Tales From The Kitchen Floor - Part I

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Amazing what a bare floor, a laptop..and a botle of vodka can result in....

Submitted: September 16, 2006

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Submitted: September 16, 2006



Last time I left you, I was getting myself ready to head back to Australia, the “Mother Land.”

Well, I haven’t quite departed yet, mainly because, in my own mindless fashion, I stuffed up the airline tickets, didn’t I? (I think it was probably a subconscious thing, in order to delay the act of getting on a plane for as long as humanly possible.)
My husband, as you can imagine, is less than impressed. He has stated that he will arrange the itinerary this time. I have a feeling that, when we do get to the airport, his ticket will say SYDNEY and mine will read MOSCOW.

The upside of this is that a) I get a few more weeks of hanging out in an empty apartment with just my laptop and a bottle of vodka, and b) I get a chance to tell you a little more about my beloved, upside-down country.

I am sure that most of you are aware of our humble beginnings. Back in the 1700s, a bright spark in Bonnie Olde England decided that the prisons were somewhat overcrowded. And so, with the recent discovery of a vast and seemingly untenable country, what better way to ditch a few convicts than to send them there?
There are rumors that the pompous knucklehead in question, came to this historical decision, when he and his wife woke up and found that a few of these felons had been relocated into his bedroom chambers.

Well, I think it is a marvelous achievement that we have grown into such a prosperous nation, considering that we started out as a bunch of nimble-fingered crooks.

I also believe that, because of our somewhat shady beginning in history, we have emerged to be the ultimate champions of the ‘underdog’.
We will clap, cheer and pull for the most unlikely winner in any arena, especially when it comes to sport. It doesn’t matter if the athletes/teams have lost fifty times in a row, are missing limbs, or have even switched sides mid-game; we will still encourage them until the very end - or at least, until they actually win.

It kind of reminds me of the Chicago Cubs baseball team here.
It is almost a given that these lovable losers will never get into the World Series. (They came close last season - but most can’t talk about that…*sniffle* Tissues please?) And yet, year after year, the fans come out in droves, to root for their beloved Cubbies.

Just a side note: It was with more than a little perplexity that I listened to the 7th inning raucous rendition of “Take me Out to the Ball Game” on my first visit to Wrigley Field, especially when it got to the line “Root, root, root for the Cubbies.” I won’t go into it too much, but I will say this, if you ever do visit Australia- declaring loudly that you are going to ‘root’ for your team might raise a few eyebrows (and a few sexy propositions.)

Thus, if any sportsman or woman is deemed to lose, you can bet your bottom dollar that the Aussies will get behind and root (No. Get your mind out of the gutter) for them, come rain or come shine ..or come colostomy bags, in the case of some rather unfortunate, albeit determined athletes.

I am also quite certain that our nefarious roots are to blame for our endless fascination, and subsequent adulation, of homegrown criminals.

In the USA, there are mountains of literary works dedicated to such legendary heroes as Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett (and of course, his lesser known, but equally intrepid cousin, Wally Sprockett, who proved to be very handy with a wrench during the Alamo incident.)

Australians however, are fixated on those who were really, just very naughty boys.
Paintings and books can be found in any library about the infamous “Ned Kelly”: The Australian Bushranger Extraordinaire.
He was a rather mixed-up chappy, who, after shooting up the bushland ‘hood’, and, finding himself cornered by police, had a stroke of defensive, if not slightly warped, genius.
He fashioned himself a mask of iron that protected his face (leaving only a slot for his eyes) and upper shoulders.
It was at this point in the plan that he encountered a bit of a hitch.
Either he ran out of iron, or he was under the illusion that his gonads were made of steel, because he declined to make a suit of matching armor for the rest of his body. He boldly wandered out, was promptly shot in the knees, and subsequently hung.

I suddenly feel strangely embarrassed.

Australians really do have a thing for the downtrodden, let there be no doubt. For not only do we tout the underling, we enthusiastically, even rabidly, cut down those whom we see as getting “too successful.”

There is a name for this phenomenon: The Tall Poppy Syndrome.

This strange and somewhat gleefully vindictive condition emerges when an Australian, a ‘little Aussie battler,’ actually gets off the couch, puts the beer down and goes out to make a stupendous success of himself/herself.
Aussies are more than happy to acknowledge their fellow countrymen’s triumphs, until, that is; they leave our shores and go on to conquer the world stage (or say, Animal Planet.)
Nicole Kidman, Mel Gibson, Kylie Minogue, just to name a few, have all been on the receiving end of some reasonably savage criticism, just because they had the gall to take their success further than the Sydney Harbor Bridge. (Mind you, in the case of Dame Edna Everage – that was simply trying to keep diplomatic relations on an even keel with the rest of the civilized world.)

I think this is a bit stupid myself (as we are left with all the irritating ones.) So, when I get back, I am going to counter this with: The Smelly Lantana-Plant Syndrome.
If I see anyone getting too big for their boots, I shall purposely ‘send’ them overseas, let them spread like wildfire and be an annoying pest in someone else’s backyard. (Now, where did I leave the Crocodile Hunter’s address? Must be around here somewhere..)

Though I jest, I would like nothing better than to see Kylie Minogue come back to the Australian soap opera scene, or even have Mel return to our shores. If you can hear me, Germaine Greer, you too, are welcome home at any time.

No, shut up, Murdoch, you just stay RIGHT where you are.

Well, this little Aussie duck’s butt is getting mighty starched from sitting here hammering away. I think I’ll go and wander down to Wrigley and root for (Stop that!) the Cubbies.

Watch this ‘floorboard’ space.

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