Hi Little Bogan Child.
Yes, that is right. Just in time for celebrating invasion / Australia day, you as an 18month old have expressed decidedly bogan sentiments.
“Bogan?”, you say, “What is Bogan??”.
Bogan is when you spot a man walking towards us as we leave the pool. You look up at him in awe as you chomp down on your peanut butter sandwich, as wandering back and forth across the path as you are struck by his larger than life physique (read: a totally ripped model-like youthful male who was part of the cast of a new television show being filmed at our local pool on the day you have lessons, hulking towards us up the path as I attempt to avert my eyes and pretend there isn’t someone obviously swaggering with self-important almost narcissistic body-pride near me and my 1.5 year old with no-one else in sight).
As he is within a few steps, you suddenly stop, and, pointing, say,
” Man, Man”. Then, pointing at his torso, “Star, star”.
So I have to look.
And yes, across this young man’s torso is emblazoned the now-synonymous-with-bogandom tattoo: the Southern Cross.
Nothing extreme there. Just observant, I think. But what happens next is what makes you my little bogan.
You point repetitively at your own torso, and in a questioning voice (with exactly the same rising inflection you use when you ask for a cookie):
“Oscar, Star??? Oscar, Star???”.
All I could reply was that I hope your tastes have matured by the time you are old enough to get inked yourself…