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He had made the necessary precautions to meet his death in such a gruesome fashion. First, he had consumed a fairly large amount of Vodka. It would have knocked most people out and over, but Linus was made of tougher stuff. Secondly he wrote a will, not that there was much to give. All that he had to give was love and it had been lost when Simon had declared Linus to be the vilest person on earth and vowed that if he was ever approached again, Linus would be at the end of an apprehended violence order.
The will was a note, and the note was a piece of paper that tallied his life and the score was not good.
A man in a suit had noticed Linus running toward the train. He thought it unusual that a man be running headfirst into train, wearing a suit and brown brogues. The man considered it to be prudent that he should intervene and so he ran after Linus, crash-tackling him to the tracks, and with a role, removing the leaden weight of Linus to the slope of the hill that led to safety.
Linus was safe, albeit sore.
“Why,” he screamed?
“You looked like you didn’t’t have a ticket.”
And he didn’t. Linus was issued with a $150 fine, given twenty-eight days to pay it, and was warned by the authorised officer against holding others back.
John Howard has been prime minister of Australia since 1996. That is a little over ten years and an awful lot of dog years. And far too many years for him to govern my once tolerant and respectful nation. Howard once wanted Australia to be relaxed and comfortable. Unfortunately now we are alert and alarmed. He has tapped into the worst xenophobic instincts of the disenfranchised and brought them front and square.People are now ‘disappeared’. We have preventative detention and control orders. Schizophrenic residents are locked up, and one poor ill woman, deported to her nation of birth. Despite being a citizen and being medically unfit to travel.
For the first five years of his prime ministership I was angry. Incandescent with rage. Then I bunt out. Then I mumbled and muttered and put objects away from the coffee table near the television so I could not throw heavy objects through delicate screens.
Now I am angry again. Really. Very. Angry.
Howard has made this country fearful, and the first part of his 1000-year reich is drawing to an end with the prosecution of a culture war. A war on the thinkers, the dissenters, and the aggrieved. I am one of them. And I don’t know what I can do.
Certainly if it gets any worse I will be hiding people on the attic and attending book burning ceremonies to keep up appearances.
Slavery in the Modern Age.
Part of the fun of being a slave is that slaves occasionally get days off. My last day off was just one and a half work days ago, and already I am tired. Being tired is a 21st century curse, much like the way miners’ lung was in Victorian times. It is a sign that one works, that one has a purpose in life. It is a sign that one should have been re-incarnated as a purpoise rather than as a scullery maid, hell-centre worker or HR manager.
Well today I am as tired as hell, and I am not gong to take it anymore. This may mean one of two things; either I go away and have a nap like George Castanza did in Seinfeld, or I start taking heavy duty speed. Oh, the consumers choice!
