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Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I haven't written much in a while so this seems like a good excuse to change that around. Now I just need to become one with the potato to better understand its motivations.

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Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
poo poo just got serious in here, better lower the quality a bit.

The Potato Cult 809 words


An earthy hessian sack uplifted and a great hull of dirty tuberous beauties washed, like a mucky wave, over me bootless, hairy feet. The dirt instilling itself between the toes like a gravely tongue, licked its way into my spine with shivers. Boulders of vegie flesh pounded on me tips and stimulated the kinetic senses to heights otherwise unknown. And the smell, me sweathearts, oh the smell. It was a tingling me nostril hairs like I was being nasally penetrated by a musky, vicious hound. Pleasure.
There were bintjes galore, kennebecs in spades, pontiacs, toolangi, sebago and even a few small pink eyes, all a competing for me skins attention. But I loved em all I did and choosing one was going to be a feat akin to the myths of old. A saga of spuds I be telling ya.

I lied down on that old, dry and half rotten floor I did, amongst me taters. Practically submerged meself in em. Trying to find the one as each I rolled them across my tummy and onto my torso before they fell upon my side. Some went as far as crossing my nipples, others had little adventures around the rim of my belly button. They was all fine, but there was so far none that I could feel that was that special, that I could really get to know.

But I had to chose one. I couldn't leave unless I did. They wouldn't let me. But they just don't understand, they have no comprehension as to how much this means to me. The bastards.

They locked me in this here sorting shed and said,
“You want to be one of us, do ya? Well you get in there and you find yourself a nice little potato and may God help you if you don't”. So I stripped meselfs naked, it probably wasn't required but I did it anyways, and I found this ere sack a spuds and embraced myself upon them. But was it to ever be as I dreamt?

I started to get agitated and bad thoughts began to enter my mind. What if I couldn't find the one? What would those buggers do to me then? Would they peel my skin off instead? Or just fry me as I stood before them, a failure. What if the one wasn't here at all?

But there she was. Forgotten, alone and stuck at the bottom of the hessian sack. A poor little pink eye. I carefully removed her from the sack and gave the dear the once over with me eyeballs. Then I gave her the once over with me skin. And then I gave her a little sniff.

A bloomin' miracle it was!

I had found the one.
I also considered the possibility that perhaps the one had found me.

But that didn't last long for more bad thoughts began to enter my poor little mind. What would they do to her now that I had found the one? Would they peel her, would they fry her as she stood before them, delicious. I just couldn't accept any outcome as half as terrible as these. Don't these clowns know that pink eyes aren't for frying.

That's when I tried to look for another way out.

That dry sorting shed was a small old thing it was. One door, two rows of benches and sack a plenty And certainly none in the way of alternate exits. There was, however, corrugated iron as far as the eyes could see but not too much in the way of support. So I had just one opportunity. One chance of freedom with me darling and boy was I ready to take it. All the while I could here those buggers outside shouting at me, giving me the old,
“Come out ere ya mongrel” and the like. There words didn't work on ol me mind you.
I found what I supposed was the weakest panel and I ran I did. I ran towards with no regard for it or my body. I collected it with an almighty clatter and to my surprise and enjoyment the bugger came tumbling down with me on top of it. But I had no time to rest on this accomplishment and so I was up on me feet once more and running. I could here them carrying on and shouting the curses towards me, with a
“come back ere ya bugger” and a “you silly little codger, just wait till I back hand ya”. But I didn't care one little bit. I may have been naked and covered in mud but I had me freedom, I had me life and whats more I had me little sweetheart safe and sound.

And that's when I ran into you.

So do you mind if I go now?

Officer?

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Thank you Pipes you bastard

I'm in once more. I might be developing Stockholm syndrome.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Greed, Pay, Love
489 words


Melissa was a bad girl.
Started smoking at age thirteen, got expelled the following year for punching her history teacher and then joined a gang of cricket bat wielding psychopaths whose penchant for ultra violence and hard drugs placed them on every most wanted list this side of the Bass Strait Void Rift. But more importantly she believed that the community needed to regain ownership of its social services, to create a system where everyone had to put in but for which anyone could similarly take out.
She was a very bad girl indeed and she was also looking down the barrel of a high impact GPPC.

Her cricket bat mistakenly left at home and high on moloko she had been left alone by her gang as they went out “hunting” in the city.
“I don't need those pawee anyway”, she thought, “I'm a young and energetic luener I can do anything”.
So she wandered the streets looking for the next thing, some thrill or political debate. Anything to ward off the boredom.

To be stopped, while giving money to charity, by this man though?

Melissa glanced up passed the GPPC to Hobart's most famous crime fighter, Judge Market. Market was ruthless, selfish and had been granted the power of a CEO, Share Holder and Liquidator by the “Bosses”. She should have been terrified, this was after all her greatest foe. Instead Melissa was intrigued. She noticed that he held the gas powered potato cannon the same way in which she secretly hoped he would hold her, hard yet passionate. She was just a gangster next door, a hard working independent young luener seeking a corporation to crackabugga, he was the hero of the free market, the righteous sword of the tuggattapeeatto. Surely he could never fall for a girl such as her. Melissa's chest began to heave all the same.

“Identify political philosophy serial number”, came his demand. His voice, rich with determination and animal aggression, swept over her and she gazed into his optical sensor device coyly.
“1917”, she told him. “What's happening to me”, she thought to herself. “I'm the unhinged parkutetennar for a socially responsible system of governance, he should be my enemy. But there is just something so conformist about him that I can't control myself”. Melissa noticed that she had raised both an eyebrow and a shoulder at the man. She thought, “Am I really flirting with this tax hating machine lonener? Yes, yes I am dammit”.
“Scanning”, exclaimed Judge Market. “Political philosophy serial number '1917' is a non-compatible worldview. Prepare for eminent neutralisation”. Had it come to this, her whirlwind romance ending with a brutal execution. No, she could change him. Surely if he truly loved her he would stop his crusade for laissez faire free marketism and see the world her way.
“Tax this, commie”, he pulled the trigger.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I'm in. I may need therapy at the end, but that's OK because the THUNDERDOME is worth every electric shock to the hippocampus.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
HBO better serialize this.

*Forgot to mention that I am a middle class, male, mixed race, straight Australian.

Special Forces: The Case Of Nia'Tufus Head
1490 words

“Ah! Wasps!”, I hate wasps but I would say that as an ice breaker whenever I got a new client. It never worked, but then I never gave in either. I can be clever and determined when I need to, which is handy given what I do. I do get the brain farts a fair bit though but everyone has their own little quirks I suppose. I once met a man who fell in love with his canoe. Compared to that I'm only retarded.

Outside my little papaya clad office space in downtown South Tarawa, Kiribati stood a little plaque.
“Special Forces”. That's the name of my business. The only private investigation firm in all of Micronesia. I had something of an international reputation. Below the name of my business were two more, smaller, plaques.
“Betsy Toaneki”. That's me. Below that was,
“Tooth-Brush”. She's my partner. I don't know too much about Tooth-Brush other than that's not her real name. I gave her that name on account of me not knowing anything about her. It's a strange cycle but I've learned not to question it too much.

Me and Tooth-Brush had just finished a case involving pearl divers and German nudists and we were about to have a little nap when I got a knock on the door. It was pissing down outside so I rushed to open it and this tall, bald fella walked on in like he owned the place. His soggy, Hawaiian shirt dripped all over my flax rug like he just didn't give a drat about mites. He was also wearing a long skirt but not like in a gay way but more of a manly Fijian way. I mean he could be gay as well I suppose, I don't judge. Except when it involves German nudists. Or canoe fuckers. He didn't introduce himself, instead he gave me the old,
“So, like, I wouldn't normally talk with you but the government is all, you know, must work with the retarded peoples and stuff”, he said with the hand signals and all, “so, this is why I'm talking to you now. OK?”. To which I was all like,
“OK”, which is pretty much all that needed to be said at that moment. Then he went on a bit more.
“I'm Professor Opona, I work for the University of the South Pacific, School of Anthropology. Have you ever heard of a Chief Nia'Tufu?”.
“Well I feel bad for saying this but I've never met him. Is he nice?”.
“He's dead”.
“Aw, that's really sad but I don't do murders, you should call the police”. He sighed at me, I don't like being sighed at.
“He died two hundred years ago”. Bloody idiot, I thought.
“People don't live that long silly so there's that little mystery solved. That would be $100 thanks”. Another sigh.
“His head's been stolen”.
I had myself a little laugh.
“Oh well, you see stolen heads just so happens to be our specialty”.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, heads get stolen all the time around these parts. It's bloody ridiculous when you think about it. Yeah, we'll take the case for you”. I went to give him a high five but I was just left dangling in the wind. Idiot. He seemed not quite there like he was off with the ancestors or something. Then he came up with this,
“We?”. Poor bugger hadn't noticed then. I nodded in the direction of a heap of brightly coloured cloth and bone hunched up in the far corner and playing that box game I don't get.
“Autistic. Doesn't speak, a real clever bugger that one mind you”, I tell him. “She's a bit mental at times but I try not to hold that against her”. That seemed to satisfy him and then the deal was done. Then I got bit by a loving wasp and we left to go to the University.
Tooth-Brush brought along her boyfriend person. I'm pretty sure he is actually a woman dressed as man. I'm also certain that he comes from Papua New Guinea and is also a schizophrenic cannibal. Doesn't speak either but knows how to sign to Tooth-Brush. Sometimes I think they are discussing how best to eat me, I haven't woken up to any missing limbs yet so I try not to think about it too much. I don't know his name either so I named him Crocodile.

Out at the university Professor Opona introduced me and Tooth-Brush to this teary eyed old grandmother type woman who we learned was Miss Nia'Tufu, descendant of the great chief, while Crocodile had a good sniff about. Nia'Tufu seemed a little confused but I pretended not to notice. Then she let this one drop,
“It's not very often I see, well, someone like you dear”. So I gave her some of this,
“My nanna would often say that in the old days I would be called spirit-touched, and I would work as a shaman to help the people with my abilities. She also said that retarded was just another word for gifted”.
“Really, well that was nice of her”.
“Maybe, but she was full of poo poo. I've got Downs Syndrome not piano fingers. Did you notice I got the Downs?”
“Well, I had a hunch”.
“Yeah, well I wouldn't worry too much about it. Its not contagious or anything”. Saying that seemed to put their minds at rest. I think its always important to talk about our problems as to make them less mysterious. She was still a bit sad so I broke the awkwardness with this little number,
“So wheres this headless bloke then?”. That got her.

We go out into the back offices and I see this dead bloke hanging up in a case. He was wearing coconut armor and was carrying an old shark tooth sword but the silly bugger was missing his head. You could tell he didn't die yesterday. I let out a little 'tut tut tut' like I was some used boat salesman.
“Difficult when they've been gone this long”. I gave the base a gentle kick.
“But can you figure it out?”, she asked me.
I illuminated upon the situation given all the available evidence, “Grave robbers”.
“But who?”
“English I reckon, they're always nickin' heads”.
“But for what reason?”.
“Oh poo poo knows. Bloody barbarians that mob”. I looked around the room.
“Alright, where's the nearest power point? I need to plug in me Tooth-Brush”.
“I'm sorry?”, asked poor old Opona.
“The electricity helps us with our shamanic powers. It's why we're called 'Special Forces', cause we have special abilities”.
“Of course, I knew that. Over there dear, by the fan”. Miss Nia'Tufu pointed to the other-side of the room. I plugged her in and away we went. With her making all the connections and me reading the feelings of everything. Then the visions played.

We're by the coast. Tooth-Brush is playing with some rocks and probing the odd crab or two. I see the chief in his coconut armor and swinging his shark tooth sword like a maniac. Those things are dangerous you know. Then these other people turn up, real fat buggers too. They were wearing flax skirts and t-shirts. T-shirts with Tongan Fat Pride written on them. They cut off the chiefs head and handed it to a Union Jack with all these numbers written on it. Then we came to.

“British Museum. Collection number 5578898c. Taken by Tongan head hunters working for the English. I've got the repatriation forms back in the office, I'll fax em through to you later”, I told the grieving Nia'Tufu.
“Oh my thank you dear, thank you. But did you say Tongan head hunters?”. I turned my attention to Opona.
“Are you Fijian, or Tongan?”, Duhn duhn derrrrr. Opona became dumbstruck at this.
“I needed the money dammit, they were going to close this school down. So I stole the head and hired you idiots so the case would never be solved. Don't you retards understand, the world needs anthropology”. The professor then pulled out his trusty decapitating knife and went to stab me up. But luckily for me Crocodile leaped on Opona and after some screams had herself some tucker.
“I knew it”, I shouted and pointed to Tooth-Brush to tease her some.
“You're in love with a can-ni-bal, you're in love with a can-ni-bal”. Tooth-Brush just stared at me and then joined her boyfriend.

That was just another case for us. Tomorrow, who knows what will happen but I will probably invite Crocodile along for the ride anyway. In fact, I think I might have enough room for one more plaque.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I SUPPOSE I can give this a go. I may even end up writing something sensible. I doubt it but you never know.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Master Bataar

“They left me, they really just bloody well left me”.

When it was discovered that the 3.1 billion year prediction for Triton crashing into Neptune was wrong they packed their poo poo up, all 12 billion of them, and pissed off. But one was left behind. He was late for the arc, as he was stuck in the bathroom. Because he was having a wank.
“Typical”, thought Bataar Umbrechtson, the last man left on Triton, “First they cancelled Firefly and now this”.

From the porthole in Bataars appartment you could see the end of existance. As the competing atmospheres of the two celestials tore at each other great seismic twicthes rumbled across the land to the beat of exploding realities.

Resigned to his fate Bataar decided on the only viable course of action left open to him. Back in the bathroom. With the digimag 40k set to bouncy mode, his favourite bottle of extra oily rubbing lotion ready to go and a handy box of tissues on standby, he began his final meditation on life.

“My darling”, screached something. Shocked out of his skull Bataar did nothing hoping it would go away. It didn't.
“My darling, are you there?”. With cold sweat dripping from his forehead he turned around. An etherial figure loomed before him.
“Husband, what are you doing?”.
Bataars jaw fell low and there it stayed, quivering. Something formed in the back of his throat. Sore. Throbbing. Stuck.
“Husband?”.
“But I'm not married”, every syllable was agony.
“What, really? gently caress”. The spectre placed her hands on her hips and gave a little puff.
“Boris Yakanov?”, she asked the man.
“Sorry?”.
“My useless no good husband. Boris Yakanov. Have you seen him?”.
“Oh, you mean the old guy with the limp? I think he lives across the hall from me”, he told her with a clearer throat. She went on her way but Bataar shouted out,
“You wont find him there though. He left with everybody else. It's just me now”. The ghost stopped in her tracks and her shoulders fell down in defeat.
“Fuuuuuckkkk”, she moaned then turned back towards the man.
“Whens he coming back then?”.
“I don't think anyone is coming back. Both Triton and Neptune are about to be destroyed in a cataclysmic event so I doubt they'd have anything to come back to”.
“This is just so loving typical of my life. I finally get the chance to come back from the afterlife to taunt my stupid husband and now I find the moons about to explode and the smarmy twat isn't anywhere to be seen”.

Then the bathroom door burst open with the power of a mighty boot against its side. One boot entered. Then another.
“Bataar!”, someone familiar sounding shouted, “Bataar we must leave”.
“I'm saved”, thought Bataar who ran up to meet his saviour. But what he saw instead was none other than himself.
“What the gently caress is this?”, he shouted. The leather clad version of Bataar ignored the question.
“I'm your clone”, he yelled at him for no real good reason, “Or maybe you are my clone. I haven't really worked that one out yet. But the thing is one of us is certainly a clone of the other. Or another one of us. Or a sheep. It doesn't really matter OK. The fact of the matter is I have escaped the governments secret laboratory and we must act quickly to destroy it”.
“Why?”, asked the first Bataar.
“Why? Because they will continue to make clones of us if we don't act now”.
“The world is about to end. Why the gently caress do I care about any of this?”.
“Wait, the world is about to end?”.
“Apparently Triton is about to collide with Neptune and everyone but the two of you have been evacuated”, piped in the ghost.
“Why the hell didn't either of us get evacuated?”, yelled the second Bataar.
“I think I know why this one didn't and if you are clones in more ways than one then I know why you didn't get evacuated either”.
“Oh this is just loving typical”, whinged the clone, “first I wake up in a laboratory with no memories and now this. If I knew this was going to happen then I would've come here a week ago when I first figured it all out”.
“Tell me about it”, the ghost groaned.
“Look, would the both of you just shut the gently caress up. I probably have five minutes left to live before I'm painfuly and ruthlessly atomised and become part of an asteroid belt so I wouldn't mind the oppurtunity to perhaps enjoy my final moments alive. Yes, it involves me having a wank. But is that really a loving problem? Really?
“I don't give a gently caress about your husband, I don't give a gently caress about your unlife, I don't give a gently caress about you being a clone, or about how the government has been trying to kill you or about anything related to you in any way shape or form. The only loving thing I'm interested in right now is playing with my penis until I ejaculate. Alright?”
“Alright”, whimpered the two uninvited guests.
“Good”.
Then an alien burst into the room.
“What the gently caress?”
“Bataar, you are the chosen one. Our Triton civilisation has been sleeping for several aeons, we need you to awaken it”, it communicated.
“Yeah, well its a bit loving late for that, dickwad”. The alien looked confused.
“Piss off”.
“Typical. First me and my civilisation get frozen in time and now this”, sulked the alien as it left the room.
“Right, now am I going to be the one who suggests we make weird incest, gay clone love or are you?”

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I'm in once more.

edit
Ill take "We Are Glass".

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
This story is based on We Are Glass
852 words

A Recipe for Conscious Glass

Glass is an amazing and highly versatile product. It can and has been used in everything from ancient Mesoamerican weapons to ornate stained glass cathedral windows. But have you ever wondered what glass thinks? What it desires? What it doesn't want others to know? Follow this simple recipe to find out.

The first thing needed is silicon dioxide. This is the most important ingredient as it gives the glass a sense of guilt which will allow it to bond with the other components. Commercial silica has had all of its impurities removed which may give a sense of superiority in some glasses but for the most part releases a sense of loss. These so called impurities, if left in, give the glass a distinctive colour and are the crushed bodies of a thousand individual sea creatures which the silica grows quite fond of.

Then mix in sodium carbonate, which balances the silicon dioxide with its bitterness. As opposed to its more socially popular brother sodium bicarbonate, which is used in cooking, sodium carbonate is toxic and can kill if swallowed. Where sodium bicarbonate is used by celebrity chefs, homely grannies and fun loving science teachers sodium carbonate is used by industrial cleaning companies and shady drug dealers. The bitterness it carries with it is unbearable adding to its caustic character.

Finally add some calcium oxide. Calcium oxide helps out because of its clingy and annoying personality. It is predominantly formed as volcanic excreta thus feeling unwanted and rejected from its very creation. Whenever it finds a new friend it will stick to it and never let go, slowly burning the friend until there is nothing left of them which only adds further to its obnoxiousness until it can find another buddy and the horrible cycle turns once more.

When combined together inside a heat resistant tube the calcium immediately seeks out the silica and the sodium and begins to ask them all manner of annoying questions about the weather, their favourite soccer player and what flavour of tea they enjoy the most. The silica, still feeling guilty about the last object it was friends with and so will politely nod along and feign interest. The sodium, on the other hand, will not want anything to do with this little pest but will eventually get roped into the conversation by the silica who doesn't want to be in this by themselves. The sodium will pretend not to enjoy itself but on the inside will finally be happy that someone seems to care.

While the components are happily yapping away place the tube inside of a glass making kiln.

While the glass liquefies inside the kiln the silica component will begin to feel a strong yearning for the beach and will want to escape its confines but cannot. Not only is it stuck in a tube stuck in a kiln but the calcium has become such a clingy bastard that it won’t let it go. Calcium is happy being stuck, for starters its new bestest friends in the whole of the world are with it and secondly it feels comfortable being around others. Whenever calcium oxide is left alone it gets anxious and depressed, with others it is as happy as can be.

The silica is upset because it needs its sand friends back again but before too long it will accept its fate and get depressed. During this depression the calcium will seem like a better life partner and will happily relent to its constant advances. The sodium, on the other hand, will join this union simply to annoy sodium bicarbonate.

After the kiln process is finished shape the glass in any way you wish. Surprisingly it doesn’t matter to the glass. You may think that with the competing personalities of the individual components that the glass would be unworkable or schizophrenic but this is not so. Instead the individual components have become one. One piece of glass with one personality. This personality may well be insane but it is coherent and there are several experiments we can perform to demonstrate this in action.

Experiment 1: Take your new piece of conscious glass and trap it in a lift playing the music of Billy Bragg. At first you may think your glass is humming along. This, however, is simple resonance caused by pinko whinging against Tory glass. Rather you should hear the glass singing Ozzy Osborne’s Crazy Train. This experiment demonstrates that glass appreciates Thatcherism.

Experiment 2: Hook your glass up to the telephone, dial the number then scream down the line and keep on screaming. As you are gasping for air you will hear a faint whisper discussing the finer points volcanism. This experiment demonstrates that glass is shy when on the phone.

Experiment 3: Tell your glass you are taking it on a train to the sea but get off on the stop before the seaside one. Hear nothing but complaints on your long walk home. This experiment demonstrates that glass can suffer from disappointment.

If all three experiments are successful then you can be certain that the glass is conscious.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Im in once more.
Also, because I'm a dumb sack of poo poo, what is the difference between supernatural and fantastical if there is any at all? I don't want to get into trouble for writing about the wrong creature is all.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Narapatta
911 words

This is the story of Narapatta of the Mouheneenner. A young and handsome woman, clad in naught but a maireener necklace and with hair cut to the scalp, she struck a striking figure amongst her people along the bank of their river home. Every morning, when she awoke, the men would sing and dance around trying to get her attention. They would beg, sometimes cry and yell and always would ask the question,
"Why, Narapatta, why wont you marry me? I'm strong and lean, dance like no other and have a powerful spirit within me".
But always she would give the answer so,
"Because I'm stronger and leaner, I hate dancing and my spirit is twice that of yours", and she would laugh and be on her way.
Until one day the tribe grew tired and had enough and so abandoned her as they moved further west towards the mountains to hunt the wallaby.

The paths they walked were ancient, part of the land itself, so the young woman could simply have followed them behind. But for what reason? They left her and she was better off without them. So instead of going west she walked further south along the river bank.

She walked during the day, over native heath and pigsface, through muddy creeks and burnt ash groves. And she walked during the night as the devils in the forest screamed out and the currawong watched. She walked for three days and nights until she came to the mouth of the river where the seals went to play and raise their young and where Narapatta's tummy sang along.

Now Narapatta was a keen sealer and handy with a waddy so finding food was no problem but before she could take a swing at a babies delicate head a great commotion erupted in the sea just beyond.
Out of this jumped a hideous creature which stayed Narapatta's hand.
It had the head of a possum and the body of a thylacine, the limbs of a leafy sea dragon and the tail of a seal, the teeth of the shark and the eyes of a dead man. It was Riggaropa. Wrageowrapper. Kormtenner.

Bunyip.

“Oi, dickhead. What the gently caress you doin' in my home man. Get out of it before I fuckin' back hand ya, alright”.
“I'm not afraid of you, Bunyip. I've hunted bigger things than you and most more fearsome so just watch your mouth”.
“Right, that's it woman. I am bloody going over there to eat you. Are you ready for it, here I come”. And that old Bunyip lunged forward, through the river towards Narapatta who was waiting by the shore.

Waiting, with her waddy.

With a quick crack to the nose the Bunyip was grounded.
“Fuckin' oath my nose”, was about all the creature could manage.
“There's more where that came from too, so I suggest you do what I tell you to do”.
“Anything, anything”, wailed the beast.
“I want all the food you have”.
“Take it, take it”. So the bunyip brought forth a banquet of shell fish from abalone to oysters, great strands of plump bull kelp, a basket of fresh heath berries and several freshly cooked cuts of wallaby. Narapatta ate her fill and still she wanted more.
“And I want a new waddy. This one is cracked”.
“Of course, of course. I will make you a new one, mate, no worries at all”. That bunyip busied himself making a new waddy from the finest of woods and treating it in a fire made from fragrant leaves. Yet she still had one more request of the creature.
“Finally. I want you to take revenge on the tribe who abandoned me”.
His ears perked up and he thought for a second or two.
“Oh yeah, I can beat the cunts who abandoned you. No worries, no worries at all. But, eh, it will require a sacred rite be carried out first. Bunyip magic and all ya see”.
“What kind of rite?”.
“A sort of marriage rite, eh”.
Narapatta thought about this and reasoned that whatever marriage they get into she could easily get out of again for this stupid creature had nothing on her in terms of wit and cunning.
“This task for my hand in marriage? The deal is done”.
With that the bunyip danced and sang for many hours.
“Riggaropa Munna potrunne, meelaythenner. Munna potrunne, meelaythenner. Riggaropa.”
The mountain, Poorawetter, rumbled and shook with such fierceness that the side crumbled away revealing the characteristic organ pipes of what is now known as Mt Wellington. No one could have survived such an attack.
“The deed is done”, an exhausted bunyip revealed.
“Then so is our marriage”, replied Narapatta as she played with her waddy.
“I think not”. Narapatta then began to change. Her body twisted and contorted. Hair grew where no hair should have grown. Ears expanded, teeth enlarged and eyes pulsated. Skeletal modifications tickled cardiovascular networks and limbs evolved till Narapatta was no more. In her place was the bunyips new, sworn, wife.

And to this day if you travel the streets of Hobart at night it is possible to hear the bunyip and his wife, Narapatta, bickering in the cold city air.
“Where's me fuckin' ciggy money?”.

And that is the story of Narapatta of the Mouheneener and the bunyip she married.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I am in on this.

Though I am a little surprised that we are not required to record our poems and post that rather than just post the words. Isn't poetry suppose to be spoken not read.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
The Convict Ship



Presented the way poetry should be presented (horribly).

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
The Convict Ship

A ship of some two hundred sorry scum
Its cargo pathetic shadows once men
Our iron clad cells fill with dripping piss
Too dark to see, too sick to care, no hope

Musky rot breath with wet wood permeate
Mother, womb and country, gone from memory
From home port sail to cursed Van Diemens Land

Convicted highwaymen, starving Catholics
Seven for arson, life for buggery
My crime poverty, misfortune, murder
With noose shunned, the colony I come
For crimes done punishment deserved my time

A squat frog in uniform croaks taunts and laughs
Horse wigged cretin worthless poo poo on my boot
“Be quiet you horrible lot or else”
Orders are obeyed no rebellion
The cat o nines awaits in confinement

Across the way notorious strumpets
Sad wretched whores in filthy bonnets spit
They cry and curse dead souls womb filled with child
No journeys end for them, floating instead
In burial shroud to water below

No pity from horse wigged, muck spout, creep hedge
Eyes always watching, viewing us sad lot
Lest we resort to sodomy or drink
While some think thoughts, others act them out

Crew above work tirelessly for our want
Rum flows kills scurvy from large tattooed men
They find our new abode and yell around

I will reform, perhaps, some other day
For now just convicted purgatory
Its not much, but at least I have a home

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I didn't put a hat in mine but the rules did state I could use a wig which I did.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
Even though I am most intrigued by the penalty for not entering I am going to enter anyway just so I have an excuse to write something.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
The poo poo has just hit the fan at work and have thus failed this week. I won't beg for forgiveness because quite frankly I couldn't give a gently caress. But I did attempt it.

Beatnik Roadtrip

The party was suppose to be a real buzz. One of the few chances we had to let our hair down during the brief inter study period. That hazy time between graduation from high school and the terrifying beginning of college.


Darcy, my twin sister, and myself were accompanied by Ella DaRoe, a mutual friend, slam poet and self confessed reefer. I didn't know what to make of Ella, she was rebellious as she was obnoxious and would always find a way to get me into trouble but she knew the people running the party and owned a nice car which counts for more than you would think.


We piled the trunk of Ella's Buick Skylark with Darcy's trombone, two cases of cheap beer I bought from an unscrupulous hooch dealer, several well hidden satchels of Ella's special blend, one quart of malibu, a pack of tobacco, three spare ukuleles and a copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus. It was only a matter of time before some baked beatnik in a beret started philosophising and throwing one of those at their head was a sure fire way of getting the hell out. I know, in my darkest moments, it works for me.


We were going to a location described to us only in hushed tones or ecstatic ramblings. Ella was driving, I was riding shotgun and Darcy took the backseat where she could day dream in peace. The directions were vague but Ella was in top form that night and simply followed the heady aroma of marijuana and excitement.

It was known as the Amira Den. I have no idea why because the person who owned the place was called Jeff not Amira and it wasn't a den but rather a quaint little loft in the hautier part of town. We unloaded our crap and got to work.

Jamming on those ukes was the height of satisfaction. Ella was jamming cool rhymes over the grooves of the band and the smoke was rising nicely.

Then someone got into the existentialism.


And thats where I got up to. I would like to call it an artistic decision but that would be complete horseshit (much like what I have written).

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I wrote a bit more to my shiiit and sent that fucker in.

God help us all.

Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
I is in. I apologise now for those who have to read it.

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Wrageowrapper
Apr 30, 2009

DRINK! ARSE! FECKIN CHRISTMAS!
The Drone of the Tower

Across parking lots of bitumen and yellow paint they traveled, along highways rustling with activity, into the yuppy places of this world, the strange suburbs, the unspoken apartment complexes and through a public transportation system designed by the arch town planner himself Gertstein the Conciliator. The young hero, Baz son of Gaz, and the mystic and volunteer city tour guide Magda of the Tea House came to a colossal tower of pure evil.

The setting sun over the giant sign dazzled the onlookers. DoomCORP reigned down upon them.
“We have arrived young master Baz, but our journey has only just begun”. Magda looked up at the lad from her Zimmer frame, smiled wryly and offered her traveling companion something from a paper bag.
“Banana chip?”, she asked him.
Baz shrugged his shoulders, wiped his brow and seethed.
“Not a fan, eh?” and she shuffled the bag away in a mess of old people baggage.

“Tell me, Magda of the Tea House, what must I do to save my homeland?”.
Magda took hold of her Zimmer once more, her wrinkled hands clenching at the handles as she spoke of deeds to be done.

“Atop this lofty tower here, the order for the destruction of your home lies in a safe. Yet it is guarded by a creature of pure corporate evil, The Vorpal Drone”.
“The Vorpal Drone?”.
“Aye, the Vorpal Drone. A vicious creature of distilled chaos. Yet even a creature of this horrific nature still has a weakness. Find it and victory is assured, for only when he has been vanquished will your homeland be safe from development”.
“Piss”.

With his road workers shovel by his side and his fluro red vest shimmering in the evening light Baz stormed the tower. Magda just sort of hobbled along behind as best she could.

Security guards were getting battered with fist and mobility walker heel, photocopiers ruthlessly smashed without remorse, stationary was taken from cupboards without the requisite forms filled and busty receptionists fled in terror. Much glory was had on the battlefield that day and many a town planner fell beneath their just boots.

The two heroes took to the stairs. They were after level forty seven. They got to level three and decided to take the lift instead.

“Ding”

Cautiously Baz son of Gaz and Magda of the Tea House left the lift. What lurked beyond?

“Hello?”, mumbled Baz. There was nothing.
One step forward. Two step forwards.
“If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake”, sung Baz beneath the hum of the building.
“What are you doing, boy”.
“Singing, it helps with the nerves”, and so he continued to sing.

They found a room signed as “Repository”. They went inside.
A safe.
They had made it.
“Huzzah”, shouted Baz, “now I can destroy this vile document and save my home slum from re-development”.
“I kills you”, shouted something large and foreboding. Baz gulped. It was about all he could do. Behind the two heroes stood the glowing purple Vorpal Drone clad in suit and tie. Its colossal frame, part elemental demon and part middle management salaryman, barely contained the hate within it. With a deft fling of the beasts twisted hand it threw a clipboard into Baz. The impact caused him to drop his shovel and fall to the ground. Magda rushed towards the beast with all the power her decrepit legs could muster but the mere demonic aura of the Drone froze the mystic in her feet.

“You must find the creatures weakness, hurry, before it is too late”, screamed Magda at the prone lad. But he was frozen himself. The fear had well and truly taken over his body.

“If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake”, he sung once more. Magda sunk into her frame. It really was too late now.
“Baked a cake”, sung the Drone. Baz and the old lady looked at one another. The lad hesitated just a little but then followed up with,
“Baked a cake”.
“If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake”, the Vorpal Drone sung.
“Howd ya do, howd ya do, howd ya do”, the two sung together.
“You did it Baz”, shouted a delighted Magda as Baz crawled himself back up to his feet. The battle had been won, the slums were saved. But the two singers kept on going.
“Had you dropped me a letter I'd a hired a band”, they sung as the two slowly moved into one another.
“Greatest band in the land”, a little closer still.
“Had you dropped me a letter I'd a hired a band”, the two were now standing right next to each other.
“What's all this then”, thought Magda.
“And spread the welcome mat for you”, where upon Baz jumped into the Drone and the two kissed.
“Aye, tis true love indeed”, sighed Magda whom then vanished in a puff of Vics vapour rub having completed the task set to her.