- Worldwide, the sites of conscience are speaking loudly of the horrors of yesterday
- A treasure hunt without the treasure: The dorky thrills of geocaching
- Current Affairs Wrap: Boris romps to power, more tragedy in NZ and history’s stupidest barney
- A feminist revision of 90’s “girl power”
- The importance of alternative media in the modern age
We’re all subject to an odd phenomenon in life, where one name is somehow home to an endless cycle of douchebags. My name is Josh.
As that douche with an earring once wrote, for never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo. But it was another douche with an earring that taught me a far greater lesson. His name was Josh, and the chunk of ice frozen in space en route to rupturing my eyebrow serves as a painful reference to a lesson that continually proves itself relevant.
You see, while the Original Josh might have painted that high school party with shades of my claret, his behaviour (or something close to it) has somehow metamorphosised in every Josh I’ve known since. I’ve known six, and they’ve all been, in their own unique way, complete toolboxes.
Josh II was momentarily a policeman who was sacked from the force by a triumvirate of equally bootable offences. He was offensive in the literal sense, whether it was combatting his ejection from a nightclub by the bouncers by stating the magic words that he was a cop, drag racing in his police car, or posing in a selfie with the youths he just booked for excessive speeding.
Josh IV passed the test of our adult lives, having a child and a mortgage, but then chose to flee both in the crunch to choose an easier, younger model, staying in the same friendship group, asking us to party with him as his pregnant wife seethed in the next room.
Josh V permanently blinded himself in the right eye through the application of driveway of blue metal and martial spite, in pursuit of a cocktail waitress he had hired four hours before.
Now, it could be the condition of the town I was raised in, but it is certainly not a coincidence, as I certainly don’t play with dice. Josh III did that, abusing a croupier, before driving a golf cart into the pools that bordered the Casino as a measure of revenge.
But, much like the commandments of a religion you don’t support, these cautionary tales do nothing on a subjective level – but much like belief, the core lessons are unique, as we all have our own Josh, even if he’s named Tom, or Sandy, or you know who.
That special someone/everyone of infinite reverse value.
May we pray that we do not meet another. Or worse, meet one that challenges our long-held belief.