This week in Australia, one of our stateswomen has enjoyed a good fluffing by the world’s press. No. Not our new Prime Minister. In the case you hadn’t heard, last week, a gal called Julia Gillard joined an international club of just over one dozen female heads of government. It’s not her they’re talking about any more. It’s a youngish woman called Kate Ellis.
We’re a small and uniquely dull country and it’s not too often the international press find us worthy of scrutiny. However, the announcement by one of our junior female Ministers that she was doing her bit to save men and women from negative body image gained global attention.
Personally, I’m pretty crapped off by the tokenism of it all

Here in Australia, for the very first time, our head of state is female.
Her name is Julia Gillard.
On Thursday morning, I watched this event unfold on television. A meringue-lite breakfast broadcaster called Lisa Wilkinson was charged with the task of delivering the news. I watched as Wilkinson entered her seventh hour of broadcast. Given this endurance and the fact that her remit rarely extends to a matter more taxing than diets, I guess she could be permitted a moment of folly
Or several. She made three references to our new Prime Minister’s idle womb. The second of which realised the difficult task of making one of her guests wince. The third of which doused most of my feminist fire. “Are we going to reference the Prime

I am 40. My boobs, however, are yet to turn 25. Honestly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I taken out the chest of a much younger woman on loan.
I do not make this claim, by the way, without recourse to science. Each booz has been verified as medically young.

A year or two ago, just about everyone I knew seemed to be diagnosed with illness. It was a confusing case of me-too-ism that took my tits to the radiology department of a hospital. I was convinced my tits had cancer.
Anyhow. They didn’t. Not only did the man with the sonograph pronounce me cancer-free; he looked at his monitor and told me I had, “very young looking breast tissue.” That was a

“It’s the biggest mismatch in World Cup history,” a commentator tells me as I type. Actually, he’s talking about the point gulf that separates North Korea from Brazil. He can go on and on about the legacy of Pelé all he wants. But, really, who has the sensory wherewithal to care about the football anymore? SHUT UP WITH YOUR TRUMPET SOUTH AFRICA.

Last week, a medical marijuana patient was cited for trespassing for wearing a “Yes We Cannabis” T-shirt. What the ganja, Colorado? Do you have no real social menace to quash? This sort of shirt is okay; in fact, this sort of shirt might even be a good offense. Shirts that challenge morés, upturn beliefs and gently upset people might not be so bad.
At least John Gailey of Aurora, CO wasn’t advertising his usefulness as a warehouse for spoodge.
This ain’t the most troubling shirt I’ve ever seen.
It was seven or eight years ago that I first saw the sort of shirt that continues to trouble me more. This was around the same time the Mesdames Hilton strutted into view. It was then “sexy” slogans began to foul