Different things invoke disgust and nausea. In my case, on a more mild scale, it's certain confectionery. To be precise, musk sticks and banana lollies. I did my soccer mum duty today, which involved a shift in the canteen at the ground. I took the money and handed over various Powerades, bacon-and-egg rolls, and pies. Occasionally, a little cherub would hand over a dollar and ask for musk sticks, or worse, banana lollies. I loathe both. I am not so squeamish I cannot place some, with the aid of a small pair of tongs, into a paper bag for some little Type 2 Diabetes candidate at the canteen window, but those things really are disgusting. I suspect the bananas are manufactured from compressed desiccated monkey vomit. Musk sticks taste like compressed Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder.
Anyway, canteen duty done, I sat on my 'director chair' and watched my almost-fifteen-year-old play soccer. He towers over most of his team mates; indeed, he resembles Gulliver among a team of Lilliputians. But they are a good team, and support and work with each other. If my son is tall, the opposing team had a couple of members directly descended from Goliath. But these behemoth like boys were nothing for my son's team to fear. Nay, the biggest threat to the safety of my son's team was in the form of a relatively small girl (in case I have to spell it out for you: the teams are mixed sexes). This girl ran around creating her own miniature willy-willy, taking out and destroying everything in her path. She was frenzied and determined, and reminded me of nothing so much as that absurd Tasmanian devil in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. You know the one: he gets round in a large willy-willy - perhaps a mini-tornado - and when he stops he drools and pants like a palsied pervert making an obscene telephone call. This crazy little she-hazard hared around the field, and flattened most of the defenders in my son's team. If her mother was looking for her, it was a case of follow the trail of winded kids lying on the field, wondering what the fuck had just happened. Then she did one of her patented collisions with my son, the team striker, whereupon it all blew up in her face. As I mentioned, my son is a tall one, and I don't know if she had insufficient enough of a run-up, or whether she misjudged the laws of physics, but she came off second-best. My son stayed standing and she was felled by her own torque. I was glad.
Anyway, if certain confectionery turns my stomach, it's nothing compared to what's really made me sick and angry tonight. I was watching 'Q&A' last week, and I did see the gentleman, Duncan Storrer, ask a question of that woman from Turnbull's government (can't remember her name but she looks like Neil from 'The Young Ones') regarding the tax breaks enjoyed by relatively wealthy people. To be honest, I didn't take that much notice of it all because I was drowsy and in the process of turning off television. But as far as I can tell, it was just a normal citizen asking a normal question, which he is entitled to do. Seems the Liberal government didn't come off smelling like a rose in the aftermath, so the Murdoch press had to do something about it. I guess Rupert got his suit back from the dry cleaners, as did Tony Abbott, given they were pissing in each others' pockets for a while. Meanwhile, well-meaning people have been donating to a fund set up for the person who asked the question - his name's Duncan and he's of impecunious means. The revolting paper, which is not fit for scraping the flecks of shit away from your arse, has been dredging up scandal from his past. I'm pretty sure this dude did not set out to be a hero, after all, all he did was ask a question and he did not ask for a fund be set up for his benefit. He's had his life turned upside down by the Murdoch's minions, and he's on suicide watch, such is his distress. I cannot see how an organisation who hacked the message bank of a murdered girl, and sneakily recorded conversations is entitled to take a high moral ground. The so-called journalists who have done the hatchet jobs are Damon Johnston and Paul Whittaker. I don't know if you're reading this, Messrs Johnston and Whittaker, but if you are, I very much doubt you guys have more than half a testicle between you. I also doubt you'd have the guts to take on someone with money and power, which is why you've annihilated someone who does not have the wherewithal, either financially or emotionally, to deal with you filthy scum. I don't know how you guys sleep at night. Oh, I have kept library books overdue. There's my big scandal and sordid past, if you want to come after me.
Well, I've got some ideas for my next novel, so I might start working on it tomorrow. Thanks for calling by my blog.
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