Pokémon Goes Out of Control

Remember when we’d stalk the streets and pile into parks searching for Pokèmon? When the cops would ask you what you were doing hanging around outside a stranger’s home at midnight and you could explain that you were just on a quest? Or when a slim chance of catching a Vaporeons was worth stopping traffic and risking your life for? Good times.

But as popularity for the app wanes, Pokèmon have gone from being the most hunted species on the planet, to a damn nuisance. They’re fucking everywhere. The last remnant of sad Pokèmon master trainers are said to be outnumbered 7000-1.

Parks (‘GYMS’) have become breeding grounds, and our streets are at risk of being overrun by these pests once thought cute and fun. And now our native wildlife are suffering. Poor street rats are being forced out of their natural habitats behind Chinese restaurants. Not to mention, the damage being done to our property. Just recently, a car in Brooklyn was set a blaze by a rampant Charizard.

But it doesn’t end there. While walking my dog this morning, I happened to step right in Pokèmon poop. Sure, it may be invisible to the naked eye, but it’s safe to say it was probably there. I mean, let’s face it, based on the sheer numbers of Pokèmon roaming around, we’ve probably all stepped in their shit. Go on, check your shoe.

My question is: how long before a mother claims that a Diglett took my baby?  What we must do is simple. We need to dust off those cobwebs from our Pokèmon Go app (or re-download it in most cases) and take action! But this time, we gotta catch and kill ’em all.

 

 

 

First & Last

I’ve never beaten anybody in a race. Well, post-birth that is. And if I hadn’t have won that race, I wouldn’t be here today. The first race any of us are ever in, and it could of (perhaps, should of) been my last. I managed to win the right to be born. I beat millions of other sperm in a race to the egg; which probably says more about the quality of the competition than it does anything else. I can only assume my one and only victory came down to a mix-up. Perhaps I jumped the gun and got off to a good start. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right that I’m here, especially after being defeated by a kid almost half my age at the swimming carnival earlier today. My high school P.E teacher seems to share the same assumption. She once lost her cool with me and blurted out in front of the whole class, ‘How fucking slow and stupid must the other sperm have been for you to be born?’ She’s no longer teaching at my school, which isn’t to say she was wrong.

That initial race must have really taken it out of me. Maybe I put so much energy into winning, that I’ve completely exerted myself. It would explain why I’ve felt drowsy and fatigued ever since birth. My mother had me on a variety of vitamins and tablets to combat iron and energy deficiencies as a child, however, none if it ever made a difference. It’s as though my body is still catching its breath. Or maybe it’s just resting on its laurels, content with that one taste of victory. And It’s not as though the victory of being born is something one can cling to, either. Life is like one giant green room filled with 6 billion others who’ve all won the same race. Everyone’s a winner, so it doesn’t even count anymore. It’s like defecating or breathing, we’ve all done it. So you can’t bring it up in conversation and brag about it, or put down the other sperm who lost and died doing so. Nobody living even remembers winning that race. That’s how many other fucking races they’ve won. Is it really impossible to recall life as a semen? Or have people deleted it from their memory bank to make room for all of the other victories they’ve had since birth?

Sometimes I sit alone for hours trying to think back to that race. I try and recall the feeling of making it into the egg first, but it never works. Occasionally I’ll have a nightmare about it; I trip and fall allowing another sperm to get there at the very last second. Other times I’ll dream about the doctor telling my mum that there was a mistake, “The wrong sperm won.” He frowns. “You’ve got a loser on your hands, the rightful winner has been robbed.” The nurse adds. Unhappy with the result, my father applies to have the race rescheduled. The doctor apologises, informing my parents that unfortunately none of the other sperm survived. “You’ll have to start over and try again from scratch.” This news brings a smile to my father’s face. “No,” my mother says, “we’ll keep the baby, for now.”

I wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, as if I’ve just finished the race. I wonder if it was it worth it? Being born, I mean. What’s the point of winning if you’re doomed to lose forever. I sometimes wish I would have let another sperm win. That way I wouldn’t be getting laughed at by this kid at the swimming carnival. Did I mention that he’s almost half my age! “It’s nothing to be proud of,” I blurt out, “I’ve lost to kids a lot younger than you.” What kind of comeback is that? I’ve only made it worse for myself, he’s laughing even louder. I’m drowning. I try and focus on the comfort of my ergonomic desk chair, my high-speed internet connection, and the release of Call of Duty Advanced Warfare waiting for me at home.

@therapist

My therapist moved his practice online. From now on I have to vent my problems in 140 characters or less.

Nobody Ever Wants to Rest in a Restroom

Relic in Waiting

My wallet is overcrowded. It’s my fault, I treat it like the second bedroom of my single bedroom apartment. It’s full of junk. In fact, up until September 1, 2014 nothing inside my wallet was of any real value. But thanks to Opal Card my stash of old train tickets will eventually become collector’s items in the distant, distant future. They’ll be kept in those glass cabinets you see in antique stores. The ones that require a series of rusted minuscule keys to unlock. Keys that can only be turned by weathered and wrinkled hands. Simply asking to view an old train ticket will instantly raise eyebrows and attract muttered whispers of jealousy like… ‘They must have a fair bit of bob’.  

I’m saving this one to put my great great great great great grandson through University. You’ll see. It’ll happen.

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Spielberg is a synonym for magic.

The Double Life of a Wattle Bottle

A winter saviour by night. A cold rubbery thing by morning.

Nobody Ever Thanks God On A Monday

A face that says it all.

If there was a voice that summed up Monday it would sound something like Morrisey. If Monday was a face it would look like Daria. If Monday had a flavour it would be Tofu. If Monday had a texture it would resemble Sandpaper. Thank God it’s not always Monday. 

Bath Age

Andrew Nguyen and Korina Chow. From 23 to 73 in just 3 hours bath time

Ever wondered what it might be like to make love when you’re old and wrinkly? Simple: stay in the bath that little bit longer. That’s right, they’re calling it Bath Age, and it’s the latest trend being soaked up by hip millennials.

The bath craze was believed to be inspired by Rookie founder and socialite – Tavi Gevinson, who published a series of risqué images of what looked like a senior version of herself, revealing a fair amount of wrinkled thigh. Fans of the tween icon were initially shocked, wondering if their idol was suffering from the side effects of excessive smoking. However, Tavi’s people were quick to kill the rumour, responding with a rejuvenated image of Tavi’s skin restored in all its glamour with the caption and hashtag: show us your #bathage.

Since then selfies of teens looking like their grandparents have flooded social media. Instagram has been inundated with retro-chic filtered images of wrinkled hands: knitting, making tea, and gardening. Pop culture and social media expert Sophie Banks believes it’s simply a natural progression for young people obsessed with all things old and vintage.

‘When you think about it, it’s a natural evolution of the whole retro-hipster thing. Vintage cameras, filters, fashion, music, and now skin! With #bathage you can even look vintage, you know.’

The art of staying in the bath too long has inspired curious young couples to experiment with the idea of having sex with a wrinkled partner. Jessie, a 24 year old barista from Collingwood, says it’s helped change her perception of old people.

‘Yeah, I mean, like, I’ve always thought getting old and still having sex was gross. Like, picturing your grandparents still going at it. It’s weird. But me and my boyfriend thought we’d give it a try, so we took a 3 hour bath. I’ve got to admit, And I never thought I’d say this, but, it was like a turn on.’

Sophie Banks believes that the idea of experimenting with extended baths is a tempting thought. A preview of what’s to come, so to speak.

‘I’m not suggesting that everyone is going to use baths as a way of glimpsing into the future, and take up wrinkly love making. But if young people can grow an appreciation for vintage skin, then they may just gain some respect for their elders who still possess the desire to ‘go at it’ you know.’

Brands have already jumped on the trend, with Dove rushing out the release of a new bubble bath product designed to speed up the ageing process of a bath. Rather than spending your whole night in the bath, you can achieve the desired ageing process in just minutes. And better yet, the bubbles help prolong your wrinkles for longer love making.

Will you show the world your #bathage?