It’s Your Party, Hump a Bin if You Want to
I’m going to start out with a confession.
I have no love for drunk stories.
Your drunk stories are like doing heroin or trying to psycho-analyse your dreams. Perhaps enjoyable if you are you. Straight up illogical to everyone else.
I know this will come as a shock. I have sat through them. I have squealed in all the right places. But I hate them. They are dumb.*
But, while I would honestly rather talk about my tax return, I endure the drunk stories of my friends and coworkers with grace. Like me, they have a right as semi-functioning adults to blow off steam anyway they choose – whether it be at home re-watching old sitcoms with a wine (like me), out grinding at the cliz-ub (do people still call it that? Did they ever?) or enjoying that last bastion of moneyed boganism, the races.
The races is a place where Australians go to ruin their lives. Everyone gets dressed up, and then they have a drink and then they put money on a horse and then they have too many drinks and then they waste all their money on a horse and then they wake up on a lawn strewn with garbage covered in their own vomit.
Personally I freaking hate the races, as my idea of a good time doesn’t include control underwear, losing money or horse violence. But if you are on older bogan with skin like an old leather bag or a slightly overweight young person who likes the way you look in a bow tie/fascinator, and you wish to make the sacred pilgrimage to our nation’s second best city for the Melbourne Cup and act like a total clown, great.
But woe betide you if you expect to escape sexism while you’re there.
Old mate News Corp (where I ahem, totally work, these are solely my own opinions, etc etc) published a piece today entitled ‘Ladies, You are an Utter Disgrace‘ (thank you, thank you, but really, it was a team effort.) It warns us gals that we’re very welcome to attend the cup’s festivities, but God help us if we expect to join in.
“Where is your sense of dignity?” 100-year old etiquette lecturer, I mean, columnist Anne Usher berates, “How could you consider it appropriate in any way, to behave as some of you did? Your classless antics don’t just reflect poorly on you. They impact every single Australian woman — and how we are perceived in the eyes of the world.”
Hold up. Firstly, pretty sure she stole most of this from the speech my year three teacher gave after someone put glue on an annoying blonde kid’s seat and none of us would own up. Which, fair enough, it was pretty moving.
Secondly, it seems by “the way we are seen in the eyes of the world” she means one American wrote a piece about how ‘those Aoss-ies done look stupid’. These are a people who are seriously considering Donald Trump to RUN THEIR DAMN COUNTRY. I don’t even need to make a joke about The Donald, because he is his own punchline. So I think I speak for all Australian women when I say we don’t give a cheap polyester hair piece what those morons think.
Thirdly and most importantly, why the hell do we need to have a sense of dignity in the first place? Women have rarely been given one before.
But Usher wants to change all that. She says that instead of swigging from bottles and flashing vag at random passers by, we should emulate Jennifer Hawkins (what is her job?) or Kate Waterhouse (what is her job?) and Julie Bishop (JBish has two jobs. One is being awesome at politics and the other is refusing to define herself as a feminist and thus crushing female dreams across the nation.)
These women are classy. Their hair is shiny and they did their makeup just like Instagram said. And then they stood around and smiled at everyone and made polite small talk and if an old creepy man “accidentally” ran his fingers along their butt, they just tittered and figured it was all in the spirit of the thing. They didn’t try to (gasp) make any jokes or (shock) eat any canapes or (what) grab any man butt. They are good girls dammit.
Boys will be boys. Ladies, please perfectly curl your hair and then get out of the way.
At least, that’s how Hutton would have it.
“Sure,” she says “there’s just as many images to be found of boozed up blokes skylarking — but aren’t we as women better than that?”
Answer: No. And why the hell should we be?
How many times does it need to be said? Women are people just like men.
We’re expected to work like men, earn like men, take criticism like men – and then go home and spend the weekend in our matching Peter Alexander nightie and robe sets doing embroidery?
If we come to the party, we are there as accessories, not people.
Smells like horse shit to me.
Personally, I long ago got tired of standing on the sidelines trying to look as hot as Jennifer Hawkins (spoiler alert, this will never happen). She looks bored as hell anyway. So when I do get off the couch and head out to whichever local watering hole my cool friends tell me is worth it, I will not be getting blind-vomit-drunk or hooking up with a rando, because frankly that is not what I want to do. But I will sing karaoke and get in screaming fights about politics and sometimes throw my shoes at people.
So, while I may not really want to be there while you throw up in a gift bag or pretend to give a blow job to a can of pringles, I will defend your right to do so as long as I can type.
Grab life by the bin handles and hump it.
Just don’t tell me about it afterwards.
*If any of you other boring people were wondering, faking interest in a drunk story is extremely easy. All you do is take what you want to say and stop approximately a third of the way though, like:
You keyed that bitches car? That’s so awesome(ly irresponsible do you know how much a custom paint fix costs)
You went home with him and the sex was bad?! Babe no way (could you expect anything else drunk men are terrible at sex they can barely even find the ground good luck to them with anything smaller)
You spent $300? You’re crazy (when it comes to managing your money please let me get you a high interest saving account)