Big Swing; No Ding

As my monitor squirmed in anguish and detest at the exquisitely ornamented sentence being pumped onto the pixels, my brain shrivelled to the size of a button mushroom, ironically about the size of the genetalia of this sentence's misguided author. Until, after a few moments of deep thought, my brain inflated again and I realised this poseur could have expressed his intent in approximately forty words less than he chose to. So I started contemplating; why go to all that tedious effort in order to simply extend what was a bollock-filled idea in the first place? Because he's a poseur. And to that miserable end, he is insecure, lacks confidence and uses a thesaurus instead of his brain. In fact, I'm quite sombre to say, I'm convinced this pillock has used several different brands of thesauruses to look up obscure synonyms for even more obscure synonyms.


Mate, there's a fine line between articulated sophistication and sodding arrogant pretentiousness.

And there's nothing worse than a pretentious poseur. The alliteration of which ironically epitomizes the poseur's primary focus. That of superficial and manufactured eloquence.


Unless of course, one can substantiate that pretentiousness with an insanely valid reason. Such as being a pom, or worse, being a private school student, having a dreadfully intensive education. Or quite simply, you are talented at what you claim to be, and have evidentiary support of thus.


But the one particular thing which infuriates me most, is their predisposition toward hostility with their supposed inferiors. And to a poseur, this encompasses everyone. The adoption of futile and confusing arguments is commonplace, all for the sake of winning a menial argument. The conclusive thrust of which is a magnificent inflation of their obese egos, all ready for another encounter with the sad actuality of their inevitable inferiority. Intellectually, this sneering demographic falls massively short of their aim. Shorter than Tom Cruise, Danny DeVito, and in some cases Anthony Callea, who fits snugly into both this article and a cat travel cage. I'm sorry Anthony, but your greasy hair, pointy patent shoes and lycra style business shirts don't account for the sad fact that your career started at; "And the Australian idol is", and ended promptly at; "Callea." Didn't exactly answer your prayer.


And then there are those who develop a certain aptitude for perpetual arrogance, the pubescent poseurs. Just teething their way to unusual levels of stress, insecurity and the uncanny ability to relinquish their true identity in exchange for an upper class snobbishness one would associate with James May, or the Duchess of York for instance. The only problem here is that these developing poseurs don't realise they have no authority to be demeaning to everyone else. Or perhaps they do, and they choose to ignore it on account of their dwarfed conscience.

Put simply, poseurs pose. Grotesquely and frequently.
Embellishing everyday life with the kinds of pointless distractions and annoying interludes we could certainly do without.

The kind of frustrations which leave us content in the knowledge that you're not them.

Maestro