Last night, the nation witnessed the honey badger ultimately choosing no-one. It hurt, because it illustrated that even fictionalised television romance is too real.
As a nation, we’re a land of outcomes – we proudly suffer the consequences. Fall asleep at the beach, you’ll get sizzled. Don’t leave the city before midnight, you’re sleeping there. Drunkenly yell “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,” and some equally drunk tit will echo “Oi, Oi, Oi.”
We’re a nation built on cause and effect.
We know that if we spend our time on something, invariably something will happen. It’s why we donate ourselves to grandiose Bunnings projects, and it’s why we continue marital coitus when both parties would much rather be asleep.
It’s who we are.
Until last night.
Our nation’s guiding principle was gored and cast adrift by a man who calls himself “The Honey Badger”. At the conclusion, when he was asked to choose one or the other, he chose neither.
Why, Nick, why?
For weeks, for literally weeks on end, I’ve been subject to watching the whoring shenanigans of this packet of two-minute noodles with the vocabulary of an uncle with a brain injury, because he’s Australia’s most eligible guy. I bought that. I could handle that slight on our national psyche; I could handle the manufactured drama; I could handle the fact that it logically undoes its own logic in that it’s a show primarily for women, where they freely support something (a dude thinking with his dick, fucking over a whole raft of women) that they ordinarily would not (a dude thinking with his dick, fucking over a whole raft of women); I can deal with the obvious cross-promotion; I can deal with the Vaseline-smudged erotica.
But what I can’t deal with, is being cheated out of a climax.
In the immortal words of Brittany, who should probably run for PM, as never has an uttered line been agreed upon by more Australians: “…well, that was a waste of time!”
Call me a rank traditionalist, but I like my glossy romantic nonsense fiction to remain independent of the harsh truths I face. Last night was a smidge too real.
What we have, is a pile of shrugged nothing. I mean, what did we sit through? An eight-week advertisement for tradie underwear? It’s the adult equivalent of those primary school stories we wrote that concluded with “…and then I woke up.”
Call me a rank traditionalist, but I like my glossy romantic nonsense fiction to remain independent of the harsh truths I face.
In that regard, last night was a smidge too real.
The central lesson, I think, was that old mate was a fuckboi who told a nation that he didn’t want to be a fuckboi anymore, who ultimately chose to be a fuckboi. I mean, we’ve all experienced that, and we’ve all been that. The person who is on a dating app who isn’t ready to date, but is there anyway. The Honey Badger is dating in 2018. Wanting to be in a relationship, doing everything a normal couple does, but then, when the moment arrives to take the plunge officially, you flee.
I mean, you can intellectualise anything (inclusive of someone who has no grasp of the language), but what I really ask is that he makes a decision. The wrong one, preferably, where he realises his mistake and publicly ditches them six weeks later, like it should be, like tradition dictates. That, or my two months back.
I suppose we can’t have nice things. In the mangled words of the man himself: “Just like that kid that fell outta the tree ya know, he just wasn’t in it.”