I’d like to thank John Morrison (no, not that John Morrison), Wellington city councillor and mayoral candidate, for today’s breathtakingly perfect example of male privilege in action.
I don’t think you could actually make up a better demonstration of how men are socialised to believe that their own biased emotional outbursts are “rational” speech which deserves people’s attention, despite being the obvious ramblings of a whiny douchebag.
(Idiosyncratic typing replicated from original)
I have given a great deal of thought to the question of how to bring the CCO’s down —
Garry —“ you will survive but we must get rid of the CCO’s — you undertake that … or I promise you will rot in hell “.
I do not like Garry asking people to apply for their own job — it is not acceptable — given that conclusion why would I then agree to do the very same thing myself. —- An eye for an eye!
I’ll be honest, I want to really nail Perksy, Glenys, David Gray, Wickstead etc etc. —and let’s face it Garry will not get another contract after this one!
Please think about this — I am talking about strategy and tactics — not about emotion.
(Advanced players might also like to note the consistent use of male pronouns to describe any future Wellington CEO, because women obviously can’t be CEOs, their menses probably gets in the way.)
Note: John Morrison was also apparently in favour of the Wellywood sign, if you needed any extra evidence against his moral character.
There’s any number of obvious issues around the fact that it’s the better of the two non-Wellysuck signs in terms of tactical voting, the most obvious being of course that an explicitly Maori symbol doesn’t go down well with the middle-class white punters whose sensibilities are so offended by the Wellycrap sign.
And as KB commenters are quick to point out, it’s damn telling that there’s no “no fucking sign, thanks, you prats” option.
To continue my previous, pageview-exploding metaphor on the subject, Wellington Airport continues to be that tragic figure trying to convince you his moustache makes him look like George Clooney, only now he’s posting pictures on Facebook (probably with the help of a long-suffering teenager who’s hoping for a car for Christmas) of that awful ‘stache styled in three different ways and demanding you tell him which makes him look more like George Clooney.
None of the moustaches make you look like George Clooney.
Lonely Planet already named Wellington the Coolest Little Capital in the world. Not sure why a company so dependent on attracting tourism wants to fuck that up.
The Wellywood sign is the equivalent of a guy in his late forties who spends a whole dinner party pointing out to every single person that he’s grown a ‘stache and his wife told him it makes him look a bit like George Clooney in The Men Who Stare At Goats. And every time the object of his deluded bragging fails to hide their scorn, disbelief or nervous giggling, he fakes a laugh and says “Well a guy can try, can’t he?”
And then five minutes later you see him cornering the hostess to let her know how his wife totally thinks his stache makes him look a little like George Clooney.
He completely lacks the awareness to recognise that by trying to convince people he looks a bit like George Clooney he merely emphasises the massive lack of resemblance and focuses everyone’s attention on how much that moustache is a withered caterpillar-shaped symbol of his desperate need to pretend he’s not going through a midlife crisis.
And when not a single person at the dinner party can convincingly agree with him (and this being New Zealand one or two of the guys are probably just openly mocking him for being a tool with an ugly mo), he starts getting super-defensive and insisting it’s just a fucking joke and why can’t you wankers just lighten the fuck up?
And he will never, ever be able to admit that he isn’t George Clooney, isn’t even close, and no nubile young women are going to fuck him based on vaguely-similar facial hair, and that stache will stubbornly remain on his face making him look like a fucking twerp for the rest of his life.
Thing is, he’s only making himself (and possibly his spouse and any children they had pre-stache) look like a twerp. The Wellington Airport board,* which I’m totally sure has no demographic resemblance to white male douchewads with midlife crises, are making us all look like twerps.
*Because let’s be honest, who even fucking knew it was called Wild At Fucking Heart until this week? I thought that was the name of one of the naff souvenir shops.
Even my capacity for creative blasphemous vulgarity is stretched by the return of the bride of the son of the fucking Wellywood sign.
Danyl is taking the easy bet on immediate and repeated vandalism by the coolest little capital’s pissed-off citizens; Zetetic looks back on how much The Standardites hated it the first time round. I’m not picking much has changed.
But seriously. Fuck this shit. Bring on the Rapture.