Monday, April 4, 2011

“CAN A COCKROACH DRIVE A CAR” or “Why is it every time we publish something, (sh)it happens?”

The Occult
Reverse necromancy
Cause and effect
The ‘Dunning Kruger Effect’
Drink a glass of milk with your prozac
Buy your DIY AlFoil Cap Kit at the ‘DACKs R’ US’, franchise, soon opening near YOU
Do not, repeat, do not, buy a kick start Harley if you are a ‘bad back’ pensioner
Governments make laws whenever they see a buck

Author – Arthur

Seems that whenever we publish something – it happens.
We published an article about bees a few months back – bingo, we have the invasion of the slightly aggressive hornets.

Score -
Hornets – 2
Calligula’s Horse – 0
But what the hell, even hornets have a right to protect their nest.

Yesterday, Django wrote that item about getting out on a limb.
Dawn today, the demented widow next door expresses her political view by having her favourite team of chain-saw murderers in for a bit of a pruning session.

She’s made it plain that she’s a Christian and therefore has domain over he beasts of the field, fish of the sea, fowls of the air and most importantly to any goddamned twig out of place or blade of grass that displeases her.

For a person who claims to be a caring gardener she seems to have a sicko approach to the welfare of the local flora.
Of course, it isn’t all her own patch that’s being culled. It’s her neighbour’s trees copping the bother.

Oh, hang on. You think I’m bellyaching because a mob of chain-saw toting maniacs are attacking OUR trees, right?

No. Wrong. That’ll happen next week.
It is 2.30 pm, they’ve been at it all day over the other side of her property overseeing the chain-saw frenzy up in a mango tree that almost made it to its 100th birthday.

Yeah. I know the bitch hypocrite can do “whatever she wants on her side of the fence”.
Heard her say that to the boss last time he tried to reason with her.

When I was a kid there were square miles of little housing commission houses and worker’s cottages surrounded by nothing but parched, dead grass and chainlink fences.
Walking down the street you could often see for quite some distance.
If it hadn’t been for all those bloody fences getting point to point around this four-square town on a pushie would have been an easier chore.

We used to jokingly call ‘em – ‘fields of fire’ – ‘cos that’s exactly what they looked like and unfortunately sort-of were.
These were (usually) the dwellings (blockhouses?) of the ‘returned soldiers’ (who at least had an excuse), the strange, those who usually hated kids.

There would be the occasional oasis amongst this desert, people of another generation or attitude.
The ubiquitous mango, Queensland nut trees, citrus and passionfruit  grown by people willing to self-interestedly share the fruit of overburdened gardens for the simple reason they’d never eat the lot themselves.
In fact that’s exactly what used to be next door to the office. The old bloke was a bookie who’d do silly things at xmas like fill his old wooden trailer with watermelons packed in ice.
The local kids (including me) would be around there like flies the second they saw his old Ford Customline tow that trailer into his yard.
But he and his dear wife have been long gone.

Now there are few kids, no trailer, no ice – oh except that ice with which she packs what passes for her heart.

It is now 4.20pm and what I thought was the old over the fence demand “cut it back, haaaard” from that greenie next door was something else.
This time it was the execution order. One hundred years of growth snuffed out just-like-that because like the shell-shocked and paranoid of a past generation she likes a clear view from her little peep-holes.

It’ll probably be our turn next week.
There’s a tree planted outside where I make the coffee.
Beautiful view really.
Through the security screen it sort of looks like a corner of a Japanese garden, ferns down below and these tiddly vines everywhere.
Best part is it blocks the view over next door.
But like I said, it’s a fair bet that there’ll be another dawn strike in the next week or so.

Of course she won’t knock on the door or even phone to let us know when the next chain-saw massacre is on.
Nope, that’s not her style.
In fact she’s really quite consistent. Sprays agri-chemicals she steals from work over hell’s half acre, grows what our dear Gov would call noxious weeds then bellyaches through a third party to her neighbours that they should pay for their removal for her benefit.

She’ll tell off the least crazed of “Team Massacre” to come over and let us know what’ll be goin’ down ten seconds before they start.

This time the Boss is borrowing Plonker Riley’s twin Rottweilers for the week.
They’re normally quiet cuddly guys but for some reason go completely troppo at the sound of a whipper snipper.
These are the only dogs I know with kill-marks tattooed on their butts.

So sometime next week the chain-saw fiend from hell will knock on the office door at about 6 am.
What he doesn’t know is that there will be no humans behind that door – only two fierce hellhounds that don’t bark; they don’t bark at all, but they hate two-stroke motors with a vengeance.
By the time we arrive at ten or so the wee puppies will have boned up on their chain-saw disassembly manual – starting with the bit about dealing with the operator/owner.

Of course she’ll have her bloody minded way, the tree will be pruned and in about two weeks the Boss will be getting complaints about me, Arthur, perving through HER open bathroom window (YUCK) while he’s making coffee for smoko.

She’s a deep thinker, this one.

I suppose you’re wondering about the title?
Well, she can drive a car.
It’s up to you to decide whether she’s a cockroach.

What has us all bamboozled though –
When we say bees – someone gets stung
Trees – one beautiful old oxygen producer/carbon absorber gets the chop.

So how about that squeezer,Greg. He owes more money around town than the US treasury.
How about all those greedy bastards out there supporting the likes of Greg and the annoying self-centred, creature next door.
Some call their sort ‘oxygen thieves’ – and guess what?
They are right.
And guess what?
There are millions of ‘em out there.

None of us in this office ‘believe’ in ‘global warming’ or ‘climate change’ mainly because it is squeezers like Greg and the harridan next door out there making money from people’s gullibility.

There is a ‘stream’ through life.
Actions leave skid marks.
Skid marks leave a visible trail and a certain amount of pollution.

In a real society concerned about the environment the ‘system’ would provide effective and timely ‘stop’ notices for stupid people destroying their neighbours trees.
Interstitial suckholes like ‘Greg’ should be pruned instead.
And their useless associates polluting life with their bad attitude, thoughtless actions and mere presence should at least attract a ticket whenever they choose to do, what they so often do.

A good place to start would be here in front of the office.
We decided the new owners of the fish and chip shop over the road had turned into a meths lab when some of the local constabulary ARRIVED with little packets under their arms and LEFT without anything at all.
Then when normal cooking smells turned to a pong of burning bakelite steeped in boiling turpentine we really began to wonder what the hey they were up to.

But that’s okay. Maybe the just never change their grease.

No. It’s the dickheads who leave their 4WD shitboxes parked out front running at an idle of 6000 revs – their ‘free air’ running for half an hour while their vomit is warmed up inside.
Compared to them the meths lab or whatever it is – is just neighbourhood ‘colour’.
In a way it is much better, leastways one helluva lot more interesting than it used to be.

When I was a kid that shop turned out fish and chips. Everyone took ‘em home to get sick there.
These days they’re rolling in the gutter and speaking in tongues (only way I can describe it) before they even start eating.

Just thank the f—king stars that all I have to do is make the occasional coffee and churn out the odd sit-rep like this.

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