An extremely thorough first-hand study of the Australian man.
Australia has much to offer, breathtaking landscapes, unique wildlife, glorious beaches, vast deserts, and breathtaking, unique, glorious, and extremely vast men.
The second I set foot on Australian soil, I was greeted with something wild, something rampant, something not even the masses can tame… I was greeted with a whole lot of hair. Hair in the form of curly mullets propped on every man’s head. Hair sprouting above the upper lip in the shape of a pornstache. Hair exposed via the top four open buttons of every shirt. Hair dotted along the bare leg in between the boater shorts and crew socks. It was as if every month was November, and every location was a new room in Workman’s. My former self would have felt troubled, spooked, perhaps even disturbed. However, in the few months prior to my travels, I chose to binge the entirety of Stranger Things (a bit late to the party I know), and therefore felt I had fallen upon a Billy Hargrove convention, and lord above, was I excited.
Having spent the entirety of my life living in Ireland, the textbook male was built around fade cuts, grey tracksuit bottoms and North Face jackets. All of which I am far from a fan of. In this country, a man with mullet and a stache is an arts-block treasure that has every bisexual woman on her knees. The thrift store frequenters will throw away their friendships and livelihoods, all for a chance with an average looking male with a few hairs across his face. The Australian women have never fought our battles, these men litter their streets, parading up and down in their gas guzzlers, their shorts riding higher than a Hooters employee’s.
The Australian men are mysterious in ways that our arts-block stoners couldn’t even dream of. They speak tongues that only those with shoulder length mullets can understand, leaving the rest of us confused, intrigued and captivated. Similarly to how a snake charmer enthrals a python, myself and my father fell victim to the ways of the Australian male. The first attack commenced at a brewery turned restaurant on the west coast, where myself and my family sat absent-mindedly, unaware of what was approaching us at a much too relaxed speed in off-white tennis shoes. Sitting at the edge of the table, I found myself at the centre of the storm, the first to be targeted. The Australian male, our waiter, with his shaggy mullet and striped crew socks shoots me a lazy grin, tucking Ray-Bans (sunnies) into a half open shirt. Nothing is written down as my order is taken, there’s no need, our waiter is inhaling every word, every emotion, every puff of smoke from the couple on their fourth pack seated behind us. He appears high on life (and potentially a few other substances). After every sentence he shoots me the same two words, “too easy." My panicked eyes continuously glance to the pornstache sitting on his upper lip, awaiting the captivating phrase. Befuddled, bewildered, bamboozled. In a matter of seconds I’m ruined, and I’m rereading the menu ready to change my order for one that might appear more challenging. But then he’s gone, and I’m left waiting, feeling panicked, judged, and completely captivated. When he returns I find myself asking for condiments that I have only heard off, and yet again I’m met with that damned phrase. A single twitch of the stache, the only indication that little truth rested behind those words, the games had begun. A ruthless battle takes place during the meal, and I find myself defeated. As I leave the restaurant, head hung in shame, I utter a strained thanks, and he returns with the biggest blow. Too. Easy. I was no match for the Australian male.
My father’s attack was a much shorter one, but left him in an equal state of disarray. It was stealthily committed as we were boarding a riverboat, and by the captain no less. With his mullet sticking out underneath his cap, his socks knee high, a build that could throw the boat, he was an obvious perpetrator. The assault was launched almost immediately, as he greeted my father with a “how you going." Stunned and stupefied, my father blurts out what he believes to be incredibly obvious, “by boat." The captain responds with a laugh, such a situation humouring him. Only an Australian man could laugh at such tyranny. Sick. My father spends the trip in a state of confusion, thoughts of dangerous Australian men burning a hole in his brain.
When I first announced I’d be spending a month down under I was met with concerns in relation to temperature, warnings about the wildlife such as spiders and snakes, and the fear of picking up an Australian accent. Everyone failed to mention the most lethal aspect of the damned place. The men. They will have you in a chokehold before you even leave the airport, make you question every individual you’ve ever found attractive, your ideal type will be set in stone. No matter how hard you try you will never be able to forget them. You’ll find yourself weeks later sitting in your kitchen at unholy hours, three empty Mango Loco Monster cans on the counter, writing incredibly questionable articles because you’ve failed to get them out of your head. As I’m not one to take my own advice, I will return to Australia for the men (and potentially my family), and the battles will commence once again, and it will be far from too easy.
Australian to English Dictionary:
Too easy: No problem
How you going: How are you doing