and we’ll wake up in the middle of the night with cold sweats screaming “THE SHIT. THE SHIT IS EVERYWHERE. OH GOD IT’S ON THE CEILING. HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE!?” Our partners will try to calm us, knowing that we have experienced untold cruelty which can only be likened to a excrement version of Hiroshima.

Finally, if you have survived the day without being carted away by an overly handsy paramedic after fainting due to the intense smell of the portable toilets, you then get to experience the public transport once again on the way home. Only this time the dude with the southern cross tattoo is soaked with sweat and is actively returning the crotch rubbing by gyrating his hips.

Many thanks to Lisa who gave me the idea and much of the content for this one.

"it's okay, i've removed all their teeth."

Carny 1: I have a great idea. I think we should line up a bunch of clowns and take turns putting our balls in their mouths.
Carny 2: That’d make a fantastic carnival game!
Carny 1: …carnival game?

But you know what’s more shitty than public transport? People on public transport. I hate them all. Do you want to know why? People are fucking disgusting. Put a large group of disgusting people together and what do you get? The 6:05pm from Central, that’s what.

I’m not even talking about how you may smell the occasional underarm on a hot day. I’m talking about people doing things in public that they should really keep for those private moments alone (or, at the very least, when they think they’re alone).

I once sat behind a dude who was fingering a rather overdue pimple on the back of his neck. I gave him the “I’m six inches behind you” courtesy cough, but he didn’t care. It was when he started making attempts to squeeze the thing that I thought “Nope. Not today.” and got up to find a less puss-filled section of the train.

Then there was the time I sat across from a guy who seemed to be scratching at his back for an extended period of time. “That’s okay,” I thought, “he’s probably just been bitten by a few mozzies and is now giving them a nice satisfying scratch. I can deal with that.” Then the guy removes his hand from his back and I notice he’s got a huge piece of crunchy dead skin between his fingers. He proceeds to examine it, then crunch it up and sprinkle it down the edge of the seat like it was goddamn fairy dust or something. At this point I was honestly trying to hold back the good ol’ dry heaves. From memory I just got right off the train at the next stop. I was afraid there were crunchy skin particles in the air.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking “Those are both isolated incidents! I ride the train! I’m not fucking gross!” Oh but you are. Perhaps you’re one of those people who somehow believes it’s okay to cut their fingernails on their way from work. What possible logic is there to this? I honestly don’t enjoy looking down at my seat and seeing tiny fucking nail clippings everywhere. I go home and lay in the foetal position under a cold shower after every encounter. It’s happened more times than I care to recount.

One of these days I’m just going to embrace it all. I’m going to get each index finger and plunge them deep into each of my ears, then I’m going to jiggle them around like I’m searching for fucking buried treasure, then I’m going to pull my fingers out, smell them, and wipe them down the seat next to me. Only then will I feel like a true commuter.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some parents have a calendar hidden away highlighting the optimal ovulating schedule of their kids, ensuring that they are aware of the appropriate nights to call and ask what you’re up to (really what they want to say is “INSEMINATE!” – potentially like some sort of demented dalek). One day they may just resort to showing up with a turkey baster and an evil grin.

Perhaps they don’t even care who you happen to be with. For my parents, any girl is the right girl for me as long as she’s fertile. Bonus points if she wants to work full time and leave the kid at home with them. They see most girls as wombs with legs at the moment.

Every time I see my parents I’m generally asked about when I’m going to get married and produce kids. When I say I can’t and they ask why, I respond with “because my kind of people can’t get married in this country and it’s biologically impossible for us to produce children”. This doesn’t placate them for long. They stopped taking me seriously when I became a vegetarian.

Unfortunately, I already know what they’re going to be like if I do finally cave and deliver them a grandchild. My sister popped (it took me five times to not write “pooped” just there) out a baby boy a little over a year ago and I could almost swear that my mother loses about 80 IQ points when he’s around. I know I’ve written before about how annoying babies can be, but to be honest, they have nothing on grandparents. Have you ever had the pleasure of hearing a woman in her late fifties squeal at the top of her lungs? I have. Every week.

Let’s keep that last little bit in context…. Otherwise it sounds remarkably unsuitable for public consumption.