There’s a guy at my school named Phillip. Phillip tells me that America is in bed with Israel. Thanks for the news flash, Jimmy Olson.

Phillip is from Australia. “Ay!” he said, “Ya know what they say! If you want the nutrition when at Mac-Dew-nald’s, take the Beeg Mac, OK, throw it awaaay and eat the caaaadboood containeh.” Phillip takes every chance he gets to rag on America when I’m around. He says things like, “You know what they did last week, they just boombed the Canadians! Supposed to be fighting the Arabs and they’re boombing their neighbors!” and “It’s easy to be the leader of the world when you’ve got the best technology.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Shut up you stupid Mick.

The person who Phillip replaced was a pill. Her name was . . . well, I forget her name, but everyone thought she was a bitch. She was from Sydney. Well, not really from Sydney, but just outside of Sydney. But when people ask “Where was that bitch who Phillip replaced from?” I just say Sydney. It’s much easier that way. I also met Burnham; he’s the man who taught at this school before and is a self-important jackass who think’s everything he says and agrees with is the undisputed truth. Robert (the other American I met who works nights at the same place as I) is fat, quick to anger, and doesn’t speak English very well. He also brags about all the women he has and (constantly) shows me pictures of all of them (multiple times). He seems so proud of them, but these girls are about as attractive as the plum-pudding atomic theory is to supporters.

Now I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but every time I meet a Westerner in my town it’s as if the only reason they’re here is because their hometown passed around a bucket with “Donate to ship ____asshole____ as far away as possible” stamped on it. It can’t be too much of a stretch to think that the only friend these people had in their respective countries was named “Samsung” and made of a 27-inch electron tube. Leaving your favorite easy chair and missing out on vegemite for six months isn’t an adventure, it’s just a way to forget how pathetic your life is when you would usually be at home reviewing your “M*A*S*H” collection on VHS for the 17th time.