Are you postmodern?

"I'm So Postmodern," by the mysterious Bedroom Philosopher, may well be the funniest song I've ever heard. Here are its deliriously wonderful, definitively Australian lyrics in full:

I’m so postmodern that I just don’t talk anymore, I wear different coloured t-shirts according to my mood.
I’m so postmodern that I work from home as a surf lifesaving consumer hotline.
I’m so postmodern all my clothes are made out of sleeping bags, I don’t need pockets, I’m a pocket myself.
I’m so postmodern I go to parties I’m not invited to, and locate the Vegemite, and write my name on everyone.
I’m so postmodern I write reviews for funerals, and heckle at weddings from inside a suitcase.
I’m so postmodern I’m going to adopt a child, and teach him how to knit, and call him Adolf Diggler.
I’m so postmodern that I breakdance in waiting rooms, play Yahtzee in nightclubs, at three in the afternoon.
I’m so postmodern I only go on dates that last thirteen minutes, via walkie-talkie, whilst hiding under the bed.
I’m so postmodern I invite strangers to my house, and put on a slideshow of other people’s Nans.
I’m so postmodern I went home and typed up everything you said, and printed it out in wingdings, and gave it back to you.
I’m so postmodern I held an art exhibition, a Chupa-chup stuck to a swimming cap, and no-one was invited.
I’m so postmodern I make alphabet soup, and dye it purple, and pour it on the lawn.
I’m so postmodern I request Hey Mona on karaoke, then sing my life story to the tune of My Sharona.
I’m so postmodern I only think in palindromic haikus: “Madam, I Glenelg, I’m Adam!”
I’m so postmodern that I sit down to wee, and stand up to poo, at job interviews.
I’m so postmodern that I dress up as Santa, in the middle of August, and haunt golf courses.
I’m so postmodern that I cut off all my hair, and knitted it into a beanie, and threw it off a bridge.
I’m so postmodern that I stole everyone’s mail, cut them up into a ransom note and hid it in a thermos.
I’m so postmodern I take my Lego to the supermarket, and build my own shopping trolley and only buy one nut.
I’m so postmodern I wrote a letter to the council – I think it was M.
I’m so postmodern I bought a round-the-world plane ticket, and stuffed my clothes with eggplant and pretended it was me.
I’m so postmodern I’ve got a tattoo of my PIN number in hieroglyphics, on my neighbour’s guide dog.
I’m so postmodern I fought my way into parliament, made a law banning Nuttelex and then moved to Spain.
I’m so postmodern that I iron all my lettuce leaves, put my shirts in the crisper – they’re real crisp.
I’m so postmodern I give live mice to buskers, dirty teatowels to Mormons and pavlova to crabs.
I’m so postmodern that I live in a tent, on a platform of skateboards that’s tied to a tram.
I’m so postmodern I write four-thousand word essays on the cultural significance of party pies.
I’m so postmodern I recite Shakespeare at a KFC drive-through, through a megaphone, in sign language.
I’m so postmodern I’m going to watch the Olympics on a black-and-white TV, with the sound down.
I’m so postmodern I go to the gym after hours, push up against the door, then cry myself to sleep.
I’m so postmodern I wrote a trilogy of novels from the perspective of a possum that Jesus patted once.
I’m so postmodern that I marry all my friends, soak myself in metho, and tell them that they’ve changed.
I’m so postmodern I bought every book written in 1963 as a reading challenge, and clogged up a waterslide.
I’m so postmodern I think I might be a god, in my undies rolling in sugar, in the carpark of a rodeo.
I’m so postmodern I prerecorded this song, and laced a message subliminally telling Shane Porteous to buy a smock.