Often times I’ve been asked what I’m going to bring back as a souvenir from my semester abroad at uni here in Terra Nullius, the land down-under, Australia. Much speculation has occurred as to whether koalas, wombats, or the native blobfish will be accompanying me back. Perhaps he’ll return with a didgeridoo or massive reserves of bush tucker for barbies back home. Will he have photos of billabongs and the outback? To all such speculation, I say nay. Instead I’ve decided to bring some Aussie from Oz to America.
Every arvo for the past few months I’ve had a fair go at learning the Aussie language straight from the ockers and the crow eaters from back of Bourke to the all the larrikins and whinging poms you’d imagine. While I’m still a wanker who couldn’t organize a piss-up in brewery or a root in a brothel, I’ve shared enough middies of VB and four X stubbies to knowledgably barrack for the footy blokes. I’ve even worn bathers with some Taswegians. Some may not be as receptive, but no matter how dodgy things get when bogans try to get up me, I know that it’s just because of the Tall Poppy Syndrome, and I say “Ay! No worries!.” Then I chuck a sickie and go on a walkabout with my favorite sheila. I trek around all day, mad as a cut snake, but by sundown I’m so cactus I don’t have a care. As long as I have my swag and some snags (and maybe some Carlton) I’m set for a bonzer brekkie in the red center the next morning. The following night I’m ready for a real ripper and I pack my matilda and head back to the CBD to start with a box of goon with my mates. When we get to the venue, I’ll prove I’m no ankle biter and if the bouncer is fair dinkum, I’ll get bloody pissed inside.
If this fails though, Plan B is to bring back a wombat.