Columns

Is it just me, or do all our public holidays blow massive elephant cock? (Seriously, Google elephant penis. It’s funny). Let’s take our national holiday: now, I don’t want to get into a deliriously redneck style here, but Waitangi Day makes me want to stab people. There’s no public thing to do on our “national day,” like the traditional Australia Day barbeque, or the traditional Fourth of July barbeque, or the traditional Bastille Day wank into a cup. No, the closest we have to a yearly ritual is watching the TV to see what stupid thing happened at the marae. ANZAC day receives a bit more respect, but you only have to take a Year Seven history class to learn that its origins stem from fifteen year olds being slaughtered by the dozen. Though, when you look at the state of some of today’s teenagers, I think another push to retake Chunkuk Bair sounds appealing. Then there’s Labour Day, the day where we celebrate working by not going to work. Labour Day is easily the only achievement made by the labour movement, so perhaps we should celebrate by going all working class: earn shit wages, drink beer by the crate and beat our spouses. We celebrate the Queen’s birthday four months after the date she popped out of Mrs. Queen’s oven, which neither makes sense nor is a good way to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I don’t have any friends, they all died in ‘Nam, but if I did and they showed up to my birthday party four months late, I’d eat the cake and tell them to piss off.

A proper holiday exists to sell you shit you don’t need at all (chocolate eggs) or to restock your supply of underwear (Christmas). Our public holidays are utterly rubbish; they should all be renamed “Three Day Weekend Day” because that’s the only thing we do on them. We sleep in, or get even more drunk than usual and more often than not forget that we’re supposed to be celebrating … something.