Seven Wonders of the WorldAint this pic just adorable? [hat-tip L.com] Seven little sweetie-pies. Doesn't it make you coo and cluck? I couldn't resist posting it. All these cute little bubbas reminded me of research suggesting that too much exercise makes men infertile (which possibly makes me the most fecund fella on the planet), and which in turn is a sad reminder of my own dearth of offspring. So it's timely to indulge in a spot of self-pity.
Is self-absorbed neurosis the sole province of female bloggers? And should such assumptions remain unchallenged? Take me for example: I'm incredibly moody, often unreasonable, totally illogical, always need to have the last say, and can hold a grudge forever. So I guess you could say I'm in touch with my feminine side :-)
[Hark! Is that the sexism police I hear pounding on my door?]
Anyway, my cousin's getting married this summer, necessitating a huge gathering of extended family from near and afar. And like Bridget Jones, I'll be confronted with throngs of relatives asking me two dreaded questions: "Gotta missus yet?" and "Got any kids yet?" Replying in the negative to both, I'm painfully forced to revisit my complete, abject inability to breed. Now, everyone knows that Maoris lag sorely behind in every positive social statistic. To be blunt: we're failures! The only arena in which we excel is procreation. And yet I couldn't even manage that - I'm unsuccessful at the one thing we're good at. Can you believe it? I'm a failed Maori! How hopeless can I be? My sense of self-worth is unsalvageable. Like the post-fall Humpty Dumpty, my self-esteem can never be put back together again.
Were my life a movie, its bleak and desolate soundtrack would be a mournful violin sonata, or a melancholic oboe concerto. A plaintive, haunting melody to accompany each harrowing scene of despair - except for those heroic action shots where I effortlessly, single-handedly dispatch mobs of sinister (Australian) bad guys with my flying fists of fury in a dark, secluded alley. Yet like all searing melodramas, romance and fatherhood tragically elude the dashing, macho hero with his blazing mane of golden locks and eyes of sapphire blue. "A blond-haired, blue-eyed Maori?" you ask somewhat puzzled. Hey, it's a movie, OK. Spare me a bit of artistic license, why don't ya. So, auditions are now open to cast the lead role in my biopic; no acting talent necessary but heart-stopping good looks are essential [more artistic license]. Mean and menacing-looking thespians are urged to try out for the role of evil villain, that of my arch-rival and implacable foe.
And how does the movie conclude? With a dejected, solitary figure trudging through bitter, driving rain? A broken, forlorn empty husk, swilling bourbons in a seedy bar? Or perhaps a dreamy, poignant tableau in a maternity ward, triumphantly cradling my newborn child? You'll just have to wait for the premiere, won't ya?
Is self-absorbed neurosis the sole province of female bloggers? And should such assumptions remain unchallenged? Take me for example: I'm incredibly moody, often unreasonable, totally illogical, always need to have the last say, and can hold a grudge forever. So I guess you could say I'm in touch with my feminine side :-)
[Hark! Is that the sexism police I hear pounding on my door?]
Anyway, my cousin's getting married this summer, necessitating a huge gathering of extended family from near and afar. And like Bridget Jones, I'll be confronted with throngs of relatives asking me two dreaded questions: "Gotta missus yet?" and "Got any kids yet?" Replying in the negative to both, I'm painfully forced to revisit my complete, abject inability to breed. Now, everyone knows that Maoris lag sorely behind in every positive social statistic. To be blunt: we're failures! The only arena in which we excel is procreation. And yet I couldn't even manage that - I'm unsuccessful at the one thing we're good at. Can you believe it? I'm a failed Maori! How hopeless can I be? My sense of self-worth is unsalvageable. Like the post-fall Humpty Dumpty, my self-esteem can never be put back together again.
Were my life a movie, its bleak and desolate soundtrack would be a mournful violin sonata, or a melancholic oboe concerto. A plaintive, haunting melody to accompany each harrowing scene of despair - except for those heroic action shots where I effortlessly, single-handedly dispatch mobs of sinister (Australian) bad guys with my flying fists of fury in a dark, secluded alley. Yet like all searing melodramas, romance and fatherhood tragically elude the dashing, macho hero with his blazing mane of golden locks and eyes of sapphire blue. "A blond-haired, blue-eyed Maori?" you ask somewhat puzzled. Hey, it's a movie, OK. Spare me a bit of artistic license, why don't ya. So, auditions are now open to cast the lead role in my biopic; no acting talent necessary but heart-stopping good looks are essential [more artistic license]. Mean and menacing-looking thespians are urged to try out for the role of evil villain, that of my arch-rival and implacable foe.
And how does the movie conclude? With a dejected, solitary figure trudging through bitter, driving rain? A broken, forlorn empty husk, swilling bourbons in a seedy bar? Or perhaps a dreamy, poignant tableau in a maternity ward, triumphantly cradling my newborn child? You'll just have to wait for the premiere, won't ya?
No comments:
Post a Comment