Whatever is in that avocado dip certainly isnt avocado
"THERE are some things in this world that are just ridiculous. They’re so simple, and so much a part of our accepted thinking, that they rarely, if ever, get questioned. They’re kind of like those people you hear about who committed crimes in the 1970s, but have since ‘gone clean’, changed their names and are now living modest but law-abiding, sweet suburban lives with their unsuspecting families.
Well, these ridiculous things are also ‘hiding in the open’. It’s where they’re safest. Take avocado dip.
Or, really, that should be ‘avocado’ dip, because I’m talking about the bright green stuff you get from the supermarket, and who the heck knows what’s in that? Because it can’t possibly be avocado.
Now, I don’t want to big myself up as some kind of modern-day Marie Curie, the magnificently bold and pioneering scientist who studied radiation. But I do occasionally have an enquiring mind. So I bought a fresh avocado and mashed it up, and guess what?
It went brown within half an hour. Yech. Even when I added lemon, salt and some sour cream. Even when I used those shiny-smooth shepard avocados that (brilliantly) don’t go brown, my fresh dip was inedible after a day.
Yet, go to the stupor-market, choose that green vom-in-a-pot as part of your dip trilogy (hello hummus! hello tzatziki!), and look at the use-by date. It’s incredible. I mean, that stuff is apparently like J. Lo – it never gets old.
And here’s another one. It’s a ridiculous law, like one of those ancient ones about not being allowed to walk your goat untethered down the main street, or not being allowed to step on money if you have an unwaxed moustache. Only this rule is clearly more modern; it’s about cars.
Why the *insert expletive* goodness-me are you not allowed to park across your own *insert expletive* driveway?
Pardon my rage (or yours – technically, you were the one inserting the swear words), but I live in the inner city, and it’s getting congested around here. It’s called maximum-density housing, I believe, which means the councils get more money from the more people they squeeze in, and so they seemingly approve ANY development, no matter how inappropriate. I mean, the other day we were slow bringing in our big green rubbish bin, and now there’s a nine-storey apartment complex being built there. One-bedders. No off-street parking. Buy off the plan.
Anyway, the crazy-crowded, lack-of-parking situation has led me to rail against the following UNFATHOMABLE injustice: if I, unable to find a park in my increasingly-crowded street, decide to park across MY OWN DRIVEWAY, obstructing NO ONE (except possibly the other adult who lives with me, who is perfectly capable of coming inside the house and saying “Can you move your *insert expletive* car – I want to get mine out?”), why am I issued a parking fine? That’s ridiculous. I should, in fact, have a *insert expletive* STATUE erected to me after my ‘park in your own driveway’ policy is implemented at local-government level (after, of course, the appropriate consultations, committee meetings and feasibility studies), and EVERYONE can now find a park.
And here’s a final ridiculous thing: men putting on suits to talk about sport.
They’re in plague proportions, those sports shows. I don’t mean the games or matches themselves; I mean the industry created for former sportsmen to “blah blah blah” about Penrith or the Rabbitohs or Collingwood or… sorry, I’ve lost interest. My point is this: no one can kick a ball or pick up a bat in this country without five other men putting together a panel show to discuss it. And that’s fine. Tedious, but fine. But why do they have to wear suits and neckties to do it, as though they’re going to a meeting of the Reserve Bank Board?
Seriously, you’re discussing what some guy wearing nylon does with an inflated pigskin, or a wooden stick. And if you’re not dissecting the actual games, then you’re guffawing at each other’s daggy jokes or just gossiping about whether Coach Plopsy is in secret talks to move to Perth. Really, you could do that in a T-shirt and jeans. Or in a tracksuit. Or in mind-numbing ‘smart casual’. You don’t need to put on a suit to convince us you’re carrying out a legitimate and important job. Because you’re not.
Honestly, men putting on suits to discuss sport is like women putting on academic gowns to discuss the Kardashians.
It may look impressive. That doesn’t mean it isn’t ridiculous."