On the corner of Elizabeth and Flinders today, I saw a card table with a hand made sign and manned by some scrubby bloke. He was smiling at everyone, but nobody noticed him. I was on my lunch break, so I thought what the hey and I rocked up, smiling back.

“Do you hate George Bush?”, he asked.

“Yeah, I do”, was my reply.

“Then you hate America, and you need to help push all Americans and American culture out of our country!”

I was flabbergasted, and said so. The man indicated that if I hated George Bush, the President of America, then as a result I hated America.

“I hate John Howard, but I don’t hate Australia. In fact, I love Australia. You may notice that its where we are now”. My snide remark hit the spot, and he growled at me.

“Smart arse, of course you don’t hate Australia, you’re here.

“So if I was in America, and I hated George Bush, I couldn’t hate America?”

“That’s right.”

“Why don’t we let America conquer the rest of the world, changed the name of Earth to America, and then we can’t hate it because we’ll all be Americans in America, and then there won’t be any hatred”.

The guy shook his head at me, told me to leave him alone and turned away.

VICTORY OVER STREET HECKLERS! AT LAST!

But seriously, this bloke got me thinking, and mate, if you’re reading, I’d like to point out the following things:

*The Crayons on your poster were first sold in Easton, PA, USA, in 1903.

*The Converse All Stars you were wearing were manufactured by a company founded by American Marquis M. Converse in 1908. According to its website, Converse is “America’s Original Sports Company.” And the pair on your feet are “Chuck Taylor® All Stars® – a true American icon.”

What a fucking idiot. “I hate Bush, which means I hate America, and now I need to eradicate American culture from my life”. Does this mean that if John Edwards (whom I like) is elected President, I can again like America and therefore welcome America back into my life?

Now, I must eradicate all light bulbs from my life. All telephones. All radios. All electricity. And that’s just the basics. Once I eradicate all this, and become depressed, I can’t even take Prozac, because, yes, it’s AMERICAN.

It is people like this guy who really shit me to tears.

I am four years old. The house I live in is an old, small and musty brick dwelling that houses my parents, my younger brother and myself. In winter the house would be freezing cold and all four of us would lie in my parents’ bed and curl up under the blankets and watch TV. Those nights watching TV made me want to be a television star; a famous one like Tony Barber.

It is the next day. Another cold one. Just after lunch I decide to play quietly by myself. My younger brother is annoying me. I grab my plastic wheelbarrow and head out of our bedroom and into the hallway. I kneel down on one knee and I pretend that I am hosting ‘Sesame Street’. I have just said goodbye to Big Bird and I have a few minutes to spare before the next person comes along. Speaking directly into the camera, I begin to inform my invisible audience what wheelbarrows can be used for. I am absolutely in my element; I genuinely believe that people are watching me and enjoying viewing.

It is twenty minutes later. I am sitting on my bed. My head is in my hands and my hands are wet with tears. My plastic wheelbarrow is lying next to me, in pieces. Over on his bed, is my brother. He is also crying. Though he cries because he was smacked for breaking my toy.

I cry because my toy is broken. And at the ripe old age of four, I fear my dreams of television super-stardom are over.