November 16, 2015
“So both of my parents became fucking lunatics lately and I’m getting as mad as a frog in a sock, with otherwise careless and shit-for-brains people who do fuck all except annoy the living shit out of me. What would you do?”
Sweary Bear says:
What would I do, Dick? Let’s see. If I found myself in the unique and terrifying position of having crazy parents, and I got so angry that I was driven to misuse a treasured Australian idiomatic simile, I would write a quick note on the blog of someone pretending to be a fucking bear. You’ve done the right thing, Dick.
September 8, 2015
“what the fuck do you fuckin’ do when both the fuckin’ world and the fuckin’ internet conspire the fuck against you? Would taking a fuckin’ shit it the fuckin’ woods fuckin’ help?”
Sweary Bear says:
Usually I just say “fuck” a lot.
April 9, 2015
“something is fucking wrong with me what is it sweary bear”
Sweary Bear says:
Let me explain how this thing works. You tell me your problem, and I try to help. It’s not a fucking guessing game where you tell me something’s wrong with you (which is pretty fucking obvious, since you’re asking a fucking bear on the fucking internet, you dipshit) and I speculate wildly about the shitty problems of a fucking stranger I’ve never even fucking met. If I wanted to speculate wildly about the shitty problems of a fucking stranger I’ve never even fucking met, I’d open a fucking remote reiki healing business and tell you your purple chakra is fucked up or some shit like that.
Having said that, I will take a stab and say that your problem is a complete lack of punctuation, syntax and majuscule characters. And if you don’t know what majuscule characters are, they look a bit like this:
YOU’RE FUCKING WELCOME, WHINEY PANTS.
December 2, 2014
Trying to get reliable, factual information from the internet is like trying to describe daytime TV without using the word “shithouse”. It can be done, but the effort involved is more than most humans can be fucked with.
Pick a topic. Anything you like. I guarantee you’ll find ten pages crammed with eye-burning horseshit for every one containing anything close to the truth. That’s because there’s no priority webspace given to proper, qualified experts over random chin-dribbling arseholes with movable fingers. The internet is for everyone!
So how do you wade through the quagmire of word-shaped turds to find stuff worth absorbing without getting brown socks? How do you sort the diamonds from the derp? The gold from the gobshites? The facts from the fucktards?
Everyone gets blinded by bullshit now and then, but you can help yourself avoid the biggest bum-nuggets by asking three simple questions.
Question one: Who the fuck are you?
Not everybody with an education is good at what they do, but relevant qualifications are a good fucking start. If someone’s going to smear their opinions all over the web and expect you to take notice, it’s not too much to ask that they’ve done some fucking research. And “research” doesn’t mean owning books or photocopying magazines or counting the fucking hours spent licking a laptop screen. It means spending a worthwhile amount of time in a recognised learning place, learning from recognised experts in a recognised field of expertise, and being recognised for it.
You’ll find important-sounding people spinning all kinds of word-garbage online. Retired micropaleontologists mouth-frothing over vaccinations. Posh pretenders with PowerPoint presentations about climate change. Vitamin salesmen wearing lab coats. But just because these people have painted themselves with a veneer of respectability, doesn’t mean their brainfarts smell like cinnamon.
If you’re reading about Topic X and the author has qualifications in Topic Y or none at all, be fucking suspicious. If they claim to be an expert, look them up. Most experts don’t make their credentials difficult to find.
Of course, there are plenty of excellent things written by unqualified people (and some fucking mediocre drivel banged out by bears), which shouldn’t necessarily be ignored. But if your aim is to get an expert opinion on something, make sure it comes from an actual fucking expert.
Question two: How the fuck do you know?
What people know is important. How they come to know it is just as fucking important.
Think about some of the really top-notch inventions you have access to. Ultrasound. Aeroplanes. Organ transplants. Microwaves. Surprisingly, not one of these came about as the result of some self-important knobjockey sitting in a chair with a bag of Twisties and thinking about stuff.
Sitting in a chair with a bag of Twisties and thinking about stuff is a fucking great thing to do, if you have the time and a reasonably low tolerance for clogged arteries. But on a productivity scale of one to ten, where one is “half a wank” and ten is “world peace”, it’s hovering pretty low.
Thinking about stuff is brilliant. But in the absence of investing, developing, consulting, testing, reviewing, failing and starting again, it’s rarely worth a pinch of shit to anybody else. Nevertheless, a fucking huge slab of the stuff you read on the internet was put there by some self-important knobjockey sitting in a chair, mouthing questions to their brain and waiting for answers.
It’s important to remember that thinking something isn’t the same as knowing something. That’s why the Food Babe thinks Bisphenol A is scary and dangerous, but doesn’t know that there is no evidence of harmful effects to humans from BPA. It’s why Tony Abbott thinks it’s worth spending public money on an investigation into Wind Turbine Syndrome but doesn’t know how strong the evidence against it already is. It’s why Meryl Dorey thinks that vaccination is equivalent to rape, but doesn’t know how fucked up that is.
If what you read on the internet sounds like it’s someone’s unverified, imagined think-trinket, it probably is. Go read something else.
Question Three: What the fuck does that mean?
Context is everything.
Consider the statement, “Old fish guts are delicious.” Unless you’re a spider crab or a fucking idiot, you’d probably disagree. But if you read the sentence, “Once you’ve tasted Foster’s Lager, you’ll think old fish guts are delicious!”, it starts to make sense.
When people want you to believe something, they can be very fucking crafty about how they express it. “Efficiency dividend” sounds less arseholey than “funding cut”. “99% fat free” sounds healthier than “contains a shitload of sugar”. And “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” is better than “I fucked more than just my career with a cigar”.
For example, when a chiropractor says “Chiropractic has been shown to have a 94% success rate with Colic”, it might sound quite encouraging to the sleep-deprived parent of a constantly crying baby. But what the fuck does it mean?
In this case, it means a single, uncontrolled study of 316 babies showed that colic symptoms improved in 94% of babies, according to diaries kept by their mothers. The study doesn’t compare the rate of improvement in babies who don’t receive any treatment, or control for factors other than manipulating children’s spines. And a lot of people might think the fact that the vast majority of babies’ colic symptoms resolve by the age of four months anyway is worth more than a passing mention. You could wrap babies in fern leaves and their colic would improve. You could sit them in a corner and their colic would improve. You could play fucking Nickleback songs on a fucking broken accordion and their colic would improve. It seems in this case, “Chiropractic has been shown to have a 94% success rate with Colic” doesn’t mean shit.
So next time you go fracking the internet’s seams for a morsel of mindfluff, remember to ask yourself the Three Great Bullshit-Busting Questions:
- Who the fuck are you?
- How the fuck do you know? and
- What the fuck does that mean?
And if you can’t answer all three satisfactorily, why not add one of my personal favourites, “Why haven’t you fucked off yet?”
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.