Motherchucker vs SNHDT

Mochu: You’re said to be a man of few words.

SNHDT: Yeah, I get that a lot. I guess it all started, I reckon, in primary school, or maybe kindergarten. Someone would say something and I would sometimes just count to ten and, like, not just chime in with my own ideas. I have to say that my ideas weren’t always completely stupid. Mind you, I didn’t always set the world alight, but most of the time, or at least some of the time, well not that often actually, OK once in a while I reckon I hit the nail on the head. That’s not to say there was actually any hammering involved, except, like, when we did woodwork or maybe in the shed at home, sometimes then we might have used a hammer. I say “we”, but sometimes it was just me. Not all the time, mind you, but sometimes I might be doing a bit of hammering on my own. Solo, as it were. Just me, the hammer, the nail and the rest of whatever it was I was making. Let’s call it “my project”. Sometimes I would discuss my project with others, maybe at school, maybe with the postman, sometimes with the dog or the chooks, and usually I was proud of my endeavours, happy to discuss the sense of achievement, revelling in the sheer creativity, you know, making something, making my project. Making a difference, I suppose, was a big part of it. Sometimes it wasn’t different though. You know, like if I was making the same project I had been making the week before, so that wasn’t, like, making a difference, but it was still important. Yeah. I reckon it was also important that, back in those days, we were kids being kids. We were making our own fun, amusing ourselves, not in front of a television or one of those iPod thingies. We were finding our own way in the world, learning real-world skills in a way that somehow seems very far removed, so very far removed, from the world of today’s children.

Mochu: Yes, but…

SNHDT: Look, I couldn’t agree more. Today’s children are molly-coddled, wrapped in cotton wool from go to woah, aren’t they? First they are gently excised from the womb with mummy having a caesarean bloody section. Then they are expected to spend their formative years in a hermetically-sealed pathogen-free environment, carefully sterilised with Dettol bloody antiseptic wipes, devoid of sunlight, dirt, wild animals, sugar, cigarettes, asbestos fibres, loaded firearms, razor blades, quicksand, lava, noxious gases or nuclear waste. Where is a child supposed to build resilience? I ask you. Is it any wonder that childhood allergies are increasing, one half of all marriages end in divorce, the economy is stagnating and there are more and more wild dogs in the eastern wheat belt? No. And what are we, as a community, as the temporary custodians of this once-great land, doing about it? What are our politicians doing about it? Bugger all. But then, what can we expect from a bunch of politically-correct namby-pamby wannabe do-gooders who only work 20 weeks of the year and spend the rest of their time buying investment properties in their super funds and family trusts while claiming their travel on their parliamentary expense accounts and playing on their Twitters? They’re so bloody keen to get their own tax deductions themselves, but who pays the taxes that keep the county afloat? Not the bloody politicians, I can assure you. I tell you, this all comes back to values, to the lessons of childhood, the sense of right and wrong that should be instilled in children at an early age, like warm milk from small bottles in school-yards, day after day, week after week, imprinted on their brains like times tables. Do they still do times tables?

Mochu: Thank you.

SNHDT: Don’t get me started.