Carpark Cretin Blog

Carpark Cretin – The Worst of Humanity

Disclaimer – this post contains language that some may find offensive. Not a whole lot really, but just enough that I thought I had better warn you. Regular readers of Blog of Dad know that I rarely use foul language, but I’m also a firm believer that some kinds of stories just can’t be properly told without the occasional F-word, S-word or cleverly-alluded-to-but-not-actually-written C-bomb.
So, if you are offended by these kinds of things, I respectfully ask that you direct your attention towards one of my many not-at-all offensive posts. If, however, you enjoy a good story and can handle a swear or two, read on! (Oh yeah, there is also a part where a fictitious character uses demeaning terminology to refer to another fictitious character with a disability. You’ve been warned, please don’t complain).

What is it about carparks? What mystical power rules over them, that turns seemingly decent humans into raging, frothing-at-the-mouth beasts within seconds of entering?
I seem to ponder this question regularly. The reason is that every time I enter a carpark these days, I seem to bear witness to the mind-numbingly stupid, the grotesquely selfish and the absurdly absent-minded behaviour of the people I’ve now dubbed the carpark cun cretins.

What is a Carpark Cretin?

A carpark cretin is a perfectly normal human being, with one horrendous flaw. In any other situation, they appear to be one of us. They hold down jobs, they have friends. Some of them have even managed to procreate. But, insert a carpark cretin into an automobile, and place that automobile inside a carpark, and their fundamental deviation from acceptable humanoid characteristics quickly becomes exposed.
Within seconds, the carpark cretin will cause unimaginable pain and suffering to all those around them. They will immediately forget that humanity is only able to maintain its fragile harmony because of a general consensus that a minimum standard of behaviour be adhered to by all.

How to spot a Carpark Cretin

There is literally no way to tell a carpark cretin from a regular human being, unless you place them in a carpark.
See old Doris over there? That’s right, the 83 year old nanna who doesn’t ever miss church on Sunday, who has volunteered at the local homeless shelter for the past 30 years? The Best and Fairest award winner at the local bowling club for the past three years straight! Ah Little old Dot, a shining example of what humanity is all about…
Except, put her behind the wheel of her 92 Corolla and watch in awe as the beast is unleashed. Watch, spellbound as she executes a perfect burnout while reversing at 60km/h in order to cut you off from the space for which you’ve spent the past 5 minutes diligently waiting.
Yes, it’s at that moment, as you watch Doris elegantly flip you the bird in response to a polite toot of your horn, that you realise that she isn’t a shining example of a bygone era of manners and respect. She’s a cretin. She claims she didn’t see you waiting for that spot? Don’t believe it for a second, you’re dealing with an A-grade carpark cretin. Make no mistake about it, good-old God-fearing Doris would tell the Pope himself where to stick his fancy glass box of a car if it came down to the last parking spot at the local IGA.

“Surely Doris is a one off?” I hear you shout!
Sadly she is not. What about your best mate Ben? The A-grade student in high school; completed his law degree so that he could voluntarily represent refugees and the terminally ill; rescues kittens from drains in his free time…
Let me tell you something else about Golden Boy Ben. Once his bonnet edges past the boom gate, he believes in only one thing. Anarchy.

Pedestrian crossings? Piss off.
One Way signs? Piss off.
Give Way signs? Piss off.
Park within the lines? Piss off.
Disabled parking spots and Parents With Prams? They can fuck right off.

Once he’s in that carpark, Ben just doesn’t give two shits if Disabled Dave has to roll an extra kilometre in his wheelchair to reach the front door. That just isn’t Ben’s problem. Yes, Golden Boy Ben is a carpark cretin. He actually can’t help it, It’s genetic. It’s buried somewhere deep in his DNA, right next to the full-blown arsehole gene.

Who Put A Bee In Your Bonnet?

Okay, I’ll admit it. This post isn’t really about Ben and Doris. They aren’t even real people, just conglomerations of various poor behaviours that I have witnessed over the years. Really, they are just a primer to the actual, genuinely real story that occurred before my very eyes, just the other day…

This event happened as we were leaving a busy carpark at a small local shopping centre. We were returning to our car when the window of a pretty flash-looking silver convertible rolled down. A head poked out of the window. It belonged to a rather rotund, middle-aged woman.
“Are you leaving?” she enquired?
“Yes,” I replied. “But we’re way down there.”
I pointed vaguely in the direction of the bottom of the carpark. I had feared that I was dealing with a cretin, and I wanted to make it obvious to the woman that there was a long line of waiting cars between her and our precious parking spot, lest she try something rash.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she replied. “I’ll see what I can do.”
That phase set a few more alarm bells ringing. I’ll see what I can do are not the words of a woman resigned to missing out on a parking spot.
We continued on our merry way back to the car, without further bother from the numerous other patrons who had optimistically entered the tiny carpark.
Upon reaching our car, I signalled to the driver of the closest car that we were about to leave and she quickly flicked on her indicator to show her intention to fill the soon-to-be vacated position.
I began the task of loading the car, then jumped into the backseat to do up Hannah’s seatbelt. It was then that I heard the voice of the cretin…
“That’s my spot!” boomed the voice loudly.
The cretin had completed a lap of the small carpark. She had now pulled up directly behind the mother who was patiently waiting for my spot.
The mother, wisely, chose not to engage in dialogue with the cretin.
“That’s my spot!” exclaimed the loud voice again. But this time it was accompanied by the blast of a horn.
The unfortunate mother who had been patiently waiting for the parking space was left with no choice. She had to engage in dialogue with the cretin, in order to explain the bleeding obvious.
“I’m sorry, but I was here first,” She stated in a voice far calmer than anything I would have been able to manage if placed in that position.
“…but I bagsed it!” came the incredulous reply of the cretin.


This middle-aged woman had resorted to the tactics of Sydney primary school student, in order to try and claim a spot in a carpark.

“You can’t bags a spot in a carpark!” replied the mother, now clearly a little flustered by the unexpected, childlike antics of the cretin.
“Yes, I bagsed it when I was over there,” replied the cretin, the tone of her voice clearly indicating that she believed she had delivered the irrefutable evidence that would secure her the spot.
“I’m sorry, but I was here first. Perhaps there is a spot further round?” came the remarkably measured response of the mother. She had done well to quickly regain her composure. Unfortunately, the poor mum hadn’t quite bargained for the extreme cretinness of this particular specimen.
Her logical response was met with a second blast of the horn, followed by another outcry of “but I bagsed it! You should go to the other spot.” (The cretin was, of course, well aware that there were no other spots as she had just completed a lap of the carpark.)

The timing of this last outburst was perfect. It happened just as I was moving from the backseat to the front. My impulse to laugh heartily at the absurd took hold. It was further compounded by inadvertently making eye-contact with the remarkably cool-headed mum. The result was fits of laughter from both of us.
I think our laughter must have enraged the carpark cretin, but it was also enough to show her that the battle had been lost. No matter how much she complained, she just wasn’t going to convince the mum of the mystical powers of bagsing a spot from across a carpark. She gunned her engine, scowled, gave a final blast of the horn for good measure and drove off.
I dared to shoot a final quick glance at the admirably patient mum in the other car. I gave her a shrug of the shoulders as if to say “what was that all about?” Tears of laughter ran down her cheeks. Thankfully she too had been able to see the funny side of her close encounter of the cretin kind. It hadn’t ruined her day, it had just given her a most excellent story to retell to her family and friends.

As for the cretin, she was last spotted re-entering the tiny, clearly full carpark. No doubt she was hell-bent on bullying some other poor soul out the next available spot. It honestly wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that she had now “bagsed” every spot in the small carpark. As we drove down the street, I noted the abundant street parking that was available less than 50 metres away.

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The Train Lives Blog

The Train Lives!

Regular readers may remember the devastating events of a few days ago, where a large amount of water was accidentally used to drown one of Hannah’s favourite toys – her battery-powered train. At the time, it appeared as if the train was well-and-truly ruined. The circuits shorted, controls rendered useless by the unfortunate spillage.


At the time, I proclaimed that:


I’m no electrical engineer, but I’m pretty sure that water-induced short-circuits are irreversible – Dad, 2017


It turns out I was absolutely correct… about not being an electrical engineer.


The Moment of Truth

Last night, in an act that some may describe as desperately optimistic, I retrieved the crippled train from its resting place on a high shelf in the laundry. I had placed it there on the night of “the incident”, in the vain hope that a good drying would magically fix the problem of the haywire circuit. I know, it sounded stupid to me at the time as well.

Except that it wasn’t. Through some kind of electronic wizardry, the favourite toy fired into life as if it had never received its impromptu shower.

I held my breath. Could it be possible? Could the simple process of fully drying the train have been enough to save it from becoming yet another burden on the local landfill?

I pressed a button. It did exactly as it was supposed to. There was no random noise, no sudden start-stop of the wheels. I pressed another button. Another prefect performance of its allocated task.

The final test remained – the smoke-stack. In the moments after the drenching, the smoke-stack refused to register at all. It appeared to be the key source of all the issues.

I took a few deep breaths. A bead of sweat formed on my brow. This was it. This was the moment. Would the train miraculously work as it was supposed to, or would my dreams come tumbling down in a landslide of malfunction?

The previous eight months flashed before my eyes – the excitement of Christmas Day, the joy on the grandparents’ faces, the first time Hannah explored the functions of her new toy, and every press of every button between then and now.

I closed my eyes and pushed down on the green stack.

“1,2,3, chug along with me!” exclaimed a familiar female voice. On it went as the wheels began spinning.

I opened my eyes and looked on in amazement. The train performed its act, as if nothing had ever happened. I pressed the stack again. As it had always done, the song and wheels abruptly stopped with the accompanying hissing sound of a steam locomotive stopping at a station.

I pressed the stack again and once more, off it went, this time on an ABC song.

The train lives! It is as good as it has ever been!

DIY Daddy
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Dad jokes, joke Blog

How to Spot a Dad Joke

Something strange happens to many men at a certain point in their lives. It’s not so much to do with age as it is with mentality.

For me, I began to notice it several months before Hannah was born. It was a subtle, yet significant change to my persona, to my psyche. I started seeing the world in a slightly different way, as if things had ’tilted’ slightly. Different things became amusing. I began to hear words in different ways. Phrases began to escape my mouth, without filtration. It became clear to Emma, long before it was clear to me – I had begun to tell dad jokes.

This will most likely happen to you too. But fear not. Becoming a dad joker is a thing to embrace. It’s an adult milestone. Don’t fight it, enjoy it.

I’ve put together this guide to spotting dad jokes. It also contains some fine examples of the kinds of jokes you can expect to begin telling. Feel free to use them and to adapt them. No-one owns dad jokes, they belong to the universe*.


Sure-fire ways to know if you’re telling a Dad Joke:

The joke involves a pun

Often, it is based around a homophone, or around a word that sounds like a phrase with totally different meaning. Dad jokers are particularly good at this.


dad joke

Nobody laughs, except you

Indicators that you’ve just told a quality dad joke include an eyeroll by the Mrs or a groan from a child. Extreme dad jokers are sometimes even pre-empted by a “no dad, please don’t”, squealed by a child frantically searching for a normal upbringing.

Meanwhile, you find the joke that you’ve just uttered so amusing that a large grin has spread across your face. If it is particularly funny, you may even allow a large belly laugh to escape.

dad joke, bored

dad joke

A strong feeling of déjà vu

Have we been here before? Yes. Many, many times. Your wife didn’t laugh the first time you told her the joke and she sure as hell isn’t going to laugh the tenth time you say it. Dad jokers have a tendency to try and wear down their audience through repetition. It doesn’t work. Ever. But they try anyway.

dad joke, jokes


dad jokes, joke

Other dads find it funny

If you are unsure of whether you are about to tell a dad joke, quickly run it past the dads on Twitter. If they express amusement at what you have said, be warned. You are about to tell a dad joke. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say it, in fact the nature of dad jokers most likely compels you to tell it. If you’re lucky, the Twitter dads will respond to your dad joke with a smorgasbord of their own. This will provide you with a whole day’s worth of material to try out on the family.


Dad jokes, joke

Dad jokes, joke

That’s it from me. For more fantastic dad jokes, I suggest you head on over to a few of my favourite dad-bloggers and check out their fine collections:

Daddy Poppins – Dad Jokes

Virtual Wombat – 20 Eyebrow Raising Dad Jokes – Tumble Weeds Guaranteed

*Jokes may actually belong to people. If any of these jokes belong to you from a legal perspective, please let me know and I’ll remove them immediately.

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One Hull of a Dad
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