The best part of every episode of Gossip Girl is the show’s clever and unexpected use of irony.

For example, after a lifetime of meticulous avoidance of rumoured carcinogens, Serena develops bowel cancer and shits blood which is gross and all her friends pretend they don’t know her.

Richard was a member of a Contiki tour group my friend Keira and I belonged to during July 2007. When we caught a ferry from Athens to Mykonos, Richard bought a T-shirt with a giant penis on it that said “Give us a kiss!” and he waved to children. One night, he got really wasted and sang karaoke, emptying an entire bar of tourists in 4.5 seconds flat.

These are his stories:

“Hey are you going to Big Day Out next year? I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I wouldn’t miss it if my own mother died. You should come, we’re all going. You probably don’t want to hang around me too much though because I’m kind of embarrassing. You know how at every festival, there’s that one dude who’s taken acid and dingoes and smoked a spliff, and he’s lurching around the dance floor, leaning on strangers, and everyone’s all DUDE, ARE YOU OKAY? because he’s turned completely grey and can’t speak and looks like he died three days ago? That’s me. I’m that guy. Pass me the ashtray?”

You can read more about Andre at ilivewithcrazypeople

Most people don’t really think about Tim Allen very much. I probably think about Tim Allen once every three years, unless I see his picture somewhere, and then I think about him for roughly four seconds before I get bored and stop. But those four seconds are filled with a vague yet certain sense of hate. And all over the world, people of all shapes and sizes, colours and creeds, religions and other silly things, all share one thing in common: we hate Tim Allen.

The average punter doesn’t hate Tim Allen very strongly, because it’s not a cause worthy of too much emotion. But we do possess a mild collective distaste for the Tool Time man. A slight wrinkle of the nose upon hearing his name. An immediate reach for the remote control. An eye roll. A head shake. A twist of the monocle and a shot of brandy. And a pinch on the bum.

So why exactly do we hate Tim Allen? Nobody knows for sure, but I have a few ideas.

The first question we should ask ourselves is this: what’s to like about Tim Allen?

And, of course, the answer is “nothing.”

The second question is: would you accept a lift home with this man?

Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical.

I recently went to a Tim Allen support group meeting and the following are just a few of the notes I made. These are real stories, from real people.*

Tim Allen broke into my house, stole a waffle iron and left obscene polaroids on my pillow.

Tim Allen took me out for a nice dinner once, and then got what was later described as ‘mildly rapey’.

I once had to watch The Santa Clause as a child. I cannot say anymore on the subject; the rest is repressed.

Tim Allen tried to pickpocket me while I was on holidays in Thailand, but he was clumsy with Mekhong whiskey & easily foiled.

Who wedged a red crayon between his buttocks and ‘autographed’ my house? Tim Allen did.

Tim Allen attempted to have an orgy with my dogs but I managed to beat him off with a spatula.

Tim Allen is responsible for the life I’ve led; the tears I’ve cried, the blood I’ve spilt.

Tim Allen borrowed my car for the weekend and returned it with a dead hooker in the trunk.

Hello! I am Tim Allen and everybody hates me.**

Now I’m not a biased person, and I want to deliver balanced views on this site, so I spoke to a well-known movie critic to get his thoughts on Tim Allen. This is what he said:

“Tim Allen is a man’s man man’s man. I’ll never forget the first time I met him; I’d fallen down a hill and broken my leg, and he carried me four miles to hospital, telling me hilarious jokes and reminding me why we let him into our lives (and hearts!) as Tim “The Tool-Man” Taylor.

I think that says it all, really.

Mum: How come there’s no “Level 5″ on that sign? Why does it go straight from “Level 4″ to “Level 6″?

Me: I don’t know.

Mum: Maybe it’s a secret?

Me: Maybe it’s the building manager’s office.

Mum: Maybe it’s like the train to Hogwarts, you know how it leaves from platform eight-and-three-quarters? Or was it nine-and-three-quarters? Do you remember which one it was?

Me: I don’t read shitty books.

Mum: That’s not helpful…

When I was in year nine, every weekend I told my parents, “I’m staying at <insert friend’s name>’s house tonight.” Then I got drunk in a park and passed out on somebody’s couch or in the backseat of a nearby car.

One week I made the error of including a movie in my lie. “Bye, Mum,” I said, walking out the door, “I’m going to see Panic Room with my bible study group.”

Then I went to a school friend’s boyfriend’s share house, smoked bongs with a bunch of uni students, and built a tower out of empty UDL cans.

When I got home, my parents asked me if I’d enjoyed the movie.

“It was okay,” I said, not wanting to rave about it too much in case they decided to see it. And then, on a roll, I proceeded to fabricate an entire synopsis of the film. My rationale behind this was that if I told my parents everything that happened in the movie, they wouldn’t bother going to see it. I hadn’t even seen the preview prior to this, so my account of the movie was inspired by the title alone and was about as accurate as a James Frey novel. I gave extensive descriptions of the characters and made sure to detail all the plot developments, and then I re-enacted several scenes, using a set of Babushka dolls my aunt had given us for Christmas.

“I heard there’s a big twist at the end,” my mother said, “What’s the twist?”

“Jodie Foster is a robot,” I answered confidently.

“Well, that sounds like quite a film,” my dad said when I had finished. “And if you didn’t smell like a grow house, I would probably believe you.”

“Am I grounded?” I asked, leaning against a book shelf to steady myself.

“No, that was entertaining enough to redeem you this time,” Dad said, “But if you come home this stoned ever again, I will enrol you in aqua aerobics classes with your mother.”

Hi Cassie,

I have been to Thailand, Malaysia, South Africa, France, Spain, England, Italy, and Greece. During those journeys, I worked in orphanages, AIDS homes, and boarding schools, and gained a pretty thorough understanding and appreciation for other cultures. If you had bothered to click on the tag that says “travel” before you commented, you would have been able to answer your own question and save yourself from getting so upset.

I work full-time and pay my own bills, but yes, I do live with my parents at the moment if you count that as being “dependent.” The reason I never finished uni is because I didn’t want to, and my degree was useless for the industry that I am now working in. Also, feel free to call me a hippie, but I don’t think that a tertiary education based on an outdated syllabus is the only way to educate one’s self.

As far as friends who love me are concerned, just read all the comments above yours and tell me the ratio of negative to positive ones. I think you’ll find you were the only person who failed to understand that it was a tongue-in-cheek story, not to be taken overly seriously.

Here’s an idea – if you’re going to get all hot and bothered by random blog posts on the internet, just don’t read them. And if you can relax your sphincter enough to remove the giant pole that is currently lodged inside your anal cavity, learn how to take a joke and do your research before you have a meltdown and humiliate yourself online.

Cheers,

Annik