War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

They can be happy, we can all be happy, if we want to be, any time, anywhere. Instead they mope around, complaining just like I am now. But I'm a fuckin' comedian and I enjoy complaining so that's cool.

      'But you know what old people complain about most? Change. Ironic considering they all want to win the fuckin' lotto, or win at the stupid pokies. Suddenly their lives will be changed, totally. Then they'll probably be cryin', and they'll chuck all the money into the pokies anyway coz they don't know what the fuck they want. Do this – right – go to the Gosford Leagues, or the Leagues in your area, and sit next to an old person at the machines. Just put in a single dollar and play one cent games, but every now and then look at the old person, a cheeky grin on your face. But don't be obvious. Chances are he or she will be putting in dollar after dollar as though placing stupid old people pills into his or her mouth, and the person will always be angry. “Why isn't it paying out?” The person will start grunting, huffing, like a fuckin' rat who's pressin' the leaver in a Skinner Box and not getting any food pellets. Funny thing is, this dickhead thinks he or she is smart. This is the person who will tell you he or she has life experiences which you don't have yet, that he or she is older and thus wiser. Duh! - That fuckin' statement in itself is testament to your fuckin' idiocy. Age is directly proportional to mental capacity, is it? Ok, who's smarter? I walk into Gosford Leagues: we got people on the dance floor, or sitting at tables laughing, drinking, joking, thinking up intelligent new pick-up lines, maybe even snorting a few to alter mental states, and having a good time like scientists busy in the lab on the verge of a breakthrough and . . . oh . . . walk into the pokies room and we got people pressing the fuckin same button, again and again, like Homer's little bird, chucking their cash into brightly colored drains which make funny noises, grunting like cavemen, bashing fists against these inanimate objects, until their fingers bleed, crying, wheezing, their club cards attached to their wrists with string so they don't lose them, free coffee by the bar so they can get their own stupid caffeine fix and stay awake to stare at fuckin' images of apples, cherries, and oranges which they can't even touch or eat, all through the fuckin' night. At least 'til closing time. So, rats in a cage, or teenagers? Rats in a cage or teenagers? 9 to 5 bullshit all your life so that you can become a rat too, or rebellion and freedom? You tell me.

      'But I guess some of them actually like spending time in the club. It's peaceful – aside from the whine of the machines -, and they're with their mates. Take 'em out of this environment and they get madder, angrier. So I'm at Central Station the other day, Greg's there on a seat by the newsagency, reading The Sydney Morning Herald, an eyebrow raised as he listens to Alan Jones or his contemporary on the radio, chattin' to Bob and he's like: “They're doing it again, these juvenile brats. Dogs, bloody animals, that's what they are. Bloody, stinkin' delinquents! Terrible, atrocious, this generation . . .” So I hear this and I'm thinking: “Maybe he's exaggerating a little . Maybe. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe a group of youth were slamming someone's head into the gutter like sissy skinheads, or distributing heroin to little kids. It's wrong for him to generalize of course, and assume the entire generation is like this, but I do the same when it comes to old folk so, whatever.” But then he continues: “These boys, teenagers, no bloody respect for their elders, they walk into the men's room and one of them . . . a ripe brat . . . he has a balloon in his hand. A large balloon. Know what he does? He pops it.' And at this point I'm thinking: “Ohhh, balloon full of heroin, ay? Yeah. Pretty bad.” But the guy stops talking. Then it dawns on me: that was the offense, the balloon popping. Then I look down at the shriveled up balloon in my hand and up at the two men glaring at me, and wonder why the hell I had to walk into this specific newsagent after leaving the rest room. Shit!'

      A few people chuckle.

      'So I'm fleeing the scene, and I hear Greg telling the newsagent he wants a scratchie, and tellin' his mate that he feels lucky, wants to make an easy 50 grand, which you are – of course – allowed to do when you're old but not if you haven't worked a million fuckin' hours in an office first. So he wants a scratchie or – more specifically – 50 grand. It's been his life long dream to make 50, which makes me wonder why the fuck he didn't just work one odd year and then call it quits, so that he could go home, sit on his arse, and get up only to chase innocent flies around the house or argue with his wife over whether the windows are a little more than ajar because intruders may find a way in if they are. But anyway, he wants the 50, but for what? He hates change. What the fuck will he do with the 50? Give it to the homeless perhaps? Or sponsor a child? Great ideas but no: the prick will probably just upgrade his mode of transport. Now, instead of the train he's on a plane everyday, trippin' it back and forth between Sydney and LA. On that note, little word of warning, don't hide in the small plane toilet cubicle with a balloon and then pop it when an old guy enters. So many things can go wrong, not to mention a sound like a gun being fired on a plane don't go down too well.'

      Some more laughs as I scratch my head.

      'Anyway, so I'm fleeing the old guys, not too hard since they can't really walk no more. Bet they wish they were runnin' about when they still could, rather than sitting in stupid offices. But I can't move too fast coz – you guessed it – 100's of them every which way I look. Heck – we're talkin' Central Station, peak hour. And I'm thinkin': “Why the hell no old people travelators like those they got at airports? They'll enjoy them coz it's like they're on miniature, open-air trains that move through the station, and they'll be moving a thousand times faster than if they were walkin'. Meanwhile, those of us who still have properly functioning legs can run across the normal floor. Heck, maybe paint some white lines on the ground and make it into a massive track, so we can all jog or sprint. Maybe then you'll be able to wait 'till a girl's 12 before telling her she's fat, ha ha. Everyone will be exercising a little more each and every day. So any fat girls here tonight?'

      'Yeah! Whoooo!'

      'Hey!' – I point to the girl – 'You know I love you, right? And look at the girls here tonight: it's so easy for you to change whatever part of your body it is you don't like, you know. Simply grab the girl with the right bit, place her bit in front of yours, and you're fine. Easy.' - I pause for laughter – 'This is why they call this place Sodom. Remarks like that. That's a biblical reference, meant to piss of the Christians, or the Moslems, what have you? It's a city which it is said was destroyed by God . . . yet it sounds just like the place the stupid terrorist pricks think they'll go after killing themselves. Ok – look. So say this is Sodom, right here right now. We're a happy bunch, living life in the fast lane but stickin' to the speed limit so that nobody gets hurt, and this God figure, he decides that genocide's a pretty cool idea. Um . . . so who exactly is the evil villain then? I reckon God was pissed coz he wasn't getting laid, so he decided he'd destroy a whole city, filled with people who were living a good, wholesome life, after calling them immoral and imperfect. People! Sex is the answer to everything, ok? We need to eat, we need to drink, to breathe, and to fuck. It's totally natural. I'm sick of hearing that it's a sin to fuck someone you ain't married to, or even that adultery is a sin. Now why the fuck aren't we all naked? Condoms are in the Holy Grail by the stage, people.

      'You know, I was at DJ's this morning. In the city. The large David Jones.' - I tap a finger against my chin – 'Yeah. Didn't know at first, though. I'm on the escalator, goin' up, and I see this chick in her underwear behind some glass. So naturally I yell “Slut!” and jump the escalator rail, and stumble towards her, twisting an ankle in the process. I slam straight into the glass and it's then that I realize – mouth agape, pressed firm against the pane – that she's a maniquin.' - I pause and shake my head – 'Yeah. So some people are looking at me. You can't really do this in a store and not expect people to look. So I'm on the ground, striking a pose not too dissimilar to hers and now people are staring at me as though I'm the mannequin. I've made myself into a spectacle, but in my defense she did honestly look just like a high class slut, hence the reason I ran straight to her. They say these people don't exist, like fairies, but I believe there are some out there. And this is totally where they buy their clothes: David fuckin' Jones. The place is – dead set – a store for sluts. Not that I'm against that, it's why I'm shopping there. You got little miniature stores on the ground floor: Prada, Dior, where the women go for stylish handbags, the little perfume stands where the women go to get their quick fix of scents, just before they head up to another floor to strip down and copy the plastic maniquins: role models and idols no doubt. Such is the life of a hooker.