July 5, 2013
Why do chicks on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook et al, think that by training in a gym for 3 hours a day, ‘clean eating’ bollocks, painting themselves orange and performing in shit competitions that no-one other than orange-coloured training chicks give a fuck about, taking steamed cabbage in a fucking container to Grill’d and taking a million photos of their overly muscular backs, think that they’re delivering some sort of self-serving benefit to fucking society?
There’s one on my Twitter who apparently ‘resolves to make the world a better place’ by posting fitness videos of her, semi-naked, working out in a gym. That might be making something better, but it’s not the world.
Sweary Bear says:
Look it it this way, Simon. Those three hours a day spent at the gym are keeping these muscular ladies occupied while sensible beings like you and me get down to the important business of writing whiny comments on a fucking blog written by a fucking bear. Sure, they might have a misguided sense of what’s important and an unhealthy obsession with their own upward-pointing arse cheeks, but as long as they’re posting photos of themselves in between workouts and cabbage farts, they’re not sucking back crystal meth and breaking into your fucking car. Meanwhile, why don’t you write an angry message to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook and ask them why they don’t make the ‘UNFOLLOW’ button more prominent to clueless knobjockeys who can’t seem to find the fucking thing.
PS. Sorry it took me so long to reply. I was busy shredding my awesome abs.
June 11, 2013
Have you ever tried to become an oncologist? It’s actually quite fucking difficult.
First, you need to finish high school with a higher-than-Lindsay-Lohan-on-a-relapse ATAR.
Then there’s the undergrad degree. And I’m not talking the usual kind of undergrad degree where you can spend about twelve hours a week off your tits listening to ukulele bands and shithouse performance poetry in the uni bar trying to hustle pool so you’ve got enough coin to buy chips and gravy. I’m talking six or seven years of actual fucking study and lectures and tutorials and clinical placements and getting elbow-deep in cadavers and only a tiny bit of being completely trolleyed and mostly only on weekends.
But you’ve only just started. You’ve still got an internship and a residency to get through, which means you’ll have been training, studying, researching, writing, talking, prodding, poking, testing and caring for about eight years and you’re still only about halfway fucking qualified. Add on another six or more years of post-post-graduate training to become a Fellow of the Royal Australasian College of Physicians, which is precisely as fucking important and proper and scary as it sounds; get a few gazillion hours of patient contact, rural placements and being called out at stupid-o-clock to care for people under your belt; undertake the mother of all assessments; and there you are. Australia finally thinks you know enough to manage and treat cancer patients. You’re an oncologist.
I’ll tell you who’s not an oncologist. This blogger and flogger of fucking “motivational jewellery” and fucking “wellness wisdom nuggets”. She’ll tell you how to make delicious raw desserts and how to spend hours a day making juice and how to squirt coffee up your arsehole while wearing a nice frock and smiling for photos.
Will she cure cancer? Fuck no.
I’ll tell you who else isn’t an oncologist. This fucking guy. He’ll tell you that very special peptides made from very special piss will make you all better, but not before you cough up thousands of very special dollars. He’ll tell you he’s been published widely, as if that means a fucking thing if it’s not in a peer-reviewed journal that actual experts actually read. He’ll tell you he’s a fucking renegade genius, because no other quack in the history of the world before him ever claimed that, did they?
Will he cure cancer? Fuck no.
I’ll tell you who else isn’t an oncologist. Arsewipes who sell this fucking sinister slime. They’ll tell you this particular mix of poison and false hope can magically tell the difference between cancerous cells and healthy tissue, and only burn a massive gaping hole in your face in a nice way. They’ll tell you it’s only been banned by every self-respecting public health authority because they’re big fucking meanies who don’t want health crusaders to have the right to basic freedoms like promoting essential wellness or some other fucking bollocks.
Will they cure cancer? Fuck no.
There are thousands of easy ways to make money. You can sell jewellery or arse-espressos on a pretty website. You can test piss-derivatives on desperate patients for huge wads of cash. You can supply bloodroot mixed with jojoba and tell people to smear it on their sunspots until they fucking fall off.
Oncology isn’t easy. Sure, you can make money from it, but only if you spend years of time away from your own family trying to save someone else’s; using the very best knowledge that the collective history of thousands of really fucking smart people have managed to build over decades of dedication, to keep as many people as healthy as possible in the face of an indiscriminate bastard of a disease. It’s fucking hard, it’s fucking heartbreaking and it’s fucking important.
Fuck you, cancer quacks. Fuck. You.
May 7, 2013
Fuck you, internet.
Twenty years ago, I was blissfully unaware of how many different kinds of complete and utter fucking nutjobs wandered the Earth. But thanks to the technological free-for-all that is the internet, I’ve now got a metric shitload of bullshit pouring from my screen, with thousands of spittle-specked knobjockeys just a click away.
No longer can I go about my day, happy in the delusion that humans more or less agree about some reasonably simple concepts. That modern medicine is not inherently evil. That vaccination is not a secret plot to cull the population by knocking off innocent babbies. That the condensed exhaust trails of aircraft are not vapourised mind-controlling chemicals. That the Rothchilds are just a hardworking family trying to make ends meet in an unforgiving world.
But no. The internet brings a cavalcade of half-baked conspiracist fuckwits to my attention every single day. So fuck you, internet.
Some may, of course, argue that the internet has revolutionised the way we communicate with each other, and that it’s done wonders for bringing much-needed attention to some extremely important causes. Before the internet, I had no idea about the plight of kidnapped child soldiers, the insurmountable inequities of global finance or the very short shorts being sold in kids’ clothing stores. And now these magnificently worthy issues have been brought to the forefront of human consciousness.
But if all we’re doing when we become aware of these travesties is clicking a fucking ‘Like’ button or sitting in a town square holding a cardboard sign or putting a shitty little ribbon-shaped arrangement of pixels on a social media avatar, what’s the fucking point? Fuck you, internet.
Sure, the internet brings us news and information faster than any previously available medium, and that certainly sounds like a good thing. But unless Jeff Goldblum and Morgan Freeman are in fact dead, I remain fucking skeptical.
It’s true that the internet provides a great platform for interacting with news and events – every news article, blog post and uploaded broadcast provides an opportunity for any random fucknuckle to offer their two cents at its arse end. And where would we be without the dazzlingly constructive input of well-informed web users offering up their highbrow, hand-flapping feedback? Apparently dying from fluoride poisoning under the thumb of reptilian overlords and the strictures of Sharia Law. Well fuck you, internet.
I’m willing to concede that the internet has provided some pretty fucking nifty alternatives to outdated information sources and business models. You can now shop around for products, services, information or sexual partners without leaving the comfort of your crumb-covered comfy chair. But when those convenient services include medical advice from a fucking symptom-generator on the other side of the fucking world, convenience seems to be the poor ginger cousin of fucking commonsense. Here’s a tip: no doctor worth her title will tell you that the spots on your arse are either heat rash, Thrombocytopenia or gunshot wounds and ask you to choose your favourite. So fuck you, internet.
But why am I complaining to you? You’re quite clearly an intelligent and discerning individual who can tell the difference between bullshit and reality, and who uses the internet in a fulfilling and constructive way. Which is why you’ve spent the last five minutes reading an inane brain-dump written on a tiny blog by a fucking bear.
Turn the fucking thing off.
June 26, 2012
What tastes sweeter – a Liberal Frontbencher, or a child marxist who thinks everything is unfair, and capitalism should be unwound?
Sweary Bear says:
I tend to steer clear of Liberal frontbenchers. They may look firm and juicy from a distance, but inside they’re all empty calories and institutionalised homophobia. Joe Hockey is the obvious exception. His slow-moving bulk and thick skin make him a piece of piss to catch and provide excellent crackling. Once caught, he could easily feed a boat-load of asylum seekers for a fucking month.
Child Marxists are fine to snack on as long as they’re still children, but older morsels tend to repeat on you endlessly. Slow-cooking is not recommended, but a quick zap from Julie Bishop’s “don’t fuck with my Jesus” stare produces tantalising results.
June 26, 2012
omg, there gonna force me to work for the dole, its such a total fucking, fucked up waste of time,
i left high school after completing my hsc, with no thanks to my alcoholic, lazy, bad teachers who’s only purpose, it seems was to coast through the school year , contributing as little as possible for a nicer future.
a decade later of hospitality work, in kitchens and housekeeping. i discovered that though i still love cooking and cleaning, i certainly don’t like having to do it commercially, iv also discovered that i hate dealing with the public in general, i would equate the ‘public’ as being a big, stupid, clumsy, mongrel dog that doesn’t know how it appears, or even knows when to stop eating. god-dam , mother fucking pigs, how they disgust me to the very recoils of my flesh.
now , after a year of being unemployed, i refuse to be subjected to “shit-work” mr abbott says that im to plant trees beside a highway, or maybe clean up vomit in various locations.
mr abbott, if you have managed to tear yourself away from throwing darts at refugees, and have put down your glass of poor peoples ashes and childrens tears. and now find yourself reading this, let me just say, that you can just bend on over and suck my balls, fuck you, you loanthsome peice of gobshite, when im offered work for god-dam dole, i promise that i will do all in my power to keep inside the required guidelines asked of me to retain my benefits, and that while complying with all rules within the system, i will also be bringing alot of other things to the table, like why im being treated like a slave, how will the project affect my depression , and how its affects my job hunting skills.
im a bit of a medical wonder also, whenever i find myself in a situation i dont want to be in, i get really sloppy, and careless with any work im doing, i hope i dont get “hurt”as a result, and would hate for anyone else to get injured because i wasnt paying attention . each time im made to go to these pathetic clusterings, it will be my goal to be as useless, lazy, rude, and unpleasant as possible, until they free me.
i can assure that i will make it my buisness to make life miserable to all those who dare try and tell me what do.
Sweary Bear says:
Is there an actual problem in that fucking cavalcade of wah you’ve just posted, or are you just trying to add me to the long list of people responsible for motivating you back into some semblance of productive member of society? All I can offer you is this:
1. If you don’t like the shit that spews forth from Tony Abbot, don’t fucking vote for him.
2. If you don’t like working, take a fucking number.
3. If you seek my advice about being a ravenous lamprey on the public purse while waiting around for the Magic Fucking Employment Fairy to offer you a job as Head of R&D in an orgasm factory, you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree.
Good luck and all.
March 9, 2012
Fuck it. I’m going to start my own religion. There are a few things I’ll need.
1. A frock and some giant novelty headgear.
Nothing says “KNEEL DOWN BEFORE ME” like a flowing robe and a pointy hat with sparkles on it. Religious boss-men have been wearing shit like this for fucking centuries, since an era when this look was considered a little more majestic and authoritarian, and less ‘I-lost-a-bet-with-Glinda-the-Good-Witch’.
2. An instruction manual.
Rather than sit down and have an actual fucking think about what my religion will teach people and how it will fit into the world, I’m going to grab the biggest book I can find, close my eyes and point randomly at passages, and shout them to an assembled crowd. One day it could be “THOU SHALT NOT KILL!!”, the next it could be “STONE ADULTERERS TO DEATH!!” and the next it could be “TABLE OF CONTENTS!!”
3. A financial plan.
Fuck taxes. I’m going to adopt the age-old practice of adopting a woeful expression, pushing a basket into people’s faces and telling them they’re evil until they cough up the fucking cheddar, and I’m going to keep all of it. And the government is going to fucking let me.
4. Something from outer space.
Scientology has Xenu the space guy. Heaven’s Gate had a rescue spaceship in a comet’s tail. Christianity has a managing director in the sky. And I will have a big angry space robot who rains shit down on people who kill, steal, read New Idea or say “O-M-G!” out loud.
February 17, 2012
DEAR INTERNET: MY FREEDOM OF SPEECH IS BEING SUPPRESSED!
Oh, fuck off.
If you have the freedom to whine like a fucking toddler with a soiled nappy via a blog post, newspaper column, radio show or speaking tour, then your idea of freedom is fucked up.
For starters, Australians have no explicit right to freedom of speech. But we’re lucky enough to have the convention of free speech, with a shitload of other rights and privileges that prop it up. That’s why you’re allowed to sit around your house in the nude drinking imported gin and tweeting about why you think the government is running the country like a bunch of childish, self-serving pricks; or the shape-shifting reptilian royal family is plotting to inject humankind with mind-control chips, or the only way to get to heaven is to be very cross about abortion.
There are some things you’re not allowed to do, of course. And some of those things are even more important than being free to hang shit on whoever the fuck you like. It might surprise some people to learn that the actual rights of other people trump their imaginary right to spray chunks of hate-filled word-turds over an audience of mouth-breathing, russet-nosed sycophants.
Like gay people’s right to not be driven to suicide because they’re convinced by the people they look up to that they’re some kind of fucking abomination.
Like indigenous people’s right to identify themselves as Aboriginal, despite the relative light-absorbing qualities of their fucking epidermis.
Like the right of everyone to believe whatever the fuck they want, whether it’s in Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Mother Nature, the Lost Tribe of Shabazz or the Flying Fucking Spaghetti Monster without having some righteous knob-end tell you that their set of rules shits on your set of rules.
Like the right of anyone to disagree with what you say without you pissing and moaning about your rights being abused and calling in some fucking lawyerly type with a schmancy letterhead clutching the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
There. I’ve exercised my non-explicit freedom of speech. I need a fucking cup of tea.
February 3, 2012
Everyone‘s fucking famous these days. All you need is to get your mug on a website, sign up to one of a vast range of lame-arsed reality shows or stand in the window of a telly studio waving like a fucking moron while morning television presenters pretend they don’t want to shove a boom mike up your attention-grabbing date.
There’s only one thing that seems to differentiate the average self-important knob-in-the-street from the truly, undeniably, scumbag-papparazzi-attracting famous:
That’s right. Wearing a spangly bikini on a 360-degree stage while miming into a blingy microphone won’t do it anymore. Receiving twelve million dollars for pretending to cry in front of a fucking camera won’t do it anymore. It’s not enough that people recognise your face, your clothes, your voice or your fucking backhand. In the twenty-first century, you have to have a famous odour.
Kylie has one. P.Diddy has one. Paris Hilton (remember her?) has fucking eight or something. Even Peter Andre has one, and it doesn’t smell like knob, surprisingly.
But what about those well-knowns who aren’t on stage, screen or sports field? Why does the market only support the stench of the pretty people? What about those other, less glamorous humans who, despite their lack of costumery, entourage or internationally-acquired pay-babies, nevertheless have made a big enough footprint in our lives to warrant their own overpriced bottle of stink? May I suggest the following:
Tony Abbot’s ‘No’
Tony’s manly new fragrance expertly blends ambition, a hint of the ocean unsullied by refugees and the musty family values of yesteryear. So close to the top job you can smell it, this fragrance reeks of desperation.
Julia Gillard’s ‘Soft’
At first sniff, this fragrance blend promises freshness, boldness and invincibility. Once it’s out of the bottle it softens the resolve of any hard-line policymaker, making the wearer an apologist for any constituents with the power to woo the Liberals if they don’t get their way.
Kyle Sandiland’s ‘Fat Slag’
Worn by Jackie O and a swarm of gutless, adolescent media executives, Fat Slag has a rambunctious, cheeky scent that is perfect for radio. Notes of egoism and misogyny will linger long after the bottle’s use-by date.
Melinda Tankard Reist’s ‘Feminismish’
No musky, alluring, heady olfactory treats here. Just the pure bouquet of white cotton crinoline with the suggestion of godliness and mandated full-term pregnancy.
Gina Rinehart’s ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!’
Artfully crafted from coal dust and the perspiration of the proletariat, this strictly-limited-edition rich essence is available only to non-threatening sycophants. Spray some of this on your ample assets and you’ll smell like 16.8 billion bucks.
Personally, I’d rather smell like a slightly damp, fucking cranky carnivore.
January 13, 2012
Fucking awards shows. They’re the broadcast entertainment equivalent of snapping a hot rubber band on a brand new haemorrhoid. I mean sure, if actors and writers and producers and telly-makers are doing an especially good job, by all means give them a free frock and a shiny trophy. But do I need to watch? Fuck no.
Category is read out. Nominees are listed. Close-ups of nominees putting on their best It’s-A-Privelege-Just-To-Be-Here-All-The-Other-Nominees-Are-Shit expression. Winner is announced. Gushing winner looks shocked and approaches the microphone to thank all the people they were bitching about in the make-up chair only hours ago. Roomful of stonkered hopefuls proffer polite pinkie-claps and try to remain upright. Rinse. Repeat. Gag. Retch.
Bah. Enough moaning. Voting has just opened for the 2012 Logie Awards, and I figure it’s time to offer an alternative. Allow me to present the nominations for the Inaugural Sweary Bear Telly Awards.
Best Program Concept by a Work Experience Kid
- The Renovators
- Question Time
- Junior MasterChef
- Anything with Eddie Maguire in it.
Most Ironic Placement of a ‘Celebrity’ In A Program With ‘Celebrity’ In The Title
- Kirk Pengilly
- Warwick Capper
- Anthony Mundine
- That bird who was in that show that time.
Most Amusing Portrayal of a Journalist
- Helen Wellings
- Karl Stefanovic
- Andrew Bolt
- Anyone in a chopper hovering over Channel Nine’s Brisbane HQ
Most Unnecessary News Story
- “The Reserve Bank of Australia has announced that interest rates will remain the same”
- “Relatives gathered at the funeral of [insert dead person’s name here]”
- “An otherwise clean-cut celebrity tweeted something slightly off-colour today…”
- “There’s a new and amusing series coming up on this very network so we’re spending five minutes promoting during this news broadcast because fuck all those dying soldiers. Fucking ratings killers.”
Most Creative Interpretation of “Comedy”
- Ben Elton Live From Planet Earth
- Angry Boys
- Hey Hey It’s Saturday
- Fat Pizza / Swift and Shift / Housos etc etc
Most Outstanding Performance in an Off-Screen Incident
- Matthew Newton, for that time he fucked up.
- Matthew Newton, for that other time he fucked up.
- Matthew Newton, for fucking up again when he really should have known better.
- The National Rugby League, for just about everything.
December 23, 2011
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “what does a potty-mouthed arse-scratching bear know about etiquette?”
Well, I can spell etiquette without having to look it up. Other than that, fuck all. But you don’t have to be an expert to write a supercilious, authoritarian, speculative blog post (am I right, Meryl Dorey? Andrew Bolt?). So here it is – Sweary Bear’s guide to behaving yourself during Christmas lunch.
- Gather as many family members and/or friends as you can stand together in a room. If, after a certain amount of time has elapsed, you cannot converse with said family members and/or friends without things turning into an almighty shit fight, utilise the numbing effect of stop-motion animated Christmas specials on the telly until the most offensive participants have fallen asleep.
- Think about an appropriate exit strategy before you arrive at Aunty Doreen’s Mothballed House of Fragile Things. Suddenly remembering you have to go home to wash your hair just to escape the annual horror of hot brandy custard with lumps doesn’t really cut it on Christmas Day.
- Give presents to people you love. That doesn’t mean buying them any old piece of production-line plastic shit from the Reject Shop that’s going to be tomorrow’s fucking landfill. Buy them a fucking pizza. Everyone likes pizza. As a matter of fact, buy me a pizza. Now.
- Shout “This turkey’s STUFFED!!” and look around for approval, unless you are the only middle-aged, childless uncle in the family. In that case, people expect that kind of shit from you.
- Assume that Christmas means the same to others as it does to you. If you’re all Goddy about it, then fucking yay for you. If not, grab an extra prawn while everyone else is saying grace. Who’s gonna know?
- Buy noisy, glittery toys for kids with a million little parts that fall off as soon as you breathe on them and need a fucking doctorate degree in engineering to put them back together again. Unless the kids’ parents bought you a novelty talking cookie jar last year, in which case, go fucking nuts.
If, over the so-called festive season, you get into a car with a bloodstream full of alcohol, please pass out in the driveway before you hurt anyone else, you fucking brainless moron.