May 24, 2012
VOTE FOR BOBBY MAY IN THE 2012 ULTRABOOK PEDESTRIAN.TV BLOGSTER AWARDS!

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Thanks to those who’ve submitted me for competition, BOBBY MAY. has been Nominated for a Blogster Award again this year!

Simply click LIKE beside my face HERE to vote!

The prize is a new computer.

This is what happened to my last computer:

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In late February, an electrical fire at my Surry Hills home destroyed everything I owned.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I don’t honestly care about any of those things. They’re just things. Nobody was hurt in the fire, and that’s all I care about.

What I’m trying to say is: I really need a new computer.

Please tell your friends to vote for me. That LINK again is HERE! All you have to do is hit LIKE!

Also big thanks to the guys at Pedestrian for choosing Bobby May.

Cheers,

Bobby May
Staff Writer 

4:22pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yM2HFAK
Filed under: arctic monkeys blogster bobby bobby may competition computer fire house housefire intel may pedestrian pedestrian.tv ultrabook vote surry hills sydney new south wales australia 
May 9, 2012
THIS OTHER TIME I GOT HIT IN THE FACE.

by Bobby May



It’s a fact that I’m willing to freely admit: very rarely women approach me with their phone number.

Either I initiate the awkward number exchange, or nothing will come of anything.

That said, I don’t typically approach many women at all.

That also said, it hasn’t bothered me. With the existence of Facebook, paying actual money on a phone plan to communicate with women you hardly know is a method slowly being phased out, along with verbal communication altogether.

Which works out great for me.

Though on this occasion, she approached me with her number.



It was at a brief stint in an incredibly dodgy call centre where this Girl and I were partnered up in a training session. I was thinking about quitting as soon as training was over since the job’s description became increasingly shitter as the training went on.

Sitting there with this girl was the kind of situation I wasn’t used to— being forced to verbally communicate with her in a professional setting, acting professional.

Nevertheless, the typical stupid nonsense I spouted in that 45 minute period somehow worked. She told me she was “heading out to the city” that night.

I said “oh, that’s good”, before an awkward silence. She grabbed my phone and put her number in it, and walked off.

I won’t lie. I felt a little bit like a “ladies man” at that point. I felt like Austin Powers.

That was PHASE ONE over with, and I passed PHASE ONE with flying colours.

PHASE TWO, however, is where it all went horribly wrong.



I was at a point where I wasn’t sure if I’d bother “heading out to the city” that night.  I just spent almost an hour with this person, and she seemed alright to me. Though luckily there was another birthday on in the city I was obligated to go to, so I had a chance to get out of it:

Hey I’ve got this other birthday on at The Rocks. Totally forgot about it.

-Bobby

Unfortunately, her reply backed me into a corner.

we’re goin 2 the rocks to! ill txt u when i get there.

Great.



As I’ve said, It’s not often that I’m made to meet up with a person that I hardly know, but facing certain awkwardness, there’s a seemingly perfect 3-Point method that I have up my sleeve In Case Of Emergency:

  1. Get completely shitfaced before I meet up with her.
  2. Meet up with her.
  3. See what happens.

And that’s exactly what I did. I drank several liters of beer with friends of mine hours before she probably even got on a train to the city.

I’m not in any way boasting about the amount of alcohol I drank. This detail is important for painting the image of how off my head I got.

Though when the time came and she arrived, I must say, I wasn’t doing too badly. Even though I forgot what her name was when she got there, I remembered it shortly after and bought her a drink.

She didn’t arrive alone though. She had a female friend with her. A really friendly girl with whom I shook hands with. And there was also another guy with her.

“…and this is Josh.” she said.

I offered my hand to him, but he didn’t shake it. He looked right through me like I was a hologram, and stumbled over to the bar.

Josh’s current level of inebriation made me look like a straight-edge Christian type.

Not long later, the four of us, along with other friends of mine, went to another bar on George St. Though initially difficult, I found myself making actual conversation with Josh and the two others, and it was actually going pretty well. Even Josh, who had sobered up slightly, seemed slightly normal.

And then the barman approached our table.

“Here’s two drinks on the house for the two beautiful ladies. Compliments of the fellas over there.”

The barman pointed over to two older gentlemen at the bar smiling at our table. Upon looking at them, I found that it was an incredibly polite and innocent gesture from the lads at the bar. The lads saw two, as they say, “beautiful ladies”, they liked what they were looking at, and they wanted to buy them a drink. There’s no harm in that.

Unless of course they put rape drugs in the drinks. But that wasn’t the case.



And then Josh slowly stood up. He shared none of the sentiments I had.

“…they can’t fucking do that, bro… they can’t fucking DO THAT.”

The girls stood up and tried to calm Josh down, as the sudden burst of anger behind his eyes got more intense by the second. “Dude, it’s okay”, I tried to tell him. 

“YOU GIRLS ARE HERE WITH US.
YOU’RE. HERE. WITH. US.
THEY CAN’T FUCKING DO THAT, BRO.
THEY CAN’T FUCKING BUY YOU A FUCKING DRINK.
WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY?
WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, BRO?”

And things began to get a bit out of hand, and we decided to leave the bar. Now was as good a time as any to head home.

The girls dragged Josh out of the bar, while I decided to go to the bathroom first. I told the others I’d meet them outside.

On my way out, I saw that the bar was almost empty. I then looked downstairs at the exit, to which a massive crowd of people stood.

I sped down the stairs and took a single step outside.

I looked around to find a familiar face, before my search was suddenly interrupted:

A fist, bigger than my head, swung and connected with my face, and I dropped to the ground.



My head instantly went numb and my left ear went completely deaf.

I was lying on the pavement, rolling around like a dying cockroach.

And then somebody picked me up, forced me upright and pulled me away from the crowd.

It was the girl.

I limped away with her, even though my injury hadn’t effected either of my legs. Deciding I was ready to leave, I thanked her, and got directly on the bus home.

I don’t know what happened to Josh, but I do hope something happened to him. It’s always fascinated me how some people can act that way when they get drunk. What was his motivation for starting something with the lads at the bar? Did he want to impress the girls? Who’d be impressed by that?

What type of person would even bring a person like that out?

In the morning, and with a massive headache, I called the girl to figure out what exactly had happened. She filled me in on all the details, explaining that one of the lads was assigned to take me on, while the other lad dealt with Josh. I spent the entire phone conversation with my head in my hands. Aside from being a little ashamed, the entire situation was just really annoying. I decided out of sheer curiousity to meet up with this girl, and then I ended up, literally, getting smacked in the fucking face.

At the end of the conversation she asked me when I’d next be at work.

“Monday”, I told her.

“Oh good. I’ll be there Monday. I’ll see you then.” she said.



On Monday, I got to work and quit my job.



Have you ever got hit in the face because of a girl? Shoot me a response.

3:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yL9FW0Y
(Notes: 5)
  
April 28, 2012
WEIRD PEOPLE I’VE COME ACROSS, PT. 2: “MICHAEL, GAY DUDE.”

by Bobby May

It was mid-2006, and I was 16.

I don’t remember where I was when I received the first text message, but I do remember that I threw my phone across the room upon reading it:

“Hi Bobby. You don’t know me, but I’ve seen you around Hurstville station. I’ve asked people about you. I heard your favourite band is Arctic Monkeys! My favourite song is of theirs is Ravey Club. Anyway, we should meet up.

My name is Michael.”

My immediate thought: somebody was playing a trick on me. A really, really fucked up trick. (Although, a very educated trick, as “Ravey Club” was a rare unreleased track by Arctic Monkeys before they got famous. True story.)

I couldn’t help denying the slight possibility that Michael wasn’t part of a trick, and was an actual gay dude who existed.

As a 16 year old kid who lusted after girls on a daily basis, and had never been in a relationship before, I reacted completely over-the-top disgusted at the entire situation.

That’s not homophobic either. Any heterosexual 16 year old who’d run over his own grandmother to even hold hands with another girl would react the way I did.

And so as I threw my phone at the other side of the room, I decided that I would not text back.

That was when more and more texts kept coming in.

This Michael character kept trying it on, texting different events we could do together. With every text I grew more uncomfortable. Aside from being a homosexual, Michael was incredibly forward, and fucking annoying.

One day Michael suggested that him and I go to a “cake sale” down at Cronulla.

A fucking cake sale.

This was when I finally decided to reply:

Sorry man. Not doing any of those things with you. Not gay. Stop texting.

The reply was almost instantaneous:

Why are you so mean to me! I like you! We should hang out at Cronulla on Saturday, what do you think?

I realised then, in my own mind, (or at least convinced myself) that Michael wasn’t definitely not real. A close friend of mine had clearly picked me out of a pool of equally gullible people, taken my interest in Arctic Monkeys as bait, and tried to push my limits of uncomfortability.

So this was when I decided to go for broke to get rid of this Michael for good:

I’m beginning to get really fucking pissed off now. I’m not gay. I’m not hanging out with you. I’m not being fucking mean— I’m just not fucking gay. Stop texting me. I’m not going to go buy cakes with you. I’m NOT GAY.

Michael stopped texting.

After a few good weeks of being rid of Michael, I was hanging out with a girl I was probably interested in at the time. I forget completely about where I was, but I remember our conversation word-for-word.

We were talking about crushes or something dumb, when this girl suddenly said:

“What about Michael, then eh?”

I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t told anybody about Michael. Not a single person.

“Who..?”, I asked pretending to have no idea.

“You know.. Michael! The gay guy who keeps texting you.”

I finally broke character, “I NEVER TOLD YOU ABOUT MICHAEL! WHO IS THIS FUCKING MICHAEL. WHO IS HE?!”

She noted my outraged reaction and looked away. She then changed the subject, and the subject was subsequently never brought up again. Ever.

Not long later this girl and I stopped hanging out.

Whether Michael was real or not real, I will never know. But It’ll always remain in my mind that this girl had something to do with it.

If you’re reading this Michael, I hope you’re not real.



Have you ever been stalked? Have you seen Michael? Are you Michael? Shoot me a response.

3:56pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yKT7y48
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: gay high school sms text stalker weird people i've come across bobby may bobby may 
April 21, 2012
WEIRD PEOPLE I’VE COME ACROSS, PT. 1: “GIRL AT A PARTY.”

by Bobby May


This was at a house party at the beginning of 2008.

I forget who was turning 18 at the time, but I probably didn’t know who they were anyway. One of the few people I did know at the party was my good friend, Pete (follow Pete on Twitter, https://twitter.com/Pistolzzzz).

After about an hour of drinking and talking shit with Pete, I noticed a short, rather energetic blonde girl running around and carrying on. She was talking very loud, but I don’t think she was actually saying any words.

As she was rolling around on the grass, I realised it was probably impolite to stare, so I forced myself to take no further notice of this girl, and allow her to carry on, doing what she was doing.

I continued talking shit with Pete for a short while, before I felt the presence of somebody beside me. It was dark, and I was in the middle of conversation, so I didn’t turn to see who it was.

Thirty seconds later, the person was still standing beside me, and it was starting to get strange. Pete could see who this person was from his perspective, however I was still unaware.

Mid-sentence, this person suddenly grabbed my hand, and I was forced to turn towards them.

All of a sudden I was face to face with the mental girl from before, who had been standing beside me, and she was now holding my hand.

A second later, she placed my hand on her breast.

She then yelled at the top of her lungs:

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOBIES!”

I stood there. Completely still.

I looked at her manic, over-excited facial expression.

And then I looked down at my hand on her breast.

And then back up to her face.

And then down again to my hand on her breast.

Before I looked back up at her face once more.

And then I looked down at the breast for the final time.

I had no idea what to do at this point. The only thing my body would allow me to move were my eyes, and the girl stood there, smiling, expecting some sort of reaction.

Pete was still standing there silent, and more confused than I was.

My mouth finally decided to say something:

“Oh, okay.”

Charming.

The girl put my hand down gladly, made a loud noise and ran off into the crowd of people at the party.

I turned back to Pete, now laughing his head off at me.

To some degree I was proud of my reaction to this mental girl, placing my hand on her chest. She was clearly not in a right state of mind, and I decided to keep my distance.

Yes. I was very, very proud.

Though to another, entirely more realistic degree, I realised that I was completely underwhelmed with my reaction.

And then I spent the next three hours at the party trying to find her.

I never saw her again.


Have you ever taken advantage of somebody who was mental? Shoot me a response.

Actually.. don’t bother.

4:35pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yK0Z41H
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: girl party weird people bobby may bobby may 
February 1, 2012
THE FIRST HOUR OF MY THAILAND HOLIDAY.

by Bobby May

I fell off the plane onto Thai soil completely exhausted and sporting a raging headache. Having had nothing to eat but a slice of Banana Bread on the plane, I wanted nothing more than to fucking collapse for a few hours.

Myself and two friends, Jason and Glenn, began our trip with two primary objectives:

1. Check into the Hotel and throw our luggage and shit in the room.
2. Head toward Patong Beach for a relaxing Thai massage to ease our souls into this new, strange, beautiful country.



Everything had caught me off-guard about Phuket.

For one, the fucking smell of the place. “Putrid” doesn’t describe the smell aptly enough. Before I left, the Nurse who administered me with the Hepatitis B vaccine warned me:

“The second you step out of that Airport, you’ll be shocked mate. The smell of the place will hit you like a fucking truck. It’s this constant.. landfill smell. But you know, you’ll eventually get used to it.”

Learning I’ll be breathing in pollution and potential carcinogens is a lot easier knowing I’ll eventually get used to it.



So as we headed off toward the beach for our Traditional Thai Massages, I did my best to not breathe in air as often.

Still exhausted, we walked around for ages trying to find the specific Massage Parlour that Glenn was familiar with. He told me on the plane about how beautiful this establishment was, and I wanted nothing more than to just be there experiencing it.

“Yeah I have no idea where it is.. let’s just go find another one.” Glenn said, as we stumbled into a dodgy plaza.

This plaza looked like a scene from the Dawn of the Dead remake, with most of the stores boarded up.

An arm hooked into mine out of nowhere. “Hello!” it greeted.

With Dawn of the Dead fresh on my mind, I nearly shit myself.

“My name is KiKi.” she said.

Kiki was a fairly short, slightly larger Thai woman. She turned out to be apart of a Traditional Thai Massage parlour just around the corner with her two other co-workers. At our current point of exhaustion, we decided to go with KiKi and her two workers.

I couldn’t believe our luck.

Well.. at the time I couldn’t believe it.



Myself, Jason, and Glenn were each escorted to three separate beds on the floor, separated each by a thin white sheet. We were lead into each area with the curtain shut behind us, left to strip down naked.

I didn’t get undressed straightaway because I wasn’t sure that I was supposed to.

KiKi walked in and I was still fully clothed. ”Do I take my clothes off..?”

“Yes.” KiKi said abruptly, as if it were a stupid question.



By the time I was finally prepared, I assumed the position, lying on my front. The awkward conversation began for all of us, as they each asked for our names. Glenn said his name was Roger— a name they found hysterical. Jason and I however used our real names. From the point they found out what our names were, they couldn’t stop saying them.

“Relax Bobby! Relax!” KiKi yelled at me. I couldn’t relax though, she was fucking yelling at me.

“I’m trying to! It just feels weird.” I said, but she didn’t understand what I was saying.

Half an hour later, I finally felt relaxed. KiKi and the other two girls had stopped talking, and I was finally enjoying Thailand.

This was the life…

“Turn over now, Bobby.” KiKi had broken the silence, and all of a sudden I was no longer relaxed.

KiKi and I were now face-to-face, and she kept winking at me in a way that was not at all flattering. She was winking with both eyes, bearing the sort of grin that made her look like Danny DeVito’s ugly brother.

And then she pursed her lips together. And I gagged.



I shut my eyes tight. Damn tight. So tight I felt my capillaries nearly explode. Which somehow lead me to feel slightly more relaxed as KiKi massaged my chest.

And again, I forgot where I was, and it was an enjoyable experience again.

“Bobby does that hurt? Am I hurting you?” asked KiKi, ruining the atmosphere yet again.

“It hurts a little” I muttered. “But it’s a good kind of hurt, you know?”

KiKi fell on the ground laughing. She loved that. She found what I said completely hysterical.

I opened my eyes to see her wiping tears of laughter from hers. I knew what I said wasn’t even intended to be funny, but I nodded at her appreciating the words I had said anyway.

And with that, KiKi grabbed my crotch area. And squeezed. Really, really hard.

I shut my eyes again. Really tight.



I remained still, unsure of what had just happened. I tried to make sense of the moment by ordering the events:

  1. KiKi asked me a question.
  2. I made a “joke”.
  3. She squeezed my genitals.

The conclusion I came to was that it was a kind gesture. KiKi was merely thanking me for making her laugh. It was like a friendly handshake, a punch on the shoulder, or a pat on the back just to say, “cheers mate, cheers for the laugh.”

But I began questioning my conclusion when KiKi squeezed my genitals 13 or 14 more times.



I opened my eyes, and KiKi looked at me directly in the face.

“Shhhh”, she whispered, again with her Danny DeVito grin.

Everything KiKi said from now on was in a false sign language:

First, she pointed to my lower body

And then she closed her fist and started moving her wrist up and did in a fast, masturbating-like fashion.

Okay. Now, I had figured out what was going on. 



“No.” I said.

She tried to make her case more enticing by motioning that it would only cost me 1000 Baht (about $33).

This had not convinced me, and I shut my eyes once again.



KiKi woke me up again moments later.

“Shhhh!” she whispered to me, about to begin another game of Charades.

But. unlike the multiple motions of previous, KiKi made only one motion.

She pointed to her mouth.

I did not answer.

Just as this happened, the time we paid for had been up.

I stepped out of the curtain looking at Jason and Glenn, all of us wide-eyed and visibly traumatised. We all had the same story to tell from the last hour, walking out of the plaza never to return.

This was the first hour of my Thailand holiday.



Have you ever been inappropriately touched by a Danny DeVito lookalike? Shoot me a response.


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10:06pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yFiwXEM
(Notes: 6)
  
Filed under: thailand phuket patong beach patong holiday massage bobby may bobby may 
December 4, 2011
THE ACT OF FACEBOOK AMBUSHING 101 (OR, THE FRAPE OF OLIVER BADMAN).

by Bobby May

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To me, abusing somebody’s Facebook when they’ve left their account logged in and unattended is an act that’s completely justified.

They’ve left their account open, so it’s up to you to take advantage of that. In a way, you’re teaching your victim a valuable lesson of what can happen, which is your duty as a good friend.

Fraping (a portmanteau of the words “Facebook” and “rape”) is the latest and most popular form of mainstream pranking that’s erupted in recent months, and I am a big fan of it.

At any given opportunity, I pounce like a gazelle to screw up everything about somebody’s online personality. Whether it’s a friend who’s left their account open on my computer, or somebody else who’s left their Facebook on their iPhone open while they go to the bathroom, or even complete strangers who’ve left their accounts open at various Apple Stores in the city, I sieze the opportunity to be a complete dickhead. Fraping is actually the only reason I go into Apple Stores. Daily.

Since the prank’s creation, I have become better and better at it.

Oliver Badman is one of my closest friends, and a complete gentleman.

Unfortunately, Oliver has continued to accidentally leave his Facebook open every single time he’s over at my place.

Most of Oliver’s immediate family have him on Facebook, which makes him a great target for a good old-fashioned Fraping.

The first trick to learn about an effective Frape would be to avoid being cliché, namely on Status Updates. It’s very important to avoid making it obvious it’s not somebody else clearly ambushing their account. There are two main clichés I am referring to here.

1. The highly obvious one about cock.

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2. The highly obvious one that’s about the person Fraping them.

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Too cliché!

The trick to avoiding these clichés, and pulling off a decent Frape, is to be NEEDLESSLY specific. The more you go on and on and on, the more original the entire ambush will be. And originality is everything. Don’t forget to allow people to Share your victim’s Facebook status via Privacy Settings. Here’s one I prepared earlier:

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Status updates are only the beginning of a good Facebook ambush. The possibilities are actually pretty limitless.

Changing one’s Profile Photo is another popular option. But one cannot simply change the Profile Photo to something weird for it to be effective enough. The real skill (yes, it is skill) is in the cropping.

Here’s an original photo of Oliver with friends:

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And thanks to the magic of cropping, here is Oliver’s new and improved Profile Picture:

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Perfect.

Another example of a good crop would be to take advantage of using as much room on the main page as possible. Again, here’s the original photo:

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And here’s the successful crop, and new and improved display picture:

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Awkward…

(Not pictured is the caption to go with the photo: “workin on my pecs, what do u guys think?? 4 months in startin 2 c a difference..”)

As you can see, Oliver’s new Profile Photo takes up most of his page, allowing for a completely weird and appropriate Frape for his friends and family to enjoy and question.

Like-ing various Facebook pages is also an effective method to screw someone’s account up. Not only are the Pages posted publicly, but they are added to a person’s interests, grouping them with others who share similar interests, fuelling for potential future interaction. Simply search a phrase and go nuts. I’ve gone for a more straightforward approach here:

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Click Like on all of the above, as shown, and here’s what it will look like to others.

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Those “9 other pages”, as you may have guessed:

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To take proceedings a step further, another method would be to type the first name that comes into your head (the name I thought of was Natalie) in the search bar, and then do the following:

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It’s as simple as that. Send friend requests out to them. The good thing about this is Facebook automatically sorts the Search Results in order of mutual friends, so the friend request is totally weird, awkward, unexpected, and effective.

Going to each Natalie page and finding this option wouldn’t go astray either:

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So with all of this in mind, I hope I’ve got my point across that there is an effective way to do things with Fraping, and an ineffective and pointless way. It’s important with this type of control over someone’s online persona to take things too far, be callous, and unrelenting.

Because in the end, it’s just Facebook right? Who the fuck cares.

Oliver might care, actually. But hey, it’s his fault for leaving his account open around me.



What are some of your best Frapes? Do you have a signature Frape? Shoot me a response.

3:01pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yCnH_NQ
(Notes: 14)
  
Filed under: frape facebook oliver badman bobby may ambush status updates pranks life lessons 
November 15, 2011
HOW PRIMARY SCHOOL WAS RUINED FOR ME.

by Bobby May

As wild as this claim may be, I remember everything about Primary School.

I can’t seem to remember what the hell I was doing last Tuesday. But I can however, remember vivid details of the weirdest seven years of my life between 1995 and 2001.

It was seven years of:

  • Being sick during Swimming Carnivals so nobody found out I couldn’t swim.
  • Being sick during Athletics Carnivals so nobody found out how awkward and retarded I looked when I ran.
  • A continued awkwardness that culminated in me joining the Boys Dance Group just because I “may as well”.

I’m now going to try and remember something fucked up from each of these years.



1995, “Getting Dobbed on by My Best Friend.”

During Free Time (or “playtime”), my “best friend”, Ian Thomas Earnshaw, wrote “SEX” in capital letters on his miniature blackboard.
He turned to me grinning and said, “Hey Bobby, what’s that word?”

I looked at him and said, “SEX”.

Ian screamed “I’M TELLING. YOU JUST SWEARED” and he ran to the teacher.

After explaining to the teacher what actually happened, Ian started crying on the floor. Because he started crying, I was the one who got yelled at by the teacher.

I also distinctly remember Ian smiling as I was being dragged away.

At the end of the year, Ian moved back to England. If you’re reading this, “SEX” isn’t a swear word, Ian you fucking mong.



1996, “Forced to Eat out of a Bin.”

Unhappy with the poor quality of the canteen’s Hot Dogs, my second “best friend” Jacko swapped his Hot Dog, for my chicken drumstick.
Hard to please, Jacko was still unhappy with the swap, and threw the Chicken Drumstick in the bin.

The teacher saw him do this.

The teacher demanded that Jacko pick the Chicken Drumstick out of the bin and eat it, as a lesson to “not be wasteful”.

Jacko cried as he gnawed unhappily at his Chicken Drumstick, this time covered in garbage.

That was, to this day, the cruelest thing I have ever seen.



1997, “A Classroom of Masseuses.” 

My teacher of this year used to make us give her back massages.

But it’s okay— she was female. 

Certain kids were nominated to give the teacher a rubdown as she sat in her chair and taught the class.

As the year progressed, the teacher sorted the good massages from the bad massages, and only some kids by the end of the year were invited back to massage her, like it was The X Factor or some shit.



1998, “William, with the Weird-Shaped Head.”

William had a weird-shaped head, so it was no surprise that he repeated Year 3. Immediately, he decided that I got along well with him, and invited me over to his place for some wrestling matches. After a while, I didn’t think he was that weird after all. I thought he was just like a normal kid.

And then he asked me, “Hey Bobby, do you want to see my arse?”

I told him, “no, I don’t.”

Seconds later, he voluntarily had his arse out, even after I SPECIFICALLY told him I didn’t want to see it.

I stopped hanging out with William. Surely enough, ten years later Facebook tells me he’s Interested in: Men. Go figure.



1999, “Blank.”

Nothing noteworthy happened all year. I specifically remember that.



2000, “The Game Boy Thief.”

I had both my Game Boy and Game Boy Camera stolen in the one day.

I looked for it everywhere before completely breaking down, knowing my parents, who had given me the Game Boy a mere day before, would kill me.

But luckily for me I had a friend named Joshua Carbone.

Joshua promised, “I will help you find it, Bobby.”

Together with Joshua, we formed an elite investigation squad, interrogating everybody about the whereabouts of my Game Boy and its camera.

After two weeks of failed interrogations, I decided we were never going to find it, and I got ready to tell my parents and cop whatever punishment.

And then suddenly, Joshua ran to me before school on the Monday. “I FOUND IT!” he shouted, handing me my prized possession.

I clenched my Game Boy with uncontrollable happiness. “WHERE WAS IT??” I asked him. “I searched through those bags!” he said. “It was in a purple one!”

At that moment, Joshua was the best friend I ever had.

I took the Game Boy home with its camera… only to find that its memory was full, even though I knew the memory was empty when it was stolen. “What’s it full with?” I thought to myself.

It was full of photos of Joshua’s family dating back to the day my Game Boy was stolen.

It was Joshua who had stolen my Game Boy all along.

I never did confront him, though I still plan to.



2001, “The Ten Year Old Virgin.”

At school camp one night, the teachers split the year in two groups for activities. It was Boys vs. Girls. The game was Charades.

Each group picked a number of movies, TV shows, and songs, and put them in a hat. One person was to pick one of the movies, TV shows or songs at random, and act them out for their own group.

I didn’t know how to play Charades then, but I saw this as a good opportunity to impress the girl I was in love with at the time.

Usually keeping my head down for most of my time at school, I stood up and volunteered myself, plucking a random piece of paper from the hat.

The piece of paper read:

“LIKE A VIRGIN. by Madonna.”

My eyes popped out of my head and fell on the floor. I wasn’t daft. I knew EXACTLY what a virgin was, though I still turned to Miss Scott (the leader of the Girls team), and asked her innocently, “Miss, what’s a virgin?” expecting she’d say “don’t worry about it, pick another less ridiculous piece of paper from the hat. Don’t embarrass yourself with that one…”

But no.

She said “oh, a virgin is somebody who hasn’t had sex before. AND YOUR TIME STARTS…NOW!”

I stood before a room of puzzled boys and screaming girls who were heckling me on the sidelines. I’m sure I was the first ten year old in history expected to act out the words “LIKE A VIRGIN” to his peers in a game of Charades in under three minutes.

“Tick tock!”, Miss Scott said to me, pointing at her wristwatch and smiling.

My lips were trembling from the nervousness, and I didn’t know what to do. I began a thought process:

  1. I should shake my head and then thrust my pelvis
  2. NO = the headshake. And SEX = the pelvis thrust.
  3. NO SEX = Virgin. Simple.

However I realised that my team, unlike me, were daft. They probably couldn’t  UNDERSTAND what the hell I was doing, which would leave me standing there thrusting my pelvis at a group of ten year old boys in complete silence.

Surely that type of conduct wasn’t even allowed, right?

But I didn’t know what was acceptable in the school system anymore. The boys were getting frustrated that I stood still and silent, totally embarrassed for the entire three minute period.

I looked over to the teachers for help, and they were laughing at me. 

I looked at the girl I loved, and she was clearly unimpressed.

I knew even then on that cold night ten years ago that those three minutes would scar me a full decade later.

Needless to say, we lost the game of Charades that night because of me.

I subsequently never volunteered myself for anything in my life ever again.



Have you got any strange Primary School experiences that have scarred you? Shoot me a response, or go straight to the Police.

5:55pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yBydktu
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: primary school hurstville primary hurstville new south wales nsw childhood disappointment bobby may bobby may 2001 
November 7, 2011
SYDNEY CAB DRIVERS: DRIVE THE FUCKING CAB.

by Bobby May

Sydney Cab drivers, generally, are an utter disgrace.

I’m not sure how it works in other parts of the globe, but in my experience the cab drivers of Sydney have crafted an extremely poor reputation for themselves:

  1. They don’t respect road rules and are continually seen to be putting others on the road at risk.
  2. At specific times they deny service to paying customers if the destination doesn’t suit them.
  3. A great number of them lack inherent interpersonal skills required to transport customers to a said destination comfortably.
  4. Although displaying a light signifying that the approaching cab is vacant, it does not mean they will stop. Often, they’ll just drive past. Well, they drive past me.
  5. Similarly, vacant cabs are seen to have their Vacant light off until approaching a potential customer. This means a cab driver can pick and choose who they pick up.

Taxi drivers CANNOT, legally, pick and choose customers. It’s a fucking service.

Taxi drivers: If I, as a paying customer approach you and request your services, you can’t just say “oh… nah.” and move on. You will say “okay”, and drive the goddamn cab.

And I’m not going to tip you because this is not America.

Okay, everybody knows cab drivers put up with a lot. With kids like us these days, weekends in the city must be hell.

A couple weeks ago, myself and three other friends were made to fight for a taxi on the main strip of Kings Cross at 4am, against one person.
Drunk, disorderly, and in numbers, of course we came off victorious, narrowly beating this other individual.
While we were securely in the cab, the taunting began.
The four of us started yelling at the guy who didn’t get to the cab fast enough, both swearing and pointing at him.
The unexpected occurred when this individual ran up to our cab (which was now caught in traffic), and started swinging his fist in the window randomly, hoping to connect with one of our faces. “YOU’RE ALL FUCKING DICKHEADS. DICKHEADS!” he cried to us. I rolled up my window before he got the chance to get to mine.
Not long later, our cab was freed from the traffic, and we all continued to taunt and yell at the guy as we pulled away.
Carrying on and unacceptably screaming continued for most of the cab ride home. Every individual we came across before the Motorway had obscenities blurted at them. Even in the state I was in, I was puzzled as to how the cab driver was putting up with any of this. As the main offender in the passenger seat, he didn’t even say a word to me.
And then suddenly, a strong scent suddenly emerged from the backseat, and this time it wasn’t the scent of Amyl Nitrate.

My friend Anthony had farted.

Anthony laughed hysterically while everybody else in the cab started choking to death.

At this point the cabbie had enough, and he pulled over on the side of the Motorway.
“YOU RESPECT MY FUCKING CAB! I PICKED YOU UP AND I CAN FUCKING KICK YOU OUT!” the cab driver yelled. Still laughing, Anthony pleaded “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”, clearly unapologetic.
While the remainder of us sat there silent, the cab driver ended up taking us the rest of the way. The silence continued for the remainder for the trip.

Throughout the experience, I thought “fair enough”. Disrespect was shown, and roles-reversed, I would have done the same. At the end of the day we got to our destination and we paid the man, so no harm done (except maybe to the backseat).

Despite constant unruly treatment, the fact here remains:
Taxi drivers do not reserve the right to be a total dick, and you shouldn’t have to put up with their shit.

At the 3am/3pm changeover time, cab drivers will be looking for a lengthy destination to finish their shift with. If you’re not going far enough, you’re going to have a horrible time trying to find someone to take you home. You should probably start walking, because it’s damn near impossible.

Again, cabbies are not allowed to pick and choose between paying customers if the destination doesn’t suit them.

If a cab driver stops suddenly in the middle of a busy intersection and asks what your destination is beforehand, and where you’re going isn’t good enough, he’s most likely going to drive away. So here’s what you do:

  • As the cab approaches and the taxi driver poses the question, “where are you going?”, don’t tell him immediately. Open the door. At this point, you may tell him where you’re going, but either way just enter the cab. Now he’ll have little choice but to drive you.
  • If he starts saying “no, no, no.” because your destination doesn’t meet the required criteria you may exit the cab.
  • However, If you do end up exiting the cab, you must leave his fucking door wide open.

I uphold respect as everything. If someone disrespects you, and if you’re willing to take the low road (like I am most of the time), you’re free to disrespect them. Be as petty as you want.

But this is becoming a one-way street with Sydney taxi drivers. They are constantly disrespecting the general public without the common courtesy of allowing the general public to disrespect them first.

It’s simple: I’m a paying customer. Drive the fucking cab.

It’s your job.



Do you hate cabbies as much as I do? Are you a scumbag cabbie? Shoot me a response, and come at me, bro.

7:34pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0yBcmMzz
(Notes: 23)
  
Filed under: sydney cabs sydney taxi drivers taxi drivers cab cab drivers taxis combined premier cabs silver service legion cabs st george cabs new south wales kings cross disrespect 
September 26, 2011
THE BIGGEST SCUMBAG IN THE WORLD.

by Bobby May

If you owe somebody 300 dollars, here’s what you don’t do:

  • Ignore messages from the person who politely asked when you would be okay to pay the money back.
  • After a certain amount of time, delete the person you owe money to from Facebook so as to distance yourself from any communication with them.
  • Get on your fucking high horse about “respect” in defence of a sudden confrontation about not paying the money back.
  • Not pay the fucking money back.

In September 2011, I crossed paths with the biggest scumbag in the world. 

DECEMBER, 2010

After a year and a half of only having to deal with my hometown of Hurstville NSW on the odd Sunday afternoon to visit my family, I found myself back there. Again. And it fucking sucked.

At the end of 2010, the company I worked at lost a major contract. Prior to this I was living the high-life in North Sydney, a mere kilometre away from my job. Life was actually so good that I was still consistently late for work as being so close to my job provided me with more time to sleep in.

Our boss told a handful of us in the meeting room, “We lost the contract.” Immediately, I panicked, thinking solely about the fact I might be have to move back with my family in Hurstville— a prospect that was completely horrifying. “What’s going to happen?” I directly asked my manager as I shut my eyes expecting more bad news. “We don’t know” he said.
“We will be busy until the end of 2010. After that we don’t know.”

MARCH 2011

Well, I knew. By mid-March I couldn’t keep up the high-life in North Sydney, and I found myself back at the family home in Hurstville: Sydney’s shit-ditch. Not only that, but I was sleeping on the couch in the living room, and getting zero rest on a nightly basis. It was a step backwards, but yes, at least I had a home to go to.
I’m fairly lucky in that regard.

JULY 2011

After three months of inaction, barely searching for a new place to live, my sister Anna approached me. ”This guy is moving out of my house, do you want the room?” I immediately committed, and begun plans to get the fuck out of Hurstville. My sister added, “the guy wants his bond back immediately so would you mind paying that?”
I didn’t mind at all. It was a beautiful terrace house in the heart of the city.
I handed the money over.

Expecting to move in the following week, my sister told me the guy (from here on, we’re going to call him Greg, which is not this individual’s real name) needed an extra week as he was having problems sorting his new room out. I didn’t have a problem with that at all.

A week later I finally moved in. Greg and I never crossed paths in the transitional process, though I did hear him exit.
“Greg’s gone?” I asked my sister.
“Yeah. But he’ll be back. He left some of his stuff here.”
The living room was scattered with Greg’s belongings, which included a massive bed frame inconveniently placed in the door way, and garbage bags full of miscellaneous items. It was fucking landfill.
I turned to Anna shaking my head, “He’ll be back soon, right?” I said. “Yeah” she said. “He owes me a bit of money too, but he said he needs a bit of time to settle in, and then he’d be good for it.”
“Cool”, I said.


THREE WEEKS LATER

Greg’s belongings hadn’t moved. In the early morning, I was clumsily walking through the living room to get to the laundry, where I tripped on one of Greg’s garbage bags and fell on my face.
“Anna, has there been any word from Greg? Is he going to pick up his shit?” Anna said that she tried messaging Greg, and he said he needed another week to pay her back. As for the massive bed frame, he was trying to sell it. There was no word on the garbage bags full of belongings littering the living room.
Anna said she’d try to contact him again. 
“Cool”, I said. 

ONE WEEK LATER

No reply at all from Greg.

ONE WEEK LATER

Greg finally responds to one of Anna’s messages: ”What have I left there?”

Unfuckingbelievable.

Was he serious? Things were beginning to get ridiculous at this point. I didn’t believe for a second that he had NO recollection of all the clutter he left behind.
Was he standing in his room thinking, “Man, I wonder what I left there?” as he turned to his new room which consisted of one blanket on the floor, and no bed. “I just have no idea what I could have left there…” he thought to himself.
I imagined myself talking to him in person, “YOU LEFT YOUR BEDFRAME, MAN. And I know this because:

  1. I tripped over it.
  2. It’s in the middle of the doorway where people fucking walk.”

Frustrated by the lack of response later that week, Anna and I put all of his shit out on the street for council pickup, which was something we should never have had to do ourselves. Though judging by who we were dealing with, we were faced with very little choice.

SEPTEMBER, 2011

I began to get the sickness that everyone was getting. It was the change in season, I think. I got up one morning in early September completely stuffed up and annoyed by the lack of sleep.
I stumbled into the shower only to find that I left my towel back in my room, so after my shower I dried myself with a roll of toilet paper.
What I’m trying to say is: It was not a good day at all so far.
Shortly after struggling to dress myself, I stumbled over to the mailbox, only to be reminded of Greg as every piece of mail I sifted through was for him. I had forgotten all about Greg ever since my sister and I threw his belongings out on the street two weeks earlier.

“What happened with Greg?” I caught my sister off guard, who had also forgotten about the fact that this guy STILL owed her over 300 dollars, and a response to at least half a dozen unreplied emails. “Nothing” she said, “I’ll contact him over Facebook.”

One thing I’ll say here is that Greg was lucky to be owing my sister 300 dollars. Any other person would be chasing the amount of money up in a more proactive way, but that wasn’t how we were brought up. It was in our nature to be patient with people, particularly good people.

Though we were about to find that Greg was not a good person. He was a fucking scumbag.

Suspicious, I looked to find Greg on Facebook by searching his full name from one of the thousand pieces of mail we now have of his. I found out on my own accord that Greg had in fact DELETED my sister from Facebook shortly after never replying to her emails or texts.

Doing nothing to help my sister at this point in time would make me a bad brother, so without thinking, and without telling my sister, I took it upon myself to get involved and message this scumbag:

“Hi,

I will make this brief.

I think it’s an incredibly low, scumbag thing to do for you to take advantage of my sister’s good nature and NOT pay her back.

Do you think that by simply ceasing communication, your debt to her will go away? That’s not how it works.
Pay her back, or at the very least, let her know when you WILL be paying her back by making contact with her.

I hope we can resolve this soon before too long.
Bobby May”

Quick and to the point, I let Greg know that should he be avoiding this debt on purpose by deleting Anna, his strategy would not go unrecognised and would be dealt with.

So here’s what a good person is supposed to do at this point:

  • Make contact with the person you owe money to.
  • Explain yourself and discuss a solution amicably.
  • Get on with your life.

That is not what Greg does. His reply:

“I’ve addressed this with Anna. Never EVER make communication with me, or attempt to threaten me again.”

I slumped back in my seat, completely shocked at his response. “Threaten”? Is that what he considers to be a threat? I couldn’t believe it.
My sister shortly after came knocking on my door with Greg’s response to her:

“The reason I’m not responding to you is because you never presented any evidence of what I had to pay you, simply an email with an amount in it. 

Even though you treated me with 0 respect when I lived at that house. I payed you rent and bills always without hesitation.

Not planning on paying you back any time soon. Perhaps you could forward me evidence of what I owe (and when I owed it) and then I’ll possibly consider it. Alternatively, make an official complaint.

But don’t get your siblings to contact me. Low.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the email response of a completely deluded, drama hungry, sociopathic scumbag, or in basic terms, a bad person.

Dealing with Greg over the past twenty minutes reminded me of dealing with the bully in primary school who had A.D.H.D.
I remember being 6 years old and sitting on a really tall wall by myself at lunchtime, drinking my juice box. And then the bully with A.D.H.D approached me.
Scared senseless by the intense smile he had on his face, I sat as still as I could on the high wall, not knowing what to do while he slowly approached me.
Mere moments later, he pushed me off the high wall and kicked dirt in my eyes as my body smacked onto the concrete. My juice box was everywhere.
There was no way around dealing with the bully who had A.D.H.D, because he had problems that extended far beyond proper reasoning— he was always going to push me off the wall and laugh as I lay there crying.

But I wasn’t in primary school anymore. Obviously.

I knew on my side of things that I wouldn’t let up. I was not going to “never try to contact” him ever again. I wasn’t going to do ANYTHING he fucking wanted— I was going to stay sitting on my wall.

I simply said,

“Good. And for the record, it wasn’t a threat.

Just do the right thing.”

He responded quickly,

“Please cease communication.”

I fought back,

“I’ll cease communication once this matter is resolved, bud.
Until then I’ll be following it up.”

He didn’t respond.

And just like that, I was finally winning at something in my life. I was beginning to think that there would have been some sense in dealing with the bully who had A.D.H.D in primary school.
When Greg asked that I “please cease communication” like some kind of retarded robot from the future, I almost did.
But I kept going, because I knew that if I had stopped, I’d be letting the six year old in myself down. I may as well have walked straight out into my back garden and kicked dirt in my own eyes.

This pride in myself continued for the next five minutes, and extended to Anna, who came to me with her response to Greg:

“What bull.

You’ll get a formal complaint if that’s what you wish. I have my own lawyers so don’t give me that absolute rubbish. 

If any of that was actually true you would have had the guts to say so at the time, and not once did you say you weren’t going to pay. In fact, in writing you said that you would and it’s dated so I don’t know why you insist on making trouble for yourself.

And regardless of your claims of mistreatment which are totally unfounded and ridiculous, it doesn’t change the fact that I paid for your share of the bills that YOU still owe, also evidenced in writing. The fact is I’ve tried to contact you numerous times and you never responded. There’s no argument at all on your side for that and don’t try to drum one up because you’ll be reaching and never get there.

It’s a black and white case.

I never asked my brother to send you a message, but he knows I let people push me around so he took it upon himself to chase you up. If he’s vexed you in any way, I will talk to him about it. It’s my fault I allowed this to get strung out for as long as it has been.

Don’t try to get on your high horse about respect when you have openly disregarded me for months and I have enough texts and emails to disprove your case entirely. It’s simply a matter of money. You owe money and you are making more trouble for yourself by just deciding not to pay it.
You have simply decided not to pay because enough time has passed. You are disconnected from this place and its people and you think you can get away with it.
Now, with my brother’s email, being the icing on the cake for you, you can take the high road and think you’re justified? The law is not on your side and that’s obvious. So get high on your own drama if you want, or be a better man and pay what you owe. It’s fucking simple and it’ll cost you more to carry this out.

Pay it, or I will lodge the complaint as per your request.

Do not contact me again unless you have decided to do the right thing and pay me back. It’s that simple, I will not respond to you otherwise.
If I don’t hear from you within the week I will take that as a go ahead to pursue this formally and from that point you can deal with my lawyer.”

With that, Greg replied instantaneously:

“I want this bullshit to end, so I’ll pay you.”


And he did.



Does some dirtbag owe you money? What have you done to get it back? Shoot me a response.

11:15pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y9yx5ig
(Notes: 6)
  
Filed under: scumbag bully greg hurstville new south wales surry hills lawyers Bobby May Bobby May 
September 1, 2011
CLUBBING, AND HOW I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND ITS APPEAL.

by Bobby May

As we were getting closer to the front of the line, I was going over the one thing I had to remember:
if the bouncer asks if I’m on a specific list, which he will, tell him I’m on “Brendan’s list”. That’s the main thing I have to remember.

Once inside and at the bar, I’m to tell the bartender “put this on Alice’s bar tab” upon purchasing my drink. It was simple… say “Brendan” at the door, “Alice” at the bar, and I’m set for the night.

“We’re up now, man” my friend tells me. Preoccupied with remembering what to tell the bouncer upon entry, I found myself to be the last of my group to move forward. Already, my friends have all entered the building, and it was now my move to approach the bouncer with my ID.

“Whoa mate, hang on a second”, the bouncer stopped me in my tracks as I stood there watching my friends disappear into the venue. The bouncer tells a second bouncer in a tone just loud enough for me to overhear, “you reckon this little guy is actually with these guys or he’s just following them?” The second bouncer looks me up and down. “Oh, I don’t know mate.. I think this little guy is just tagging along…”
I finally speak up, “No I’m with them. I’m here for a birthday. I’m on the list…”
“Oh yeah?” the first bouncer rolls his eyes. “What list are you on then, mate?” The bouncer stood up closer to me, an expression on his face telling me that there was no actual correct answer.
Completely intimidated, I began fiddling with the insides of my pocket. equally confused and annoyed at how well my night was going so far.
Without thinking I blurted out the first name that came to mind.. the wrong name.
“Alice.” I told him. He doesn’t even check the clipboard. “No Alice, buddy. Bad luck. Back of the line.”
I realised my mistake. “No, I mean Brendan. Sorry. Brendan. I meant Brendan’s guestlist…”
“LOOK MATE THERE’S NO FUCKING ALICE HERE NOW GET TO THE BACK OF THE FUCKING LINE.”

It’s amazing how the hopes of a great, and above all, cheap night-out can disintegrate in mere moments like that. I turned around ashamed, with the eyes of every person in the line behind me looking over and wondering why it was that I got turned down. As the walk of shame shattered my soul further with every step, it’s easy to say that in my continued tendency to be easily intimidated I simply gave the bouncer the wrong name, which was why I was wasn’t allowed in. But the truth was: I was NEVER going to be allowed into that club that night.
I got to the back of the line and waited for about 40 seconds, before leaving and getting on the train home. The night was over. My spirit and self-confidence were crushed that evening and for the remainder of the weekend. Oh well. Worth another shot the following weekend, eh?

The train home allowed for a lot of deep thought not only about tonight, but clubbing in general. This was the fourth time this exact thing had happened. I wasn’t sure I was cut out for clubbing.

For reasons beyond my understanding, people actually enjoy clubbing. For a great deal of people, clubbing is the ideal thing to do on a night out. Everything to do with the ritual of clubbing that comes to mind is fucking terrible. In every way.
The enjoyability of clubbing is solely shared by a target demographic. The target demographic consists of the completely deluded, the self-image obsessed, and those who’d basically spend their money on anything. Will.i.am sings about these people all the time— In fact, Will.i.am and his shit-awful music would be nowhere without them.

These clubs (whether you pass whatever test the bouncer poses before you) expect you to pay upwards of 40 dollars just to enter the joint. What the fuck is this fee based on? You’re already made to pay a ridiculous amount for a single beverage, so what is the entry fee for?
They enforce this fee simply because they can. A good night out for many people can easily be achieved by purely being at a cool expensive venue to not only to feel cool, but to look cool as they check-in via Facebook Mobile. To seal the deal of achieving such a prestigiousness opportunity to enter the venue, there is a fee for you to pay, and there’s no way around that.
And so as you pay the doorman and proceed inside, you must quickly forget the fact that they have just ripped you, and every fucking idiot inside the venue, off. But at least now you’re cool. Super cool, actually. After checking-in on your phone at an awkward stance trying to get phone reception, you can feel free to loosen your stupid looking tie and help yourself to a ten dollar beer— you’ve deserved it.

Holding a drink, or at the very least holding any cup full of liquid is imperative. It’s a social thing to be holding a drink at a club no matter what you’re doing. If you’re not holding one, either your mate or some horrible LMFAO song blasting through the speakers will pressure you into dancing over to the bar and buying one. As such, you’re made to pay unbelievable prices to drink as part of the clubbing ritual. These prices extend to the males who are made to purchase a beverage for the cute girl in the pink slip, high heels, and fake tan across from the bar. This behaviour is in their nature. Though the chances of getting off with this broad are unknown, he still took that chance and bought her a cocktail. And now she’s telling him she “has to go over there, now”. Too bad. If only you had as much luck as those LMFAO guys, eh?
And now 20 dollars later and not a lesson learnt, he buys some other girl a Tequila Sunrise. And so on, and so on.
To avoid these abhorrent prices, some people drink as much as they can beforehand through whatever means. This strategy usually ends badly and early with the bouncer denying you entry, barely looking at the state of you and your dishevelled velvet jacket. 

Most clubs require their patrons to dress formally to a certain degree. However, dress code aside, again, there’s no guarantee that you’ll even get in, leaving you standing there uncomfortably in fairly stupid looking clothes should the worst happen.
And males that get into clubs with very little problem have an undeniable self confidence about them. In most cases, it’s this confidence that allows them to wear a bright-pink collared shirt with the first four buttons down complete with a greasy over-waxed hairstyle. In any other setting this look is fucking ridiculous. In the clubbing world however, these guys don’t look ridiculous at all. Though completely stupid in real life, they’re the smartest guys at the club, because they’re the ones allowed entry, and you aren’t.
What I’m saying is, the dress code extends far beyond the clothes a person is wearing and whatever fucking terrible hairstyle they have, to a specific demeanour in which they hold, as well as, quite brutally, how their face looks. As your typical standoffish, awkward, looks-five-years-younger-than-his-actual-age type of guy, I have a great deal of trouble anywhere I go.

Most bouncers have serious problems. I’m talking mental problems. With the small amount of power they’re given, bouncers are constantly seen to be abusing this power, so long as they themselves get a kick out of it.
A close friend of mine and I were bored and leaving the Eastern at Bondi, though we couldn’t figure out how to push the exit door as it wouldn’t budge. Giving up, we began to walk away from the exit where we were confronted by a bouncer who was not happy at all to see us, and we didn’t know why.
Obviously thinking we had just snuck in through the exit, he violently shoves both of us before I said “NO WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE.”
It was only now as the bouncing stopped shoving us that he decided to help us out and opened the door for us to exit. On my way out I clutched my right shoulder which at the time, I thought had been fractured. 

I hang out with a group of friends who find clubbing a real treat. Regularly I voice my dislike for it, and their response to me is always the same: ”It’s fun, you just haven’t given it a chance.”

Give what a chance?

I gave clubbing a chance. Several chances. I can safely say that clubbing is not a quality night out at all, but a constant fucking ordeal. I’m not quite apart of this demographic that feels the need to spend extravagantly, and be constantly judged in order to be allowed entry to a place. It’s not my scene at all, which is nothing to get worked-up about.

As the bouncer commanded that I “get to the back of the fucking line” that night, I did exactly what he told me to. Looking back at the two bouncers, I saw them laugh to each other. They got their kick out of the situation. Yes, they’ve successfully tormented a young kid a quarter of their size who poses no threat to anyone or anything. Well done, guys.

On that train home I vowed to myself to never return because clubbing is clearly an act I can’t get a grasp of. I haven’t let the events of that night effect me at all. I’m moving onward and upward.
However, I know next year Brendan or Alice will be holding another night out clubbing for their respective birthdays, and I’ll be forced to return to these two bouncers and go through the same thing. Like the good friend I am, I owe it to them to put my reservations about clubbing aside for once and go through with it. It’s just the kind of guy I am.

This time I’ll be ready, though. The next morning, I went out and bought two dumbbells, and this time next year if all goes to plan, I’ll be as big and intimidating as those two bouncers. And then we’ll see who the real fucking little guy is.

Maybe the events of that night have effected me a little.



Have you got any terrible clubbing experiences? Did some bouncer try to fuck you up? Did you fuck him up? Shoot me a response.

Club

9:13pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y8-zMiG
(Notes: 17)
  
Filed under: the eastern clubbing the club bouncers lmfao Will.i.am bondi intimidation Bobby May Bobby May 
August 16, 2011
THE DAY I QUIT UNIVERSITY.

by Bobby May

In the first semester of my second year I decided to ride out “Bachelor of Design in Visual Communications” till the end, despite how much of a massive fucking waste of time it all was.
It was a waste of time in many, many ways. This difficult decision took more than the required amount of thought from a Design student, and the list of CONS outweighed the PROS significantly.

CON: THE TRAIN TRIP HOME.
I hated the fact my University was two and half hours away. For most its students, this University was two and half hours away too.
So basically, if you finish class and some jerk design student starts speaking to you on the courtesy bus to the hour long train ride back to Sydney, you’re stuck with that fuckwit for upwards of THREE HOURS. I don’t like talking to anybody I don’t know, and I don’t like making new friends.
I just want to sit on the train and listen to music by myself. Even if this other design student kept to themselves on the train, I STILL DON’T WANT THEM NEAR ME. And there’s nothing wrong with that either. I would just rather not feel like I have to make any effort, which is basically my attitude toward University.

About 10 to 15 times I was made to approach the train station after class with some idiot, knowing full well that I’d have an entire hour of bullshit pointless chit-chat with them should I get on the train with them.
And every single time I told them, “Oh no sorry I’m going this way, see you later”, and I got on a train in the WRONG DIRECTION. From there, I’d get on ANOTHER train back in the RIGHT DIRECTION, adding an annoying 20 minutes to the already lengthy journey home. This was necessary, and I saw no other way around my reasoning.

CON: DESIGN STUDENTS.
I don’t want to generalise here as hard as this is to express because most design students are actually fine. I met two of them who I’m still really great friends with.
But it’s those few that got to me…
I enrolled to University on my second day— that’s how little I cared. For the time I spent there I can’t say I tried hard once. I rocked up, sometimes half-dressed, did my bit, and went home.

But then there’s those who rock up to University much like they’re going fucking clubbing. There was this one jerk who wore a tie every day. Every. Day.
Alright, so he can wear what he wants whenever he wants, like he has. And yes, he can dye his hair grey, like he has. And of course, he can shave the sides of his head and submerge this outlandish hairstyle in some oily substance whenever he pleases. But it was when he opened his mouth in class discussions that made me want to kick him square in the face. He literally had something to say about everything, most of it stating the obvious. He over analysed photographs and artworks, uttering such complete nonsense like he was some sort of Shit-Talking Generator.

At a lecture, this famous image of a girl during the Vietnam War was presented to the room of design students for analysis. As the lecturer clicked NEXT SLIDE on his laptop, the picture was shown in great detail on the screen. And what was the reaction from the class?

…everybody started LAUGHING.

If I was the lecturer I would have closed my laptop and started screaming maniacally at them before running the fuck out of there. Not only was the reaction completely disrespectful, but it shouldn’t be at all tolerated. After the lecturer waited for the remaining chuckles to die down as if this were routine, he continued on with the lecture. At this point, I started to question my future at the University.

CON: THE RIDICULOUS MARKING GUIDELINES
All art is subjective, right? Right. Not everyone likes Van Gogh’s work, so how the fuck could my Pass grade be compared to that of a Distinction? I’m not an idiot— it’s very clear to see where one Design student had put the effort in, and another hadn’t. But a number of times I really did try, and the result was fucking vague to say the least.

The assignment was to scan one item, take one photo, and one quote from somebody, and put it all together as if it were a billboard. Simple, right?
What I did was, I scanned my “POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS” guitar strap, and took a photo of five McDonalds 30 cent cones, three cones standing upright, two cones facing down. I also found this random anonymous quote: “Ice cream is exquisite, what a pity it isn’t illegal”, and then I put it all together like it were crime scene. I thought to myself “definite Distinction, this one”. The photograph was great, it was original, and the quote made complete sense. All my friends loved it because they got it.

“I don’t get it”, the tutor said to me. “You don’t get it?” I replied. “It’s like a crime scene. The quote’s saying..”
“No, I don’t get it.”

And that was it. No arguments there. She didn’t fucking get it. So I got a Pass grade. I figured that if she didn’t get it then perhaps I should be teaching her, the dopey bitch.

So, all of these CONS were put against one positive.

PRO: THE UNIVERSITY EXPERIENCE.
The University experience is what they say is the best and most important part of your life. I stuck with this course for approximately 20 months for this reason hoping it would get better, and I was convinced that it would. I was unhappy now but I thought for some reason it was all going to pay off.

One day I got to University remarkably on time for a BIG assignment due. I’d been up for the entire night finishing it, promising my tutor I’d have it in to her by 9am, given the extended deadline I was granted.

With 10 minutes till submission, I approached the courtesy bus with a sense of accomplisment— this courtesy bus was the home stretch. Until:

“Sorry mate bus is full.” The bus driver looked at me, gesturing me to disembark the bus.
“I’ll just stand here” I told him, as there was room for at least five more people for standing. And then he started yelling, “BUS! IS! FULL! GET OFF THE BUS. NOW.”
Shaking my head in disbelief I walked off the bus clutching my assignment.
“When’s the next one?” I asked him.

“Half hour.” The doors shut and the bus drove off. And that was it, I effectively missed my deadline, which in turn meant I had failed the unit.
During the 30 minute wait at the bus stop I thought about my entire University experience so far… the ridiculous marking criteria, the idiot who wore ties every day, the pretentious design students laughing at a historic photo, the eventual two hour trip home I’d have to make day after day..

Forty-five minutes later the bus driver came around again. Instead of going to class, I got off a stop early to approach the main University office.
The queue I joined was fittingly short, and when I got to the front I spoke with a nice woman. ”Hey there, what can I help you with?” she said.

“I’d like to quit University, please.”



Did you realise all too late that University wasn’t for you? Are you a douchebag Design student? Shoot me a response.

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8:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y8N-AWJ
Filed under: university university of western sydney uws design in visual communications graphic design quit design studnets Bobby May Bobby May 
August 9, 2011
THE DOUCHEBAGS OF FACEBOOK.

by Bobby May

DISCLAIMER:
The douchebags depicted below are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead are purely coincidental.


It goes without saying: if you share something over Facebook, for any reason, it’s for attention. And that’s not a bad thing. This need for attention is fed by any sort of reaction by anyone, whether they click the Like button, or write a comment in response. Any attention paid toward a post is earned somehow.

Facebook is about sharing whatever is on one’s mind with whoever is out there listening. Though seeking attention is mainly considered a wholly selfish endeavour, it’s what Facebook is all about. You’re delivering a part of you with the aim of getting a reaction for whatever it is you’re sharing.

BUT.

What separates particular posts from others is sheer desperation. It’s this unmistakable desperation that was crafted to bare certain subtleties and aim to be indirect in nature in an attempt to mask this need for attention, but really the desperation is clear as fucking day. I know this makes little sense, but I’ll explain further.

There’s a lot that can be said about what all people share on Facebook. I’m talking serious psychological shit here. Facebook is a realm where one’s personality is put on display. But what is put out there is pre-designed by non other than the person. There’s no way around the simple fact that a person’s profile is never who they are— it’s how they want to be seen by others.

There’s no argument that RELATIONSHIPS are the cause of some of the most desperate-as-fuck posts on Facebook. Now, I’m all for the relationship status. It might seem like I’m taking the piss, but I really think it displays the very real commitment between two people. It’s very sweet.

But let’s face it.

Evidently, there’s this growing toxic need to be envied for some people who are “In A Relationship”, and this can be seen, mainly, through the interactions via Facebook between them. The mutual friends of those In A Relationship are even more at risk by the ongoing public posts between the two people of intimately personal details. There are multiple methods of communication in existence, so why have they chosen to communicate via a public forum for everyone to see? Do they realise that nobody fucking cares?

CHECKING IN is a Facebook feature that surfaced in the last couple of months, and it’s a constantly engrossing method to share where you are and what you’re doing. However, check-ins can range from the interesting, to the mind-numbingly monotonous. Why the fuck would anyone care that you’ve checked-in to your bed? Or your partner’s bed?

The smog of desperation surrounding such posts is so thick you could cut it with a knife and chew on it for days.

STATUS UPDATES tell more about a person than the actual update itself. Status updates are effective in bringing together people who will often share a common interest mentioned in the post. Though more often than not, some individuals somehow find it to be an interesting method to gain a level of attention by painting a Status update so ambiguous, though filled with so much emotion that it implodes within itself. What we’ve been left with is something that’s the epitome of desperation. Here’s one I prepared earlier:


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Faster than I can yell “NO, DON’T FUEL DANIELLE’S PATHETIC CRY FOR ATTENTION”, these updates are usually followed by a shocked yet concerned reaction— like an entire line of people running after them crying:


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Like I touched on briefly before: I honestly think these desperate cries for help, though hilarious at times, indicate psychological issues. If you cry as loud as you do on the fucking internet, you’ve got fucking problems. Status updates as ambiguous as these extend to personal wall posts between friends, that are, again, intended to be indirect, though wind up being completely pathetic, like so:

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Now, Betty’s gone ahead and mentioned, publicly, why Danielle’s upset for all of their mutual friends to see, namely the people Danielle’s angry with. Now she hasn’t named names, but she has mentioned shopping at Bondi, making it wholly obvious who this terribly worded post is directed toward. Betty’s morals are still intact because she hasn’t mentioned names (and it could literally be ANYONE!), but really, we all know who the post is meant for. Betty’s intentions for Danielle mean well, though it reveals this, again, this desperate need to be envied by others. I didn’t just make this example up. Well, actually I did. But this shit happens. If you haven’t seen this sort of thing on your News Feed or Top News then look harder. Failing that, you probably are either Betty or Danielle, at which point I would probably suggest you get an education of some sort.

My minor gripe with Facebook is the recent trend of idiotic pages flooding news feeds such as “GET OUT OF MY FACE CUNT” “NO NAN! IT’S A 3D MOVIE” or “THE AWKWARD MOMENT WHEN..” etc. I come across a number of them that are worth a chuckle or two, but I am pedantic about keeping my common interests within my profile as actual common interests, and not a random one-liner by some fuckwit.

Despite my distaste for such pages, I will conclude with a page title that I found which basically sums up all the points I’ve tried to make here: “Tell a therapist, not Facebook”



Do you come across douchebags like these? Or are you one of these douchebags? Shoot me a response.

5:39pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y85XK1D
Filed under: facebook douchebags status update relationship status check in Bobby May Bobby May 
July 18, 2011
GROWING UP IN HURSTVILLE NSW, PT. 2

by Bobby May

Late at night in 2002, my parents let me go down the street to my cousin’s place to hang out. At that moment, a man was stabbed 30 times footsteps from my front door. I ended up staying home that night.

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7:58pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y7EPjQy
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: hurstville new south wales sydney morning herald smh stabbing Bobby May Bobby May 
July 17, 2011
GROWING UP IN HURSTVILLE NSW, PT. 1

by Bobby May

After school me and a couple of friends as young kids used to spit on pedestrian light buttons. Then we’d run across the road behind a tree and wait for some idiot to press the button. We continued this tradition right up until graduation.

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5:45pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y7C13Mh
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: hurstville new south wales pedestrian lights traffic lights young shenanigans Bobby May Bobby May 
June 20, 2011
HOW I SCREWED UP HIGH SCHOOL.

by Bobby May

There’s no shame in it— I did not achieve my full potential by the end of high school.

That’s not to say I went badly. No. I was actually a pretty smart kid.. though never at Maths. I failed every Maths test after Year 9. The calculators complicated everything for me.

Three years on, I’ve begun to realise there were contributing factors to my complete lack of motivation to achieve my full potential. There are four clear factors, and suffice to say, I can only claim partial responsibility for my downfall.

1. NOT HAVING AN EXERCISE BOOK. OR PENS.

I didn’t own any of that shit.

I was that complete dickhead who turned to you on a regular basis and asked “Hey man, do you got a spare pen?” Before you even responded, I’d take your pen and turn away.

But then I’d turn back to you and ask “Hey man, can you rip us out a page of your book? I forgot mine.” And then you’d oblige and roll your eyes. “Thanks dude, sorry. I’ll give it back to you.” And then I’d never give your shit back. Usually, I’d throw your pen in the bin on the way out because I was so used to this daily routine. My rationalising for this behavior was based on three key points:

  • My school was on a big hill.
  • I had to make my own way to school.
  • I was tired in the mornings.

So there was no justifiable reason I was to make my bag any more heavier carrying books or writing material up that fucking hill. Looking back, I’m not even sure why I brought an empty bag to school.

2. PHOTOGRAPHY, VIDEO & DIGITAL IMAGING.

I did a subject called Photography, Video & Digital Imaging. It took up two units that didn’t even count toward the HSC. Most people were unaware that the subject even fucking existed. I was the only one in my class who tried and as such, I was the only one going for a UAI.

I put all my effort and heart into this course for one sole purpose: To claim First Place in a subject just to get on the Honor Roll.

So as I took the stage at Graduation to collect my medal and prestigious handshake, I exited stage right overcome with the feeling of how much of a fucking waste of time that all was. I never won a medal before, and it was pretty exciting, but I have no idea where I put the medal. And I don’t really give a shit.

3. POT SMOKING GIRL WHO LOVED THE BEATLES.

At one point my school did a joint stage production with a Catholic girls school. A stage adaptation of “The Sound of Music”. It wasn’t half terrible. I was on the backstage crew helping out, though mainly doing nothing.

There I met this girl who was in the play and I thought she was, quite simply, the best person who ever lived. I knew this before we even spoke to each other.

She was a year older than me, and I spent the entire production trying to speak to her. Eventually I was successful and because of what can only be due to my natural abilities, we established a pretty close bond. I learned of our joint love for The Beatles, amongst other things we had in common that made it a daily effort to control my inner emotions around her.

And then I learned that she enjoyed smoking weed. A lot. Which was fine.

But at that point I hadn’t even touched weed. And it actually didn’t even take a second to process the decision mentally before she was blowing smoke in my face and shoving the pipe in my mouth. And so the habit came about purely because it provided me with reason to be with her more.

In the months following we spent a lot of time together getting blazed watching Tenacious D DVD’s at her place. It was a year of firsts for me, and it really pains me to recall the fact that she used to call herself Penny Lane, while she called me Opie, just like in that movie Almost Famous where the character “Penny Lane” corrupts “Opie” with her lifestyle. Yes. It was terrible.

But in the end it wasn’t to be. I didn’t enjoy being Opie, and she didn’t reciprocate my uncontrollable inclination to propose marriage every time I saw her, so I made the decision to stop speaking with her. She never really understood why I stopped talking to her, and I never got the chance to explain myself. But that was that. When all is said and done, it wasn’t the continued weed habit that squandered my motivation to study for the rest of the school year and made me completely miserable— It was the girl.

4. GETTING PAID A LOT TO DO VERY LITTLE

In my HSC year I got a job collecting customer feedback for a major bank. Basically I’d call people up who were with the bank to do a 1 minute survey with them. Long story short: the job was a big fucking joke and it paid me a lot of money.

When I received my first pay check, it was like crack. I began getting addicted to doing shifts at this company while the money started pouring in.

Eventually I realised that working there took up basically all of my time- time that really should have been spent studying, or going to school, or buying an exercise book.

The good news that followed a tumultuous school year is that I got into University. Though I can’t help but wonder where I’d be if I actually bought an exercise book, or a pen, or if I focused on subjects that required effort, or if I kept to myself rather than speaking to that girl, or whatever, things would be different.

But you know, you can’t dwell on that shit.

Plus, I quit university anyway. I didn’t like the bus driver’s attitude.



Did you screw up high school as badly as I did? Was it because of a girl? Shoot me a response.

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10:02pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZWUM0y6Gb8Yh
(Notes: 7)
  
Filed under: high school screw up disorganization pot smoke the beatles hsc uai Bobby May Bobby May 
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