Moments before Luigi lit the match to burn down WA Salvage for the insurance money, his thoughts surely must have been of ‘legacy.’ As Australia’s primary and most recognizable prototype for migrants selling cheap stuff to skips, he had developed somewhat of a fan base. The blue singlet of destiny is not an honour bestowed upon the chest of just any Marco, Matteo or Steve-O. After all, with great power comes great responsibility.
Enter Tony Gilati. Aka the Spud King. Aka Spudley Dudley. Swapping timber for fresh produce, a new Aussie icon emerged. But these are dark times for all potato men, padres. The Potato Marketing Corporation (PMC, yo) have threatened our Saint Galati with jail time for the heinous crime of selling too many potatoes. In a potato world run with an iron fist not seen since Nazi Germany, the mighty spud stud holds his ground. Rising from the soiled shadows of fascism, Tony arrived bearing an unmeasurable gift for single mothers, low-income earners, Portugese exchange students and the working class– a choice. Heaven forbid we get a choice.
Not content with upholding the rights of citizen’s to feed their families without taking out a second mortgage on their home ,the villainous dark sith Darth Barnett has attempted to strike down the potato menace with his light saber of bureaucracy and red tape. Petitions and memes ensue. In a perfect world, our savior Galati would have immediately received a better deal. Then be made named Potato Pope, his name hailed loudly in the streets, then have magnificent monumental structures built in his name and glorious image. Then, once a year during the annual Galati – Gras, Pope Tony would give a heart warming speech on the importance of the cheap potato and its importance to democracy atop the giant spud float of freedom. Obviously, our national anthem would need to be replaced by hot potato hot potato by the Wiggles. The original ones, not these new effeminate hipster Wiggles. I think this goes without saying.
Unfortunately, this goes much deeper than just potatoes. This is the nature of business and Australia’s governing bodies. Always watching, scheming, plotting, then dictating. Now before you start cussing me out for donning the tin foil mankini in front of the children (get bent, Mayor of Cottesloe, I’ll never pay your fine), let me explain. There’s a rather likely likeliness that you’re reading this on a computer either via FB or with FB open. You may find there’s a sponsored ad or seven lurking about your page, either in the guise of posts/statuses or in plain naked view. For arguments sake let’s say the first thing you read is ‘Lonely single grandmothers want to meet in your area!’ (a) You disgust me and (b) You are being watched. Not by single lonely grannies in your area (you wish mate) but by the powers that be, then targeted with advertising accordingly. Word to the wise, get a PVN or hide your laptop from gramps, if that’s your alibi. When Tony Galati fights for spuds he’s fighting for freedom. For you, and for your dirty, dirty Grandpa.
Next let’s take a little nostalgic journey to nearly a year ago and the whole data retention issue, because terrorism. Yay? Nay. Was nobody just a little curious at the timing of Aussies being sued over torrenting The Dallas Buyers Club (a landmark decision for shit films worldwide) and the data retention scheme? And surprise, surprise. The one internet provider who had been vocal on protecting consumer rights and internet privacy has been bought out. There’s nowhere to hide now, bill holders. You’re all going to jail for torrenting Game Of Thrones, forever. Meanwhile drug dealers, The Boston Bomber, stray dogs and the homeless will create their own dystopian society within our empty houses, wearing our suits, drinking our beer and sleeping with our wives. These are end times my friends. When Tony Galati fights for spuds he’s fighting for freedom.
This type of Big Brother dictatorship is not just restricted to your lounge room, oh no. Allocated seating in cinemas is destroying the souls of our children and hijacking their independence. I can teach my son to count by myself, Hoyts. Get your own son. Plus J7 is not even a real number. Nor a letter. It’s some kind of hybrid mutant symbol of suppression I refuse to bow to. Needless to say Blinky Bill was just not vegemite, so we sat where we wanted and left popcorn on the seats in protest, because that’s just how the Jakovich men roll. In our house, we promote creativity and freedom of thought. Except at bed time, obviously. Get upstairs. Lol, kids.
So the next time you find yourself using up that data while chowing on that tata’ remember: When Tony Galati fights for spuds he’s fighting for freedom. And so should you.