* You know how to abbreviate every word, all of which usually end in -o: arvo, combo, garbo, kero, lezzo, metho, milko, muso, rego, servo, smoko, speedo, righto, goodo etc.
* You know that there is a universal place called "woop woop" located in the middle of nowhere...no matter where you actually are.
* You believe that the more you shorten someone's name the more you like them.
* You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not.
* You understand what no wucking furries means.
* You believe that stubbies can be either drunk or worn.
* You're liable to burst out laughing whenever you hear of Americans "rooting" for something.
* You understand that the phrase 'a group of women wearing black thongs' refers to footwear and may be less alluring than it sounds.
* You pronounce Melbourne as 'Mel-bin'.
*You believe the 'l' in the word 'Australia' is optional.
* You can translate: 'Dazza and Shazza played Acca Dacca on the way to Maccas.'
* You believe it makes perfect sense for a nation to decorate its highways with large fibreglass bananas, prawns and sheep.
* You think it's normal to have a leader called Julia.
* You've made a bong out of your garden hose rather than use it for something illegal such as watering the garden.
* You call your best friend 'a total bastard' but someone you really, truly despise is just 'a bit of a bastard'.
* You think 'Woolloomooloo' is a perfectly reasonable name for a place.
* You're secretly proud of our killer wildlife.
* You believe it makes sense for a country to have a $1 coin that's twice as big as its $2 coin.
* You understand that 'Wagga Wagga' can be abbreviated to 'Wagga' but 'Woy Woy' can't be called 'Woy'.
* You believe that cooked-down axle grease makes a good breakfast spread. You've also squeezed it through Vita Wheats to make little Vegemite worms.
* You believe all famous Kiwis are actually Australian, until they stuff up, at which point they again become Kiwis.
* Beetroot with your Hamburger... Of course.
* You know that certain words must, by law, be shouted out during any rendition of the Angels' song 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again' and "Living next door to Alice".
* You believe that the confectionery known as the Wagon Wheel has become smaller with every passing year.
* You wear ugg boots outside the house.
* You believe that every important discovery in the world was made by an Australian but then sold off to the Yanks for a pittance.
* Whatever your linguistic skills, you find yourself able to order takeaway fluently in every Asian language.
* You understand that 'excuse me' can sound rude, While 'scuse me' is always polite.
* You know what it's like to swallow a fly, on occasion via your nose.
* You know it's not summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle and a seat belt buckle becomes a pretty good branding iron.
* Your biggest family argument over the summer concerned the rules for beach cricket.
* You shake your head in horror when companies try to market what they call 'Anzac cookies'.
* You still think of Kylie as 'that girl off Neighbours'.
* When working on a bar, you understand male customers will feel the need to offer an excuse whenever they order low-alcohol beer.
* You know that none of us actually drink Fosters beer, because it tastes like piss. But we let the world think we do. Because we can.
* You have some time in your life slept with Aeroguard on in the summer. Maybe even as perfume.
* You've only ever used the words - tops, ripper, sick, mad, rad, sweet- to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you really mean it.
* You know that the barbecue is a political arena; the person holding the tongs is always the boss and usually a man. And the women make the Salad.
* You've drank your tea/coffee/milo through a Tim Tam.
* You own a Bond's chesty. In several different colours.
* You know that roo meat tastes pretty good, But not as good as barra. Or a meat pie.
* You know that some people pronounce Australia like "Straya" and that's ok.
You know you're Australian if ....
You know you're Australian if ....
“If you trust in yourself, and believe in your dreams, and follow your star. . . you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy.”
Re: You know you're Australian if ....
edited to say that I remembered 'The tongmaster' and went searching for it when I saw this one:
* You know that the barbecue is a political arena; the person holding the tongs is always the boss and usually a man. And the women make the Salad.
loved the list
>>>>>>>
Tongmaster Written by Danny Katz
Steve was at the barbecue and Jeff was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone.
We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet. Jeff said the thin ones could use a turn, I said, "yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn", Steve said, "yeah they really need a turn" - it was a unanimous turning decision.
Steve was the Tong-master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP, SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started.
Nice, I remarked. The others nodded. Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren song sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Kevinmmm ...come. He stuck his head in and said, "any room?" We nodded and began the barbecue shuffle; Steve shuffled to the left, Jeff shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer.
Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Steve gave me the nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental.
Gary came along, he said, "looking good, looking good" -the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We nodded and did the BBQ shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Kevin, we sipped our beer.
Five men, lots of sausages. Jeff was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed lots of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. Gary was shaking his head, he said, "I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them". There was a long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop; this newcomer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger -and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber.
Steve handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication.
The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready for the responsibility? I snapped them twice, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER
... Until Steve got back from the toilet....
Thanks to the author of The Tong Master, Danny Katz.
The story first appeared in The Age newspaper, Melbourne Australia, on the 9th October 1998, and in Danny's book Dork Geek Jew (Allen & Unwin, 2002), a compilation of his newspaper columns.
http://thetongmaster.com/read.html
* You know that the barbecue is a political arena; the person holding the tongs is always the boss and usually a man. And the women make the Salad.
loved the list
>>>>>>>
Tongmaster Written by Danny Katz
Steve was at the barbecue and Jeff was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone.
We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet. Jeff said the thin ones could use a turn, I said, "yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn", Steve said, "yeah they really need a turn" - it was a unanimous turning decision.
Steve was the Tong-master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP, SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started.
Nice, I remarked. The others nodded. Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren song sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Kevinmmm ...come. He stuck his head in and said, "any room?" We nodded and began the barbecue shuffle; Steve shuffled to the left, Jeff shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer.
Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Steve gave me the nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental.
Gary came along, he said, "looking good, looking good" -the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We nodded and did the BBQ shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Kevin, we sipped our beer.
Five men, lots of sausages. Jeff was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed lots of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. Gary was shaking his head, he said, "I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them". There was a long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop; this newcomer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger -and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber.
Steve handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication.
The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready for the responsibility? I snapped them twice, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER
... Until Steve got back from the toilet....
Thanks to the author of The Tong Master, Danny Katz.
The story first appeared in The Age newspaper, Melbourne Australia, on the 9th October 1998, and in Danny's book Dork Geek Jew (Allen & Unwin, 2002), a compilation of his newspaper columns.
http://thetongmaster.com/read.html
Life is like photography. You use the negative to develop.