Monday night brain haemorrhage, or: Farmer Wants A Wife

As I get older, I find myself becoming  more and more of a bogan. All the attempts I made in my youth to assert that I was in some way cool have been cast aside. To whit, I no longer want to spend my weekends getting pissed and making eyes at handsome dickheads. (This is clearly for the best.) All I really want to do is lie on the couch, get a decent takeaway and watch Friday night footy on our shit-hot massive TV. So, so boganic, and yet so entirely pleasurable.

Last night I indulged in the suburban pastime of making and eating our national dish (spaghetti bolognese) and watching crap commercial telly. And when I was done, I thought “I need to do this more often.”

Quite simply, it was one of the most entertaining evenings  I have had in quite some time.

For those unfamiliar with the premise, Farmer Wants A Root Wife is a reality TV show in which dum-dum slappers throw themselves at (usually-slightly-less-dum-dum) farmers in an attempt to win their hearts.

WTF.

Firstly, the women were the biggest bunch of twits I have ever seen. They were all wearing a minimum of 80kgs of make-up.

Secondly, I went to primary school with one of them.

Thirdly, I am pretty sure one of the would-be wives is Warwick Capper.

There are so many things I don’t get about this show.

Slappers, if you want to go live on a farm, what is stopping you? You don’t have to go on a poxy reality show to do this. I’m sure there are jillaroo Positions: Vacant in the Trading Post or similar. You don’t need to sink your teeth into these deadshits on national TV in order to effect a change of lifestyle.

And while I’m dispensing unsolicited advice, slappers, you can lose the make-up, the heels, the poxy synthetic dresses, the simpering, the cheerleading, the fake tan, and the pathetic attempts you have at presenting a “personality.”

The farmers are not much better. They insist on calling the would-be wives “lovely ladies”, when a more respectful and appropriate term would be “women.” Or “molls.”

Additionally, I am the tiniest bit jealous of the farmers. I WANT HEAPS OF THINGS, AND NO-ONE IS MAKING A REALITY SHOW ABOUT IT. I am yet to see an ad for a series entitled Chopsy Wants A Tivoli Audio Sound System For Her Bedroom And Maybe A Steak Sandwich (which would clearly be a ratings winner).

Having said that, I will say this: I have not had a more enjoyable evening in quite some time. I think my housemate and our dinner guest thought I was going to have a stroke because I was LOLling so hard over in the mustard velvet armchair.

Apparently the next episode is on Wednesday night. I have plans on Wednesday evenings. I will need to rearrange this so that I can enjoy a regular brain haemorrhage. Maybe this time I will have lemon chicken.

Postscript: I would DEFINITELY WATCH A SHOW ENTITLED Jeffrey Farmer Wants A Wife! And probably enter it, too.

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2 thoughts on “Monday night brain haemorrhage, or: Farmer Wants A Wife

  1. Rydog says:

    More like Chopsy Wants a TiVo or Other Misc. Digital Recorder.

  2. […] for the delayed post, readers – K and I have been absolutely flat-out watching the best show on television, Farmers vs Dum-Dum Girls. I retract my previous statements regarding Farmer Will perhaps having Downs’ Syndrome. I now […]

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