The Believe The Tripe

Don’t Believe The Tripe!

Don’t believe the hype, the advertising tripe.

Advertising affects us all whether we admit it or not. Through television, radio, internet and print, advertising is in our faces like an unwanted relative at Christmas. It smacks us over the head until we are in a consumerist haze that forces us to spend money we don’t have, on things we don’t need to impress people we don’t like. Or worse yet, it sucks us in to just buying a bunch of crap.

Now I am not against advertising on the whole. It advises me of many new products and services. It shows me pictures of dust mites that need to be eradicated from my bed sheets however I have never seen anything the size of what they show on the advertisement. If I was in bed with a bug the size of a dinosaur I think I would know about it. If it is smaller than the eye can see then I think I can live with that and even beat it in an arm wrestle for pillow space. Advertising reminds that I will never be able to afford the new sports Mercedes but I will have the ability to launch a Space Shuttle from my IPhone. The television screams “Doors, Doors, Doors,!!!” and names of various white goods at “Never To Be Repeated Prices”. How has a door become an impulse buy at 11.30pm on a Tuesday night. The store isn’t even bloody open! And what happens if the price is repeated again? Is there a consequence? Will someone go to jail? Will the earth cease to rotate? Will your product no longer work as the price was repeated? Oh and ever noticed how the television advertisements are louder than the program you are watching?

But how are we going to get them to reduce the level of television advertisements when the advertisers can still make the most ridiculous of claims about a product. I recently went to purchase a packet of noodles and it stated in bold writing on the packet that they were “Shelf Fresh”. Just what constitutes being “Shelf Fresh”? After coming to the conclusion that an everyday run of the mill house brick could also be considered “Shelf Fresh” my desire to purchase aforementioned noodles diminished rapisly. The packet of frozen Oven Chips advised me they were “Oven Fresh”. How does that work? You heat them up in the oven as they are pre-cooked and all of a sudden they become Oven Fresh! Nothing fresh about it. My toothpaste also mentioned it has “Mint Freshness”. But when the ‘Mint’ is derived from synthetic flavouring I question its freshness.

Now in a society where we won’t even let children talk to strangers why do we feel it is a good idea to purchase products from the mentally deranged? These advertises all have named like Crazy Clarks, Crazy Johns, Crazy Clint, Ken Bruce Has Gone Completely Mad and Temporarily Insane Tim . We happily fork out our hard earned cash to these head cases.
Please stop. It only encourages them.

Commuter Man

Commuter Man

The biggest problem with Public Transport is having to catch it with the General Public.
No one can possibly enjoy catching trains in Melbourne these days. They are overcrowded, if and when they do come on time, and not too dissimilar to a freezer room in winter or a Swedish steam bath in summer. And just to really keep you down there aren’t any Swedish folk to steam bath with!

So here is my proposal to make the daily commute just that little more pleasant. First we need to match certain people to a specific carriage. This is mandatory segregation, but a reasonable person will appreciate that it is for your own good and you will be with people just like yourself. If you don’t like it, then you really only have yourself to blame.

Here is how it pans out.

Carriage 1.
People with Ipods and other Personal Musical Devices.
This one is pretty much stock standard. Get everyone with the personal music devices on the one carriage and they can welcome in early deafness without annoying the “boom-box head” next to them, as they will be doing the exact same thing. On Friday and Saturday nights you could put in strobe lights, a few lasers and a mirror ball for all those coming home after a too many disco biscuits at the nightclubs.

Carriage 2.
Book Readers and Laptop Users.
This is carriage is for those who get annoyed by the sound of a mosquito farting. So there isn’t any huffing and slamming shut of books, this carriage can be broken down a little further. … The ‘Mouth Breathers and Lip Movers’ will be separated from those of the species who are a little more evolved and who can read and breathe through their nose at the same time. This deformity of a distraction could see you end up in Carriage 6 if not corrected.

Carriage 3
People with Prams and Small Children.
This will put all the parents with screaming kids in the one box where they can run riot and not annoy those who either have control over their children or would rather stick a fork in their eye than be near your child. Those who sleep on trains will be allocated to this carriage as well. The carriage is not your bedroom, we are not in your house, your poor sleep patterns are not our concern. Those who suffer from sleep apnoea will have no problems staying awake on this carriage and will arrive to work bright eye and raring to go.

Carriage 4
School Kids.
Whilst we will endeavour to put all the school kids on the one carriage, it may be unavoidable that they will spill over into other carriages. Fear not, they will not be able to occupy a seat, rather, they will all be required to squat for their journey to curb any kind of enjoyment and desire to walk around the carriage. Also, if any student uses the words “like” or “whatever” more than four times in one minute, they will be removed at the next station. So if you are capable of doing the math then you will have worked out that most students won’t make it past two stops.

Carriage 5
Mobile phone users.
Here you can sit with a carriage full of other people who need a skin graft to remove their phone from their ears. Together you can think that everyone else on the carriage actually cares about your inane and pointless conversations, that really can wait until you get home. Mobile phone users please read Additional Information at the bottom of the page for further details of new Phone Usage Regulations.

Carriage 6.
Social Lepers
The last carriage. The back end. The last in line. This carriage is for Drunks, Junkies and Those Who Don’t Wash. This will be an old style open top Cattle Cart carriage. There they can dribble, yell, sing, stink, swear, vomit, piss and howl at the moon. If it rains, some of these pillars of self disrespect might exceed their one shower per week average. Consider it a community service.

Additional Information.

Phone Usage Regulations.
We have installed new technology that only allows you to make 45 second calls from your mobile phone. After 45 seconds the call will be disconnected. Your phone will be blocked from calling that number again for the next half an hour or until you leave the train, whichever comes first. This is ample time to say what you need to communicate. It is quite simple. You dial your Significant Other, Guardian or Dependant and say “Hi, it’s me” (because everyone you call knows who “me” is). The reply will be “Oh Hi!”. You then say “ I am on the train and will be arriving at ‘insert Station name here’ in half an hour.” When they reply “Ok” you say “See you then”. Now providing you don’t have a speech impediment and you can construct a basic sentence then you will still have time to say “I love you”. So there it is, all done and dusted. Other commuters really don’t give a stuff about how your day was. Bore your Other Half to death with those ‘amazing’ details.

Junk Food
Junk food will no longer be allowed on carriages There is nothing worse than a self mutilating slob attempting to navigate their way around a McDonalds Big Mac Meal right beside you. It stinks and face it the majority of these people shovelling junk food into themselves on trains could do themselves a favour by not eating it. Yes, we are referring to you “Tubby”. Now if you really must have your daily intake of fat and sugar in one meal 15 minutes before you get home for dinner then you can get on Carriage 6.

The MX Newspaper.
MX Newspaper is actually an oxymoron. This pathetic excuse for journalism will be banned from all trains and will no longer be given out for free at stations. This rag has the integrity of a Woman’s Day article and the credibility of the men in white lab coats at the Ponds Institute. It is for your own good as you will actually become stupider by reading it.

Bicycles.
No bicycles will be allowed on any trains. You have a mode of transport so get on and start peddling Lycra Boy.


So there you have it. All neatly packed away so one of you might actually crack a smile on tomorrows stopping all Stations train.
Enjoy your newly revamped rail travel as best you can.
I am driving to work.

Suit and Tie Guy

Suit and Tie Guy

I have never been known for dressing neatly. Jeans without holes in them and a t-shirt without a band name spread across it was my version of neat and tidy. Mind you it was pretty hard to find a pair of Jeans and a t-shirt to match that description in my collection of rags. Then there came a time when I had to buy my first suit. I was at the age where friends where getting married, job interviews where a suit would be recommended attire and also the sickenly sad fact that I was attending a lot of funerals of friends.
“So how hard is it to buy a suit?” I thought. To start with I had no idea of what is a good suit, what’s the better material, how much should I pay etc etc. I got some advice of my brother as he had been in suit and tie jobs for a few years. The more I learnt the less I thought suits where a good thing, if I ever though that they were good at all. When I found out that you have to buy a tie and shirt separately this was fast becoming a task I really couldn’t be arsed with. But then the hire of suits was adding up and with all the times when I was requiring one, not to purchase would have been financial suicide.
The day arrives. I head to the bank and withdraw a fist full of dollars and stuff them into my wallet. Once in the car and cashed up I was tempted with the idea of driving straight past the huge shopping centre and going into the city to buy a truck load of recordsinstead. But for one of the few times in my life, reason conquered. The bastard.
So I drive to the massive Westfield Shopping Centre not far from home. This place is huge. Stores, Stores and more bloody stores. All flashy and brightly lit up. The stink of the fast food chain outlets. How do they get to call those outlets restaurant? The signs screamed at you to buy this and buy that and get two free pointless items with your purchase that you didn’t want in the first place. This was basically a massive warehouse where middle class people came to spend half their pay checks on clothing made for two fifths of bugger all by child slave labour in the third world. All this cleverly and deceitfully promoted as Shopping Convenience.
I wander like a lost sheep looking in all the windows for a store that sells suits. The first store I looked in stopped me in my tracks. There wasn’t a suit under $1,000.00!!!
With a sigh of “fuck that for a game of chess” I kept shuffling. A few other stores had suits in my price range but didn’t shiny suits go out when Disco died? The sales assistant further insulted my intelligence by telling me I would look good in it. “Not even a corpse could look good in those suits” I mumbled when leaving.
Becoming less and less motivated I continued my search. I finally found a store that was advertising a package deal affair. A Suit jacket, 2 pairs of pants, 2 shirts and a tie all for one very competitive price. My mission was over.
The looks I got from the brain dead wannabee fashion catalogue models working behind the counter told me I wasn’t going to get much help. I figured this was because of what I was wearing. I decided that morning that if I was going to be changing clothes all day while fitting suits I may as well make it easy. All I had on was track
pants, complete with holes, sneakers and a band shirt. They had prejudged that being dressed the way I was I couldn’t possibly afford anything in their store. Yeah that’s right Pretty Woman Syndrome happens to guys too!!! I was determined, this was a good deal. I was pulling suits off the rack, checking the cut of them, colours etc, pretending I knew what I was looking at. This went on for fifteen minutes. I was the only one in the store and not one of the three talking mannequins made the effort of shift their lazy arses from behind the counter. Now I was getting pissed off. Fed up and frustrated I started to leave. Just as I got to the door one of the “fashion consultants” pulled himself away from a mirror long enough to say “oh are you ok there?”
“Well fucking no actually. I came in here to buy a suit” I pulled open my wallet showing them the wad of cash. “I was prepared to spend all of this in here but none of the pretentious pricks wanted to serve me”.
“Oh what were you after?” was the lame reply.
“Just some service and a fucking suit would have been nice but you can stick that up your arse pretty boy I am taking my money elsewhere”
I stormed out of the shop pretty happy with my “stick it to the man(nequin)” outburst. My body warmed with the exhilarating flush of adrenalin. This was short lived as the reality of still not having a suit sunk in. I checked a few more stores with shop assistants who if they where anymore up themselves they would be inside out.
I left the Mass Consumer Compound and in mighty shitty mood. I cruised around the local strip shopping centres. Then a spotted a small family owned business that I seem to remember being there for as long as I could recall. I parked the car and wandered in expecting another Consumer versus Shop Assistant Battle Royale. As I entered the store a nice elderly lady asked “Can I help you with anything dear?”
“Well umm yes please” I replied. I didn’t expect this after the day I was having and wasn’t sure what to say
“Yes I need to buy a suit, I have never owned one in my life, I have no idea what to ask for, I wouldn’t have a clue what size I am and all the poncy wankers in the big stores won’t even give me the time of day”.
“That’s no good, Lets get you measured and see what we can do. What colour are you interested in? Would you like a cup of tea?’
Before I knew it, her husband and son were stretching tape measures all over me, jotting down numbers and discussing different cuts and styles. I had played it safe and asked for a black suit. Well I don’t know if my public school education has anything to do with it but I never knew there were so many ‘kinds’ of black! They also had some nice shirts and a few decent ties without the cheesy designs or dog vomit inspired art deco colours.
By the time I had drank my cup of tea I felt like I had made three new friends. I took the shirts and tie right there and then The Charcoal Black suit would be ready in 3 days for me to pick up and any alterations would be free of charge. I couldn’t thank these people enough and they sympathised with my tales of woe. These people knew the score. The nice old lady even comment on my forward thinking of wearing easily removable clothing to make suit fittings more efficient.
So there you have it form the Grand Old Lady of Men’s Fashion. Track pants with holes in them and a Ramones t-shirt aren’t just comfortable, they are practial!

Gulliver's Travels

Gulliver’s Travels

Every long weekend, Christmas, Easter and any other Hallmark Holiday that got us a paid day off work a group of us would go on a surf trip to Wye River. The group would vary in size from six to twenty over the duration of the stay. Wye River is 15 kilometers past Lorne on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria Australia. It consists of a river (duh), a General Store, a Country Fire Authority Depot, A Surf Life Saving Club, two camping grounds, a surf beach and last but definitely not least, a Pub.
Many long amber fluid intake exercises were performed in that Pub when the surf was flat. After one of these sessions in particular we left The Rubbery Chook. That’s not the actual name of the Pub. It is called the Rookery Nook but alcohol consumption and boredom lead to calling things different names for our own shits and giggles. Anyway we left and headed back to the camp site. We sat around drinking and talking about how expensive sitting in the pub is compared to surfing. A few were hoping for the surf to pick up the next day so they could avoid the inevitable over consumption of the loud mouth soup.
Now balance is always an issue when is this state. Some people handle it more than others. I preferred not to move too much and play the law of averages. I figured the more I tried to stand the more chance of falling. JH had already proven this by falling into the river three times in the last four nights. It was fairly sedate around the camp fire and then we heard the noise and crashing of what can only be described as the man mountain known as Moose. Now Moose is a big guy and when unsteady on his feet can cause more damage than a swinging demolition ball.
With a bottle of rum almost empty in hand and doing the last lager waltz I have no idea how me managed to avoid the fire. He bounced of cars, fell off chairs and was fast becoming a potential threat to destroying some of the tents. As amusing as it was to watch, this was Victoria, bloody cold and no one was gong to want to sleep under the stars if it could be helped.
He wasn’t heeding any call just to sit down and relax for a while. It was only a matter of time before someone got very pissed off with Moose. But what can you do with someone that big and intoxicated.
I put any solution into the too hard basket secretly hoping he would fall in the river and give us all a laugh. I then saw Homy rustling around in the boot of his car. He had one of those grins on his face that only meant something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to happen to him. Then before I knew it Homy, who is built like a bear crash tackles Moose and pinning him to the ground. He called for assistance in holding down Moose. We jumped and grabbed a limb each. Homy then produced the instruments to aid us in our efforts. A large mallet and a bag of large tent pegs. We started with his legs. Pulling out the legs of his jeans we hammered pegs through them deep into the ground. Moose was calling us every name under the sun and stating how much his jeans had cost him. We held his arms out placing large pegs over his wrists. I was sure Homy was going to cause a serious injury. He was lifting that mallet way to high and smashing down with considerable force. How he was so accurate I don’t know. Then through Moose’s T-shirt more pegs went. We even had tent ropes across his body and connected to pegs for added security. After exerting a bucket load of energy we had him pinned. Just like Gulliver.
He was a little annoyed you could say but the village (well campsite) was safe once more. Every time he started to incoherently complain some one would pour whatever available booze was into his mouth.
He became quite the attraction that night as more and more people filtered out of the Rubbery Chook and headed back to their camp sites. In hindsight we could have made a killing charging five bucks a look.
There are some photographs of this momentous occasion so maybe I could do a picture book for children some day?

Experiments 101

Experiments 101
Science was never a strong point of mine at High School. In fact it hasn’t been a strong point since. Oh yeah and to all the other Pugilists around the world. Boxing is not a science. It is two people punching the living crap out of each other in an attempt for the other to join the ranks of the brain damaged community before themselves.
Anyway back to the academic version of Science. I knew something was dodgy about the subject when my first teacher used to hand out these weird little exams. They had titles such as “Science Is Fun” and “Anyone Can Do Science”. Now if a bunch of 12 – 13 years olds need to be told something is fun in writing you automatically know it will be as much fun and using your own body as a Voodoo Doll with Grandma’s knitting needles. Also stating “Anyone Can Do Science” isn’t encouragement. It is code for “We Know You Are Scientifically Inept So Here Is A Simple Version”
I tried to apply myself. Well in class anyway. If I wasn’t doing homework for the subjects I like then Science homework had about as much chance of getting done as Mike Tyson does of winning Feminist of the Year.
The Table of Elements seemed pointless to me. Why learn it? The only reason seemed to be so you could pass an exam. I have never needed to use it since those classes and the end of year exam.
In Year 9 we had an experiment to set up. Now this kind of thing I could get into. Dangerous chemicals, fire, test tubes and bubbling beakers. Not reading about sexual reproduction in Frogs.
The basic idea was to time how long it took to boil water, create a pressure vacuum and pop a cork. Ok, no dangerous chemicals but lots of fire and glass beakers and pipes.
We were to write down our observations every five minutes. After 20 minutes most other people’s experiments had achieved the objective of popping the cork. After 25 minutes the only set up that hadn’t done what was intended belonged to my partner and I . The teacher was telling us the most likely reason was we hadn’t been paying attention and we hadn’t completed the assembly correctly. We were 100% positive we had followed the procedure correctly. I stated “I remember following all the steps then jamming the rubber cork into the tube” Then it dawned on us what was wrong. Out thoughts and blank looks were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass and boiling water being sprayed over the work bench.
“That was awesome” my lab partner said.
“Do we write ‘Experiment Exploded’ in the Observation Section” I inquired to the teacher.
Ok I admit it was my mistake that the rubber cork was fit to tightly into the end of the glass tube but hey what does “Place Firmly” mean anyway?We scored a safety lecture from the teacher and a few detentions. After that we could join the rest of the class again. Who cares about the academic findings? We had the most talked about experiment in the class and provided a hell of a lot of laughs in the process!
The next year we got to dissect animal organs. First a sheep’s heart, then cow’s eyes. Dissecting a rat was next on the syllabus. We had to slice it open down the middle and record specific data. Data like the weight of the internal organs, their measurements, the rat’s height and tail length. After nearly all the bits were out my lab partner and I were amazed at how long the large intestine was. We stretched it out and measured it. It was longer than I was tall.
Then we got wind that the teacher’s favourite students were getting bonus marks for collecting extra data. Things like eye colour, number of teeth etc.
We opted for a test no one else was doing. How Many Skips In A Row Can A Skinny Kid Do Using A Rat’s Large Intestine As A Rope? I was on my way to 20 when the teacher led me out of the class by the collar of my shirt. He was shaking his head and muttering, I heard the words “Disgraceful and disgusting” come from his mouth. As I was left in the corridor I thought “Shit, if you don’t want disgusting then don’t slice open rats and pull their guts out in the first place”
My other short-lived experiment involved using a large battery similar to one you use in cars. This was connected with long cables that had clips on the end. The concept was to attach to clips to objects to see which conduct electricity. I may have failed the experiment and been sent to the Principal’s Office but my results show my lab partner can conduct electricity after I hooked the battery up to his earrings.
Maybe Science is fun after all?

Keep Off The Grass

Keep Off The Grass
Read the following list and see how many names you can tick off the list as knowing. Sir Walter, Tall Fescue, Conquest Couch, Kikuyu and Grand Prix. If you answered yes to even one of these then you are part of the problem instead of the solution. If you don’t recognise any of the names on the list there is a good chance you are guilty by way of ignorance. Now before you get out your Dictionary or start Googling Sir Walter I will help you out. They are all types of your new enemy. Lawn, yes common every day, dare I say it, garden variety, lawn.
So why do we have lawns in the first place? Just what purpose does it serve? You create a patchwork quilt with your lawn and then leave your car parked out on the street so the local kids have something to graffiti on. You don’t need a lawn for the kids to play on either as all the kids these days never go outside due to the fact that they need to be surgically removed from their Playstations and Xbox’s or are poking the living daylights out of each other on Facebook.
People who have a lawn crafted to perfection never let you on it anyway. The type of people who would lay red carpet over their lawn so they don’t have to replace any divots.
So what you need to do is destroy your lawn. Not just cut it back but a total slash and burn. If you have dogs then let them loose as they will turn it into a dustbowl race track and eliminate that pesky grass for you. Whatever you do the grass must go.
Now before the “Save the Planet” sloganeering, bicycle riding, sandal wearing, green menaces start protesting on the land where my lawn use to be and lodging lawsuits against me for the alleged murder of Mother Nature. I am not a total Eco-terrorist and you bastards are trespassing anyway!
So now your backyard looks like an open cut mine it is time to ensure you never have lawn again.
Growing food is a lot more beneficial and productive than having the equivalent of the 18th hole at St Andrews at your back door. Plant spinach instead of Conquest Couch and you have something that looks nice, has larger green surface area to create greater photosynthesis and also good to eat. Unless your family bloodlines include Bovine then you might argue the point that grass is better. But if that is the case you probably have Mad Cow Disease and aren’t thinking straight anyway. Planting a whole vegetable garden has benefits too. Sure is takes some work to maintain but what would you rather do on your day off? Get out in your garden and admire your fresh food growing brilliance or go to the Supermarket to fight for a carpark, push a trolley with crooked wheels, have the urge to yell at other people’s children and queue up for hours only to find half your food isn’t fresh by the time you get home.
It also it eliminates the need to spend your day off mowing. People don’t get to work on a Monday morning and announce they can’t wait for Sunday to come round again so they can get out the ride on mower that now costs more than a Hummer to run and create crop circles in their yard to impress the neighbours who really couldn’t care less.

To finish up what we need less of is all these garden rescue and renovation shows on television. This only encourages people into attempting to achieve the ridiculous. They do not serve any purpose other than making you max out your credit card at the local hardware and nursery. You come home with enough wood to build Noah’s Ark in the hope of a creating a rear decking that the Rolling Stones could hold a concert on in the space where the lemon tree use to be. They convince you a pergola the size of the Colosseum is just what your yard needs as well. Then to top it off they want to decorate it better than any room in your entire house.
I know I have never look at my backyard and thought “Hmmm that’s it !, I need more cushions!”

S.W.M. - Seeks Peace and Quiet.

S.W.M. – Seeks Peace and Quiet.

When you come out of a relationship you usually turn to your friends for emotional and moral support. Whether it be someone to just sit and listen to you complain about the last so many days, months or years of your life or someone to hit the town with, get completely smashed and act in a manner that definitely would not attract a new partner. For the females someone to hold the hair out of your face, while you expel the contents of your stomach after a night of nachos and Tequila. During these tough and uncertain times we all seem to think we can determine who our real friends are. Those who will stick by you through thick and thin, will drag you out of the pits of despair, stop you from getting arrested and take a bullet for you. But you soon find out that all you want is for most of your friends to take a bullet and leave you in peace.

All your friends have utterly ridiculous ideas that they shove down your throat under the banner of “good intentions”. They all have a best friend, a relative, a friend at work or the neighbours mother’s sister in law’s step daughter’s cousin who they think would be a perfect match for you and that you should commence planning a wedding right away. What gives people the idea that the very first thing you want to do after ending a relationship is to immediately start another with someone who sounds too good to be true. Ever noticed that the most suitable people on the planet have never met the right person? That speaks volumes in itself. If they really are that good then why are they still single and why hasn’t your friend started dating them? I will tell you why. It is a sympathy set up. Find two people down on their luck and stick them together in an attempt to make two wrongs equal a right. What is wrong with being single for a while? Enjoy the freedom of being yourself. Doing what you want, when you want, how you want, with who you want. I will tell you what is wrong with it. Your friends hate it. It makes them cringe and lose sleep. This is why they will try and deprive you of it. They are jealous that you can do all the things they can’t. The can’t stay out all night then sleep in until noon, go two days without bathing and have banana and baked bean toasted sandwiches on the living room floor while watching re-runs of COPS on television. I will give you this tip for free; whoever can bottle “no responsibility” will make themselves a fortune.

When I came out of a long-term relationship last year I thought I would try and beat my friends to the punch and made a general address to the Nation. I said
“I want to be single for the next year. I am not on the market. I am not available. I do not wish to know about any perfect matches, be set up or to go on blind dates. I do not want to be sent links to internet dating sites nor have friends make a profile on one for me in my best interest. I want to go surfing. I want go out and have a good time with friends. I want to sit around in my boxer shorts, drinking beer and watching Clint Eastwood Westerns”

I thought this was pretty clear but it seems to have been interpreted as “I am desperate and single please tell all your friends and do your best to introduce me to them in the most difficult and uncomfortable circumstances.”

Often when you are conned into a blind date or you are invited along to make up the numbers the only thing you have in common with your new future partner is the fact you both think that your friends are ignorant imbeciles for believing this obvious set up would work in the first place. You get told the day after about how they saw you laughing and enjoying yourself with their friend they set you up with. It slays them when you tell them you were both laughing at the short comings and inadequacies of the very people who thought you would be a match.

Your friends always know what’s best for you. The only comfort you have is knowing that when they end up single you will be as painful as they have been. This will all be under the good intentions banner of “returning the favour”.
There is no escape from this behaviour. Your viewpoint and actions all depend on your current relationship status. You think you will be different when your time arrives to help, but you won’t. It is all part of our desire to help and the idea that we know exactly what other people want and that we know best.

There has to be something in all of this though. We seem to have longer lasting friendships than relationships no matter how much our friends push our sanity.

With friends like these who needs enemas?