Some Crackpot Cogitations

I'm what our society calls poor. I'm not as poor as a woman, in say, rural India, but as I'm in Australia, and not India, I completely reject that as a valid point. By Australian standards, I'm as poor as you can get, and I live on government sponsored welfare payment at a rate way below the poverty line, and live a lifestyle way less prosperous than the majority of Australians.

I would love to work, but I cannot. One of my children has severe autism, and requires a carer, twenty fours a day, seven days a week, for eternity. My government appreciates my work as a carer, they send me a letter every year telling me so, and rewards me by not allowing me to function in society, in the same way as an honored payer of income tax would. Natural result of a capitalist economy. You have to put in to get back.

We all know capitalism sux, but we're simply not using our imaginations in thinking of alternatives, because communism and capitalism are not the only systems to choose from. Money is just something some guy made up one day. Most our our "money" is just numbers stored in a computer, it doesn't really exist. The longest ever presentation of The Emperors New Clothes has been in full swing, with a mostly unchanging cast, for generations.

Here's my favorite vision of a crackpot, utopian, not so distant future. I'd like to see a society based on something I call "Prosperity Based Equality", which sounds enough like politico speak for some to think it may be legitimate. Simply put, to achieve the broadest and most encompassing version of equality, we must eliminate the "have nots" of society by transforming them the "haves." I propose we do this simply by giving them MORE.

Sounds like leftist thinking, I know. So let's give the rich more, too. Let's give everyone more. Let's keep giving until everyone is equal. Until every single last person has more than enough. Every starving, downtrodden and oppressed soul, in every corner of the globe, in every shanty town, village and ghetto, let them all have prosperity. Regardless of what they have contributed to our capitalist society, let them all have an equal share in the planets bounty.

Our blue and green planet, trapped in it's endless orbit around the sun, is the source of everything. It's waters, it's minerals, it's crops and livestock are needed by all of the species we like to call humanity, for the most basic of all needs, survival. None of us chose to be born, once alive, we must survive. Why should some profit from what we all need to survive?

Capitalism is a failure. It has failed to provide for the majority of people under it's care. It's a tired, stupid, immoral, and greedy philosophy that could only benefit from a bullet to the head. That said, many people are afraid to try another system, much like a beaten wife, who returns to her abuser, in the forlorn hope that he will change for the better, this time.
How could we make this prosperity based equality real, without too much disruption to the average citizens way of life? By adding more numbers to the rows of figures in the records of all the intangible money. Maybe we could add an infinite number of zeroes. Before the decimal point. A simple virus, adding zeroes forever, to every bank account, everywhere. Until there are too many zeroes to count.

Economists will be spitting expensive coffee all over themselves if they should read this, but economists are nothing but the bastard children of capitalism. Asking them to consider this is akin to asking a devout man of god to disprove the existence of a deity. Economists will hate it, hungry women in the Sudan will not.

Let's give this system a name. Let's call it the Crackpot Infinity Doctrine. Give everyone an infinite amount of money. That's more than enough for even the greediest person. Sure, some fool will try to charge $1000000 for a loaf of bread. So what? You have an INFINITE amount of money, that will never, ever run out, because that computer virus can keep adding zeroes forever. You can afford to pay $1000000 for bread.

In fact, if everyone has an infinite amount of money, there's no need to exchange it for goods and services at all. The grocers account will not read infinity, plus the price of three bananas, when he closes his till at the end of the working day. Nor will the governments expenditure of $27 billion on, say, health care, make even a dent in an account containing an infinite amount of money.

All good capitalists, read on, despite your abhorrence. I know you've paid taxes and worked hard. That should not mean that some live, and others die. You'll still have to work, or there will be no goods and services for us to enjoy with all our prosperity, but instead of doing it for profit, do it because it's right, and it needs to be done. The really disgusting jobs, the one no one wants to do, will be rostered, and done by all, as community service.

Sure, some people will reap the rewards of the Crackpot Infinity Doctrine without having contributed, either because they are unable, or unwilling to do so. If a person is unable to participate, through illness, disability or circumstance, they should not be excluded from Crackpot Prosperity. If they are unwilling to participate, I'd like to know why, but regardless of reason, they do not deserve starvation and squalor, and they should, too, be able to participate in the bounty provided by Crackpot Prosperity. The majority of people would work and participate simply because they already do so, for a system that provides them with much less.

It's a crazy, crackpot idea that will never see itself become a reality. Unless some naughty little hacker gets inspired. But ask yourself, why is it so crazy to think that through better management and dispersal of the planets bounty, we can all be prosperous? Maybe you'd rather we all stick to a system that oppresses the majority. In which case, check yourself. We may be a "prosperous" nation here in Australia, but we will never be free while someone, somewhere, is hungry.

Because one night, capitalism may get drunk, beat you up and rape you, like an abusive partner, and leave you broken, bruised, bloody and destitute, just like it has countless others. It could turn on you. In fact, if you live long enough, it will.

Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

Telephonophobia! (stop calling, stop calling, I don't wanna talk anymore)

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Telephone phobia (telephonophobia, telephobia) is reluctance or fear of making or taking phone calls, literally, "fear of telephone".Telephone phobia is also considered to be a type of Social Phobia or Social anxiety problem.
Sufferers typically report fear that they would fail to respond appropriately in a telephone conversation,and fear finding nothing to say, which would end in embarrassing silence, stammering, or stuttering.The associated avoidance behavior includes asking others (e.g. relatives at home) to take their phone calls and exclusive use of answering machines.As a result, the sufferers avoid many activities, such as scheduling events or clarifying information.
Another reason is the sufferers may believe that people who ring bear bad or upsetting news.
As it is common with various fears and phobias, there is a wide spectrum of severity of the fear of phone conversations and the corresponding difficulties.In 1993 it was reported that about 2.5 million of people in Great Britain have telephone phobia.
Among other occurrences, telephone phobia is a common symptom of bipolar disorder: the sufferers are nervous to talk to other people over the phone.
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Once upon a time, in a leafy, middle class suburb of Sydney, a family of good, God-fearing, bible thumping Baptists of a conservative nature raised a brood of children
under a eucalyptus canopy. The local church stood stoically and quietly one street behind their rambling, comfortable home that featured an enormous yard where children of all ages had played cricket, soccer and climbed trees, playing make believe in the huge boughs of a giant jacaranda tree, that had seen much, and remained silent.

The family told their own fables and folklore, as all families do, and the youngest of the clan had developed a chapter, exceptionally well written and grammatically correct, devoted to nothing but her tendency to converse, too frequently, too loudly, and about entirely the wrong kind of subject of matter for well-bought up young lady.

Like many an adolescent female of her generation, her interests morphed from dolls, to horses, to hours talking on the telephone, in hushed whispers to her closest confidante. Utterly normal and mundane that may have been, it nevertheless called for the constant repetition of the girl child's first word, which took on the proportions of an omen of things to come.

Her first word, you see, was spoken over the phone. Her mother, as the folklore would have it, had the child on her hip when she answered the telephone, and as people are apt to, said, "Hello?". The precocious child grabbed the phone and, most likely after thrusting said phone in her mouth and covering it with baby goo, also said, "hello, ho, ho!", because talking apparently takes a while to get really excellent at, and as a first attempt, the child had managed not just communication, but telecommunication, with both a greeting, and an insult.

The child grew, and her linguistic ability continued to develop as she learnt to string sentences together. Her first two sentence were, "Get Yost!", and, "Shuttup", which were roughly translated to adult English as, "get lost", and, "shut up, shut up now, or I'll hit you!". She asked questions, and then questioned the answers, she argued and debated, she was cheeky, and should not look at her elders in the that tone of voice.

She once was able to use the telephone, as any normal person does, until a series of events culminated in her seeing a simple method of communicating with those who aren't within earshot as a form of torture and humiliation.

If you're at all familiar with the habits of young women, you'll not be at all astonished to learn that she would call friends, family, and even acquaintances, to discuss current affairs and matters of extreme personal importance, or simply to while away the time. At first she would call them on big, heavy, rotary dial phones, with long, curly cords and a hand piece you had to hold to your ear, and then lighter, more modern looking units, with push buttons, and a primitive memory function that could store six numbers.

It all changed. She had been in the habit of calling Ms Voulez-vous, and as theirs was a close, one might even say sisterly, relationship, she called her often, and often for absolutely no reason. Over many years, this had been the practise, and our protagonist was stunned when the status quo abruptly changed.

Ms Voulez-vous had recently embarked upon a relationship with a man who loved a good singalong around a piano, in a variety of bars, after he and the other patrons had all partaken of a least a few beverages of the alcoholic variety. The Irish Maitre De, as we shall dub that long ago figure, would often forget the words and saw nothing at all untoward in substituting anything he failed to recall with a series of scooby-doo's and lah-de-dah's. Our young protagonist enjoyed both the company of these fellow people, and the locale they frequented, being one the more upward inner city enclaves that young people favored, nestled as it was in the very heart of the Sydney metropolis.

Ms Voulez-vous, though, became distracted. She would cut short the conversations, and seemed to have no time to chat any longer. Our protagonist felt slighted and shut out, and resolved to try harder, but it was to no avail. The distance grew, and became an abyss. And then all was revealed.

The phone calls were coming at what can only be described as a very inopportune time. A time at which the telephone ringing, answered or not, could only be described as an unbearable distraction. That's right, oh noble reader, our innocent, baptist raised protagonist had developed an uncanny ability to ring every, single time Ms Voulez-vous and the Irish Maitre De attempted to, as consenting adults often do, perform the act which is commonly known by a variety of uncouth terms in the widely used vernacular, and the one we will choose, is SHAGGING!
When the young lass in question became aware of this, she was mortified, and really quite disappointed in herself by the discovery that she had never really considered that the people she called may actually be busy, literally and/or figuratively busy. To add to her misery, Ms Voulez-vous had seemed really angry at her, and she had to not a clue how to make it up to her.

She ceased making phone calls, except for the ones related to her employment, as she was never herself whilst at work, wearing, as we all do, the mask of servitude, that obliterates the individual. And also the ones to her mother, whom she continued to check in regularly.

She no longer had a phone that you could dial out on, a development that occurred after a particularly brutal phone bill in the kind of share accommodation that made British TV series, The Young Ones look like clean living Mormons, and Ms Voulez-vous moved to northern pastures, unable to say goodbye. She didn't hear from her again until she received the invitation to the wedding of Ms Voulez-vous and the Irish
Maitre De.

By now, the subject of the inopportune timing of her phone calls had seeped into the family legend, making our sad protagonist the butt of many a joke, probably not mean spirited in intention, but further reinforcing her nagging intuition that the telephone was no friend of hers.

She successfully avoided the phone almost completely during her flirtation with alternative lifestyles, and resisted the urge to fall headlong into the mobile phone frenzy that began to engulf society, for a while, anyway. She did eventually give in, and would get $30 credit, that would last a year, and still have credit left when the term expired. The telephone had become a tool by which other people could contact her, and her superstition that the use of the phone would only cause humiliation and financial ruin continued.

Most people didn't even notice, and if she told them that ringing people made her feel anxious, and her palms would become sweaty as the fear of unavoidable social rejection enveloped her, they would laugh at her, so she learnt to remain silent. To this day, more than twenty years after the event, she still doesn't ring people, unless requested. It's kind of like how vampires can only enter your home if invited in, she can only call if she's invited to do so.

This doesn't stop people from ringing her. Her telephone rings constantly, the people on the other end of the line completely unaware of her inability to do the simple task they have no trouble with. She wishes it would stop, but manners prevent her. She does see the irony of the telephonophobic girl being at the mercy of a phone that never stops ringing, but she would probably rather it wasn't mentioned.

It's a stupid phobia, but it keeps the phone bills down.

Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

How terribly rude.

Yesterday morning, I arose. I always do, and it's a trend that's sure to continue until it stops, and as I'd rather not dwell on that, we'll just get on with yesterday. I arose, as I have already stated, and gulped down huge, warm cups of coffee, several of them and took in the familiar aroma of mornings at my humble abode.

I grabbed my trusty iPad, which may or may not be a tool of the devil but is really funky either way, and checked facebook. That done, I headed to my blog, to check if anyone had actually read it, and then hit the share button.

I'm sure you can envision how perplexing a dilemma I found it to be when facebook, my beloved facebook, wouldn't allow me to post! I tried again, but to no avail. Devastated, or at least slightly peeved, I hobbled slowly to the kitchen to sulk, and drink more coffee. And possibly to whinge, complain and moan just a little.

Once I'd completed the required amount of whinging, I began to formulate a plan so cunning you could put a tail on it and call it fox. It consisted of a three prongs that went something like this : fill in stupid online forms to tell facebook that I am neither spam, nor offensive, or if I am, can they forgive me anyway due to my natural charm and charisma, then post updates whinging about how I've been censored and how unfair it is to be oppressed, thirdly I contacted my secret army. Of one. Every great movement has to start somewhere.

Having contacted the magnificently plumed Great Peacock Empress of the North (that's right, it pays to have friends in high places, or at least on high ground), my trusted ally immediately posted my blog, and registered her protest at the persecution of the plumed people of the south. (All hail the Great Peacock Empress of the North. Long may she live.)

This morning I arose again. I had my coffee, I checked the now not so beloved facebook, and hoped it was feeling less treacherous today. It was. It let me post my silly blog! Then, the nagging in the less charitable portion of my brain commenced. Who had reported me? Who was the veritable viper I had nursed at my less than ample bosom?

Sherlock Holmes may have been able to solve the mystery for me, but as he wasn't at hand, I simply scratched my head. More concerning is why. Why choose to flag something as spam, when an alternative would be to simply not read it. Termination of the friendship wouldn't have bordered me, so I wonder what possesses someone to choose the most punitive response at their disposal.

This isn't an important blog. It has no meaning or purpose at all. It just is. I'm glad I offended someone. Usually means you're doing something right.

Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

Part Two, or the continuing tale of how I became a crackpot.

None of this will make any sense if you haven't read part one of this saga, so I do suggest you read it. Or not, if you don't mind whether or not it makes sense. Here's a link http://crackpotschemes.blogspot.com/2011/01/part-one-or-how-i-became-crackpot.html

And now, if you'll take my hand, we can go wandering together through my own little memory lane, it's the early nineties and I'm in my heavy metal bimbo turns earth mother fashion phase. The cow shed is gone, and I've moved back to Sydney, flicking light switches on and off, and marveling at televisions and taps that either miraculously or magically produce hot water.

The Prussian arrives, unexpectedly and certainly unannounced, and he has baggage in quite gob smacking quantities. Both kinds of baggage. He unplugs the phone and gives me the news that the Engineer, whilst spending time in the bush, misplaced his mind and seemed to be having an extreme amount of difficulty relocating it.

The tale he told of my beloved, quick witted friend left me boggled. The Engineer had commenced a relationship, which for some reason necessitated a visit to a counsellor, who recommended a psychologist, who recommended a psychiatrist, who prescribed him something. The Engineer changed, not for the better.

He left his home, and slept in a tent in the bush, he didn't wash or eat regularly. He developed rages. The Prussian and the Smuggler became afraid of the man who was wearing the Engineers face, but whom they could not recognize as their friend. The Engineer deteriorated further. He heard voices in his head, and his speech began to slur. His doctor added more drugs, dulling and addling a brilliant and unique mind.

Then came the rampage. Beserker. The Engineer went on a destructive rampage, physically attacking his friends, destroying their possessions. He drove one car into another until they were both twisted steel, then got into his own car and drove away. They didn't see him again.

The Prussian, wearing his paranoia like an old and favored pair of comfortable slippers, hesitated not in declaring the breakdown of the Engineer to be the handy work of a conspiracy by huge pharmaceutical companies, who use people as guinea pigs.

I was doubtful. Drugs, alcohol and isolation seemed like things that could send anyone a bit nutty. The Smuggler departed for overseas. I thought, perhaps, that this may have been one of those moments when life changes for all, but no one is aware at the time, and my new big city friends didn't find the Prussians idiosyncratic views to be as endearing as I did, and to my great shame, I began to pull away from my friend.

We crossed paths and kept in touch as I got on with the business of being a mother to, now, two young children. My second born son was possessed of radiant beauty and a quick and inquisitive mind. I delighted in his development, in his enormous vocabulary and his almost perfect pitch when he sang Old McDonald.

Motherhood kept me busy, as any mother will know, so I spent less time keeping up with the .adventures of the Smuggler and the Prussian, although I did have a covert meeting with the Prussian to say goodbye when he told me he was going into hiding. We met in a dark corner of an a dingy, old mans pub, having first ascertained that we weren't being followed. I never minded indulging him. He thought an up and coming crime syndicate was after him, as he was a loose end in the Juanita Neilsen case, that regularly sends shivers through the collective spine of Kings Cross crime. Truth or fiction? Who knows......

My children grew, happy and healthy. Suddenly, that all changed. The day my second son received his routine vaccinations, he became ill. He regressed. He lost all speech over a fortnight. It was inconceivable. Impossible.

Doctors visits, frustration, and an inexpressible sorrow now made the previous business of motherhood seem carefree. It was autism. At that time, the internet didn't have a lot more than star trek and porn, but it put the chances of this happening to us at 1 in 10,000. Today the figure is much, much lower, around 1 in 160.

His regression was brutally fast. The possibility of a vaccine reaction was raised early on, then dismissed, so I was stunned to discover that thousands of other parents were reporting the same thing.

The Prussians words started to ring in my head, ominously. I, unwittingly, while trying to find a way to help my son, had spoken against conventional wisdom, and was labelled "anti-vaccination". I had become a crackpot.

To be continued....................
Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

Part One. Or how I became a crackpot.

I've been a crackpot for many years, and have done many crackpot things as a result. I've lived in isolation, without the modern conveniences that electricity delights us with, without running, fluoridated water, without flushing toilets. Yeah, without luxury too.

That lifestyle was without many other things too. No traffic, no telemarketers, no door knockers, no pollution and no hassle. Or at least a considerable reduction of those things, there was after all, once a whole convoy of cars traveling Ducks Ridge Road, three of them, and some would count that as traffic.

It was in this environment that I first became exposed to views that seemed ludicrous to my ever so sophisticated 21 year old mind. However, I digress, back I go to the gist of the story.
We called our home, Hippy Heaven, although it's official name was Lot blah blah, and our fellow bush living neighbors had failed to figure out how to run a commune prior to our arrival, and were still debating the issue. Not exactly peace, love and mung beans, people.

Rewind. I'm twenty one, pregnant with my first child, and an old friend, whom we'll call the Smuggler, bumps into me on the street of a strange town, far from where we both belong. Over coffee, the Smuggler suggests we move into the cow shed on his neighbors property, which probably doesn't sound as charming as it actually was, in it's home spun, renovated way. Three rooms, concrete building. The greenest hills you have ever seen, and a rainforest in the backyard, there was no way I could resist.

The Smuggler had just purchased a Baptist church, one of those fantastic a-frame buildings that sprung up everywhere in the 1970's, and the plan was to pull it apart and rebuild it on the top of his mountain. He'd paid for his mountain, and his church, with money he'd made smuggling a variety of things for a number of years. At one point in his career, if you care to call it that, he was smuggling diamonds through Vietnam where he became acquainted with the notorious Charles Sobraj, but to spend time with him gave lie to the idea of this man as a dangerous menace to society. The Smuggler was an intelligent man, well versed in many fields, willing to learn and happy to work with his hands. A wonderful dinner guest.

Assisting him in his endeavor to pull apart and rebuild the church were the Prussian, appearing more like an officer of the law than the devoted dissident he was, and the Engineer, who looked like a colonial figure, complete with wild bushranger beard, he drove like rally driver and had the sharpest mind I have ever been fortunate enough to encounter. There was one other man, insignificant, and one I'd rather not spend much time recalling. We'll call him, if we must refer to him at all, as the Dickhead. And me, pregnant, in pink King Gee overalls.

The Smuggler had assigned me the task of de-nailing, and over the next two months I removed every single nail from each and every piece of wood associated with that church. I also bought more overalls. Orange, white, and black floral. I was the very essence of pregnant, demolition site chic.

The Engineer, with his Scottish ancestry, showed signs of being gripped in the fury of a berserker as he worked. He was tireless, and happy to converse as he worked. He explained to me, while sending nine pound roof tiles down a track on the A-frame roof that reached speeds of forty kilometers an hour, how to make land mines, how engines work, how to do so many things, and how so many things operate. We discussed history and literature, society and culture on a building site. We formed a firm friendship.

The Prussian was always coming and going, to and from his many secret meetings. He loved a good secret society. Eccentricities abounded, we'd go to visit people with phones, and he'd pull the connection out of the wall to prevent that Powers That Be from listening in on his conversations. His police radio scanner was constantly monitored, as he was convinced it was the only way to really know what was going on. He regularly conversed with people in positions of authority and influence, or so he said. I doubted it then, but since, some of those names have become prominent. Go figure.

It was these three men, whom I won't dub as wise in any conventional sense, whom I turned to, when it became apparent that I needed to get to the hospital, seventy kilometers away, to give birth, and the Dickhead had not only not put petrol in the car, but spent the petrol money on beer. Being born in a stable may have been good enough for Jesus, but I wasn't having a bar of it. We left my cowshed, stable or what have you, and headed next door.

The Smuggler, the Prussian and the Engineer discussed the dilemma, and then proceeded to siphon petrol out of the available cars there, and made me porridge, on the basis of needing a good meal to supply the energy requirements of the coming ordeal. I finished my breakfast, went to the hospital and had a baby.

With a baby in tow, I became less mobile, so the crackpots came to me, literally. There was a regular parade of dissidents and freaks, left wing, right wing, on a wing and a prayer, the poor and the rich alike, all espousing their own political, social and or religious heresies. I made coffee and cooked meals, and got on with the business of being a mother, but I listened, and there was one central theme to the craziness.

The Powers That Be are not at all cuddly or benevolent. And I got on with that child raising business, while my friends plotted and schemed as the kettle boiled.

Years pass. The Smuggler has passed away, the Prussian is in hiding, he says he knows where Juanita Neilsen is buried, and the Engineer went completely and utterly batshit crazy in the bush.

Strange how the things they discussed around a wood fuel stove, in a humble abode, smack bang in the middle of nowhere, came to pass. I won't bother you with the details, but it's enough to provide me with a nagging sense of distrust in governments, the media, and really big corporations.

Today, there's countless sites, with countless people offering wacky theories for everything. It's a good thing, as whether these crackpot theories right or wrong, those people are thinking, and not just being told what to think. That's why crackpots are dangerous. They think, and that alone vastly increases the chances that one day, one of them will have the correct thought. And maybe even repeat it.

My first born was named in honor of the now deceased Smuggler, and I would like to think that if the Smuggler could see him today, he'd smile........

To be continued..............

Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

Crackpot Gardens in The Local Community?

Severe flooding has devastated huge tracts of Queensland and Victoria, leading to the loss of lives, livelihoods and homes. Without doubt, this is a national tragedy, and it's going to affect us all.

Food shortages, people. Both long and short term. Oh, sure, there will be enough food, it'll just cost more. Considerably more. And there's nothing we can do but pay more. This time. But, if we change how we do things, we can ensure that next time Australia is hit by some kind of natural disaster, and it certainly will be, we can navigate out way through the mire of food shortages.

It's a simple idea. Every community has a school. Every school has huge amounts of wasted land. Vast expanses of grass that no one is allowed on. Every school should have a huge community garden, which the members of the community can work in (after appropriate background checks), and the produce is available to all members of the community.

The benefits to such a program would be many. School children and their parents would learn more about healthy eating, and as gardening can be hard work, they'd get plenty of exercise. Poorer members of the community get access to free fruit and vegetable produce. Older people get a chance to interact and participate in the community, letting the younger generations benefit from the experience of the older, and hopefully wiser, generations. People new to a community would have a place and a task to aid integration and new relationships in their new community.

Imagine if this had been in place in Brisbane. Many school gardens would have been lost to the floods, but others would have survived, and that food could be distributed to those in the worst affected areas, allowing them to eat, healthily even, without the population resorting to panic buying and price gouging.
The means of survival, food and clean water, have to be localized, so when services break down, as they inevitably do when the proverbial hits the fan, each community has a measure of self sufficiency, and the ability to lend a good Aussie hand to the communities around them that have been hit hardest.

Of course, this means that some will never contribute, but still have access to the produce. I don't have a problem with that. Everyone needs basic food and clean water, regardless of their individual contribution. We feed those in jail. We should feed everyone.Its about the ability to survive.

Please not the picture above, of a spectacularly well built, attractive young woman, is that not testament to the benefits of this simple plan? No? Well, it got you to read it.

Return of the Remote Nazi

I never wanted to become a tyrant. Freedom fighter, well,maybe, but I've always been kind of attached to the notion that I don't have a tyrannical bone in my body. I was...........,wait for it
........WRONG!

Last year I had a spate of house guests. One of them kept changing the channel and turning the volume up to uncomfortable levels. I asked him to cease, desist, quit it even, but to no avail. It was clear that strategic action was needed, and needed immediately.

I seized control of the remote and threatened terrible things to any and all who attempted to learn the ancient art of changing the tv channel, or any other settings, manually. This knowledge became forbidden to all but me, and my first born son in what you could call a nasty case of feudal system syndrome.

Those were terrible times, my friends, and terrible things were witnessed by all. It saddened me to take such extreme action, but our hardships were overcome, and we rewarded with joyous blessings of Doctor Who, and volume that doesn't cause lasting hearing damage.

The time has come to once more fight for my remote, but this time I must fight against my own people. This time, the oppressor of the television is my own children. Never has the need for cunning and strategy been so pressing, never before has my once peaceful kingdom seen such unrest (as long as we don't mention the unmentionable party incident. Any of them)

Hard times call for hard measures, and good leaders need to be able insert cliches, willy nilly like, into absolutely everything, which I just did, so woohoo for me, and I'm completely assured that guarantees my ability to emerge from this battle victorious.

Now, if only I could remember where I hid the remote.
Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.

The Hot Squad (or how to achieve world peace through the medium of hotness)

And now, in a blatant attempt to get more people reading my not particularly pithy words of whatever by introducing pictures of really hot chicks, I will put forward the crackpot scheme for today. Do we all have our graphite motorcycle helmets ready? With reflective film across the visor? Good, because we here at Crackpot Schemes and Crazy Dreams don't want any of our l three loyal readers using inferior tin foil hats, cos we really care about your brainwaves. Some more than others.

After hearing reports of looting during the recent Queensland floods crisis, it occurred to me that looting is a fairly tempting to a certain percentage of the population, (I'll concede that the percentage neatly matches the percentage of scumbags in a population) it dawned on me that we,as a society, are using entirely the wrong deterrent in our fight against crime. We need to use HOT CHICKS!

The majority of crimes are committed for two basic reasons, the first being that the criminal wants to take something from someone else, the second being that someone is unbelievably pissed off with someone. Sometimes these two basic reasons converge, leaving society with unbelievably pissed off people, who also want to take stuff that probably isn't theirs. Admittedly, this is a highly simplified breakdown of a very complex problem.

Rebuild Brisbane, anyone?

If the police force was supplemented with really hot chicks, in uniforms so skimpy they breach OH&S regulations everywhere, the crime rate would drop. To prove it- take a good look at this picture of Vicky-Lee Valentino.

Now imagine a criminal, holding up a bank, with hostages, and a good, old, Aussie siege mentality. Traditionally, there'd be hours of negotiations, and a sniper hoping to get a clear shot. My Hot Squad could provide an alternative, and here;s how. Observers have long noticed a link between the placement of naked women and the direction of a mans gaze. Men are almost irresistibly drawn to the sight of Hot Chicks, particular;y naked ones. So, here's the proposed scenario: Hot Squad Officer arrives at scene of siege, removes her shirt and proceeds to attract the attention of the hostage holding offender. He either willingly comes out of the building for a better view, or moves closer to the window (again, for a better view), thus allowing the sniper to get a clear view of him and make the shot. (I'm presuming the sniper is desensitized to the Hot Squad, after months of naked training in the Bahamas, leading to a huge upsurge in snipers). Either way, the siege is over, and there'd be oodles of great photo opportunities.

As a deterrent, the Hot Squad would be more effective than traditional policing, if only because more criminal activities are committed by men who, as we already established earlier, really like Hot Chicks, and most likely don't wont to do anything that might displease said Hot Chick.(as evidenced by all those times your boyfriend ignored you for some Hot Chick)

But we don't have to stop there. Who's going to want to fight a war if they're surrounded by hot, naked, beautiful women? No one! Not even terrorists. No one wants to see awesome boobies get damaged. And nor should they.

There is one drawback. Looking that fine doesn't come cheap, and the Hot Squad would be doing the country, and humanity a favour, we're going to have to pay them well, and this will mean a tax hike, but if we call it the booby tax the public backlash will be short-lived, and it will legitimize the gratuitous use of the word boobies!

Please Note- the Hot Chick featured is Vicky-Lee Valentino, a woman of stunning beauty, inside and out. I hope she doesn't mind that I borrowed her photos, but I'm sure you'll all agree that when it comes to Hotness, Vicky-Lee has it in droves. Our security should be in the hands of women like her. And she's the hottest chick I ever met, and I'll add that she's friendly, down to earth and intelligent. And that name was Vicky-Lee Valentino. Spell it right.

Champagne, darlings!, and rhinestones.

I'm afraid we've reached an impasse. Between the flood crisis in Queensland, and the impending birth of the third child of a woman we'll call Mrs Superamazing, I haven't been nable to have any fantastic adventures to share with you. Spraining my ankle probably didn't help either, but we won't dwell on the negatives, instead we' ll rehash an adventure we had previously.

Cast your mind back, if you will, to the first Tuesday in November. Mrs Superamazing and I had a cunning plan to celebrate by overdressing, eating yummy things, and laughing a hell of a lot. We didn't really know anything about the horses running in the Melbourne Cup, and we didn't care. It was an excuse to dress up, and wear silly hats, and Mrs Superamazing and I were more than willing to look out of place as we dropped the children at school, if it was in the interests of having a fabulous time. Which it was.

We looked fantastic, which shouldn't surprise anyone, we are the Real Housewives of Mount Druitt, and as such, it's our job, no, our sacred duty, to look damn fine, all the time. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and we don't disappoint.

Before we go any further, I must confess to a small problem. You might not have noticed, but I have a tendency to go off on strange tangents, leading to new, uncharted territories, usually because I've stumbled across something that intrigues, or sickens me. Or both. This tendency led to the subject of our Melbourne cup conversation.

You see, I'd been trolling the Internet looking for free breast implants (a bit like the modern womans search for the holy Grail, but much more important), when I discovered the recurring use of the term "designer vagina", which, I'm sure you'll agree, is the sort of thing that makes you go "WTF? Are you kidding me?", and then you discover that, no, it's not a joke. Though, perhaps it should be.

Of course, once I discovered the ancient art of vajazzling, I had to share the news. I approached Mrs Superamazing and squealed, "vajazzle?", and, in true form, Mrs Superamazing, laughed, and we began to ponder what sort of woman would add rhinestones and sequins to her genitalia. After looking over the women outside the school, we decided that it would be better if we didn't try to imagine any of THEM sporting vajazzles.

Then, we added champagne to the mix, and that made vajazzling seem like a really funny idea. I grabbed a pack of rhinestones, and we started  making the guys very, very uncomfortable. There's a sort of hypnotic effect caused by constant repetition of the word "vajazzle", guys can't leave while the conversation continues, but it's too girly a matter for real comfort, thus creating a time/space vortex from which there is no escape.

By 2pm I was drunk, and my stomach ached from laughter. "Vajazzle!", we cried, as I raised my glass and quaffed cheap champagne, and dissolved once more into giggling fits more suited to fourteen year olds than respectable mothers. I don't know which horse won the race, but I do know it was Jennifer Love-Hewitt, on the George Lopez show, who was the first to mention vajazzling on a televised broadcast, she recommended it a cheer up procedure, after a nasty break up.

We, or at least I, never tried vajazzling, but, without a shadow of a doubt, vajazzling provided me with the most fun I've had on Melbourne cup day, ever, and I doubt I'll be able top it without actually leaving the house.

There's no point to this story. But if you can guess the identity of Mrs Superamazing, you win bragging rights.

Would you like some treason with your antichrist?

Henry VIII of England was a big man, in the physical sense that is, as while not many remember him as an intellectual giant, the big ranga dude was far from stupid. Sure, he didn't have a great track record in his personal relationships, but even with his well documented matrimonial excesses, his first marriage lasted twenty four years, and in terms of Tudor times, his first wife, Katharine of Aragon, was a bit of a cougar, being older, widowed and more "experienced" than young Hal.

After all, she'd been married to his older brother, Arthur, whose existence was dooming Hal to a life in the church. Imagine that. Arthur conveniently died, without having consummated his marriage to the Spanish princess, leaving Hal free to score a wife and her dowry and a kingdom. Catharine was well loved, both as Princess of Wales and later as Queen, known by her contemporaries as a remarkable woman, who advocated education for women, and was lauded by luminaries such as Shakespeare.

We'll cover Henry's excesses quickly, he divorced Catharine, forming the church of England in the process, married the intriguing Anne Boleyn, about whom I could talk for hours, and then beheaded her, married Jane Seymour, a mousy little woman who died after childbirth complications, married Anne of Cleves, declared her gross and annulled his union with her (serves him right for marrying before the first date) which probably suited her fine as she's rumoured to have preferred the company of her own kind, if you get my drift. Catharine Howard (cousin of Anne Boleyn) was a silly little tramp and lost her head for it, Katharine Parr, didn't want to marry Henry, but, whats a girl to do?, and she did out live him. So did Anne of Cleves. Catharine of Aragon died of breast cancer, nine years before Henry, who fell into a very dark mood when he heard of her passing.
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I just love how a row of asterices breaks up a text

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Bet you didn't know our Hal obsessions with male heir was because he thought his line would produce the messiah, now, did you?

Fast forward to the present time, or whatever time we're in. We have Prince William getting married, a direct descendant of Henry VII, through Henry VIII's sister, Margaret, but even though Wills is second in line to the throne, some think his lovely Tudor blood has been corrupted by his fathers German/Greek mix, so entering stage left, we have young Prince Harry, the party loving, swastika wearing ranga, carrying the name that could lead him to be King Henry IX. The last two Henrys' weren't born to the throne either.

If the rumors concerning the legitimacy of Prince Harry are true, and I'm not saying they are, but he got that red hair from somewhere,and anyway, I'm bored, so let me have my flights of fancy, then he has more royal, uncorrupted English royal that is, blood than other person in direct line to the throne. That was good enough for Henry VII.

Now lets get out the graphite motorcycle helmet that works much better than a tin foil hat at blocking the nasty powers that be, and their mind reading whatevers (you knew it had to turn crackpot soon, and I didn't disappoint), and lets very quietly mention that young, handsome Prince William is number one contender for the antichrist. Theres even a picture of him holding a sheep or goat or some other cloven hoofed critter if you're the type of person who demands conclusive and irrefutable proof. And his birthday, summer solstice? Spooky!

We all know that in every biblical apocalyptic scenario, the anitchrist gets his ass kicked by the messiah. I don't know about you, but Id much prefer it the entire apocalypse was downgraded to a right royal family feud, albeit of biblical proportions. So, I'm offering a prediction for you. Lay your bets on Prince Harry for next monarch, because, lets face it, the Brits have been ruled by bastards before, and it simply wouldn't be Brittish to put the antichrist on the throne of England.

So dead birds and floods aside, what really maters is that I got to reuse the dodgy thumbnail of Wills with the satanic hand sign.

Wrestlers provide better medical care than the hospital.

As I sit here, with my left foot elevated and iced, due to it's third grade sprain, which is about as bad as sprains go, I can't help but reminisce about yesterday afternoons foray in the public health system. Now, I don't know about you, but I'd generally presume, and hope, that six or so years in medical school, or however much training they do, would result in, oh, I don't know, maybe some sort of ability to treat things like illness or injury. Yeah, crackpot idea.

Backstage, I presented my co-workers with my ankle. I was seen to and treated immediately. Within minutes, my foot was iced, elevated and I was having a medicinal beer. I was assisted in every possible way. Wrestlers, not paramedics, not medically trained in any way. Wrestling is physical, some of my co workers work, or have worked, as personal trainers, and they know what to do.

Now let's look at the hospital. I hopped to triage, which was empty. Ten minutes later the staff returned, and it was another ten before it was seen. Triage dude thought it could be broken, so they get me a wheel chair, tell me to do the red tape shuffle at the clerical window, and then goof to xray. Sounds fine.

Until Miss Admin says to sit down and wait, she's busy. Hello? Sit down? I'm in a wheelchair with a technicolour foot. Here's a tip, looking at people provides invaluable information. Just saying. Fifteen minutes tick by. She finally takes the details and we're off to xray to wait somewhere else. A change, it's as good as a holiday.

They tell me the radiographer is busy. Radiographer. Singular. They only have one? No wonder they're all wearing badges that proclaim, "staffed to budget, not patient care". Such a reassuring position. We wait. And wait. The beer has worn off, I don't have it iced. The wait goes on. 4.28 pm, the world turns to pain as my foot swells even more and the throbbing intensifies as the wonderful sense of disconnection previously protecting me disappears.

They eventually x Ray it. Then its back to emergency to continue waiting. Just after six they give me pain killers and ice it. Hours after arrival, I finally received the same level of basic care I got backstage. It's all the administration. Gets in the way of the treating people part.

Side note. While I waited, someone walked to the shop for panadeine. Those painkillers got to me before the hospitals did. My advice is, when injured, look for the big burly dude without a neck, he doesn't have to deal with red tape, or get senior approval before applying icepacks.

Meathead, aka I Stuffed Up!

It happens. You step inside the ring, and you can and, all too often do, get hurt. We know that, and we accept the risk every time we don our tights, or hot pants, if that's your preference. When injuries occur, we take an almost perverse, and certainly contrary, pride in it. Our battle scars, testament to our membership in the exclusive Cult of Meathead. Although I have no qualms in saying that injuries usually occur doing some sort of wrestling move, but not today, and not for me.

The day dawned with the now usual grey sky and drizzle, which boded well for my Mercedes as it had developed a tendency to overheat, plus a light rain makes the squeaks less audible. We were all ready and were among the first to arrive at Mounties. I chatted and shared a cigarette with Tennille, hung about backstage with the old timer commentary team, in the obligatory old timer dressing room, I warmed up, under Skulls supervision, and by the way, he was rather impressed with my ability perform push ups. Proper ones. Not that on your knees girly stuff. All in all, I was feeling pretty good, I looked great, and I was singing, to the tune of Willie Nelsons "on the road again", my own, slightly reworked version.

In then ring again
Just can't wait to get in the ring again
Smacking chicks that I may never smack again
And I can't wait to get in the ring again.

Yeah, I was having a great time. And then it was our match. Wayne Pickford and Poison Ivy vs Antonio De'Ath and Niki Nitro. The entrance is great and we're all feeling good, the guys start and we're off to what should be a textbook mixed tag, until we hit the tag. I go into the first spot, and as I step off waynes stomach (don't ask, somethings you don't need to know) and put my left foot down, my ankle rolls under me. I felt a snapping pain, white hot and I cursed the rings padding. High density foam, boys, not as spongy and sounds better. In my opinion, the ring is too soft. I wanna know when I hit the floor.

I roll under the bottom rope, back into my corner, telling Wayne that I've just stuffed up my ankle. Across the ring, I seek out my counterparts eyes,and through time honured tradition of mime, I communicate the problem to her. The crowd has quitened a little, so I turn and shout unpleasantries at them, often containing the term peasant, which I only mention cos it's pretty unpleasant.

We're tagged in, and we stuff about and then get back out, giving the boys a turn. Wayne asks if I can do it, and I was sure as shit going to finish what I started. We took it home, Niki got the pin on Pickford, De'Ath laid me out with his trademark move. And I was free to hobble back stage. I got through the curtains and started hopping, sat down and took my boot off, there was already a swollen band across it.

Back to dressing room, having asked some of the guys to get some ice (Dan Damage, champion!) and then went through the laborious process of removing a spandex crop top, lace body stocking, sloggi stockings, cos I only like to give the illusion of being half naked, and hot pants, to get my jeans back on. Niki, no longer Nitro, but co worker, helps me get my jeans on. Skull hands me a beer, I sit on the steps and consume it quickly. Somehow, after the show, I hobble out, with the help my son, Texas, and no shoes to the awaiting car.

Hours later, doped the eyeballs, I'm feeling ok. I did my time at the E.R, and broke free of their clutches to return to the comforts of home and pizza. And I learnt something. Never underestimate the power of beer.

It's a sprain. I'm working on either being fine by next weeks show, or able to convincingly pretend I'm fine. That's the thing with the Cult of Meathead, and I'm unlikely to be deprogrammed. I'm a wrestler. We take our lumps, we take our bumps, and we pull together when it matters. We're Meatheads, and proud of it.

No Shit, Sherlock!

And without further ado, this has nothing at all to do with Sherlock Holmes, but as I never said it would, that shouldn't be a problem. This also has nothing to do with Bilbo Baggins, Heathcliff and Cathy, that George Smiley guy from the le Carre spy novels, Julian Assange or any other fictional characters. And you won't find mention of genuine documented people, living or otherwise, so this won't be about Princess Mary, Barack Obama, Lady Gaga, Isaac Newton or Harry Potters' buddy Rupert.

It certainly won't be about me, mostly because I'm spectacularly dull. I'd love to be exciting, but I'm not. I could probably make up some wild adventures that end with spectacular stories, culminating in great sex on top of large piles of money while my children no longer need supervision, or food for that matter, but you'd know I was lying, so we won't go there.

This isn't about restructuring our drug laws, even though those laws could do with a shake, and it's not about the health or education systems. It's got nothing to do with Oprah or finding your bliss, and as sure as the pope frowns on multiple orgasms, it's ain't related to her book club.

It's not even about you, so if you're the narcissistic type, heads up, nows the time to stop reading. You know why? You really want to know what it's about? I'll tell you, but only to reward your persistence. It's about tin foil hats.

They don't work. They may, in some cases, actually amplify signals. So, like, while I applaud your fashion forward stance and fully stand by your right to wear tinfoil millinery to any social occasion as you see fit, its not going to save you from the daleks.

Tinfoil hats- because everyone who disagrees is mentally ill.

And The Skies Poured Sorrow.

Queensland. Beautiful one minute, perfect the next? At the moment I'm pretty certain that both the locals and tourists (now, that would have been one crap holiday) would agree that if litigation were to arise regarding false advertising, Queensland wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

The footage is harrowing. Images of cars carried away in a sea of brown water, the faces of passengers being delivered to an unknown fate, one minute a figure on the news, lost the next. Words, spoken by politicians, describing Queensland's darkest hour, sound hollow and cliched as news of those trapped filter through. The numbers of dead and missing rise. 8 dead, 72 missing. A child care centre with ten kids trapped, undoubtedly petrified and wishing for the comfort of their mothers arms. Children still trapped in schools, victims of the sheer speed at which the wall of water came through.

The news choppers fly over head, capturing images of people on rooftops, but unable to offer any help, as has been the case in so many other disasters. 9-11, Hurricane Katrina, the Indonesian tsunami and now, the Great Northern Deluge.

The rain started in October, and it's barely paused. I was there in mid October, flew up during a gap in the showers, on one of the days when the rain was replaced by a buffeting wind, leading pretty young girls on my flight to think they'd plummet to the ground in a fiery inferno. They were wrong, the disaster was still a way off, but it was almost as if they could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.

I have family in Queensland, a niece, a nephew, a sister, a brother, in laws, and then there's my Peacock Family. Those beautifully plumed people are why I went there. And they're why I'm glued to the screen, picturing them on those roof tops. I'd never even met them, and these wonderful people flew me from Sydney to Brisbane, to celebrate my amazing and fabulous peacock sister/fiance's birthday.

My Peacock Family.

A face I knew from Facebook greeted me like a long-lost brother, a friend of my Peacock Family drove us to Peacock Manor, nestled between Ipswich and Brisbane. I arrived and fell in love with the whole family. And now that family is in harms way. Every time I see images of people sitting, drenched, on rooftops, I imagine my Peacocks, clinging to safety, the father hanging on protectively and valiantly to those he and I both love, the child confused and uncertain, and my beloved peacock sister/fiancee, worrying for her child and her family, and lets face it, her stability and way of life.

Its an uncertain time for Brisbane, as the water approaches with all its power and fury. My Peacock family is just one of the families at risk, and when we watch those people and see everything they own being carried away by the water, remember they're someones special people. Everyone is someones special family. At the moment they're newsworthy, but when we've forgotten those forlorn rooftop figures, those lives will still need rebuilding.

Lost in the deluge are countless snapshots of happy moments, frozen pieces of time from people's lives. Favourite shirts, comfortable, well loved shoes, beloved toys, and pillow's people cant sleep without. All small things, but gone, and the sum total of these losses is immeasurable.

And it's not over. The waters haven't hit Brisbane yet, but they will. And they'll continue their terrible onslaught until nature bores of her game. Think of all those many families in the path of the Deluge in the coming days, and send hope their way. Think of my Peacock family, roads already cut off in various places around them, and for so many, nowhere to go even if they could get out. I'm sure you have a Peacock family up there, too, you do if there's anyone special to you in the flood zone.

Nikhaylah, Richard and Boots, I wish I was there with you. My heart is there. And I really do love you.

Chupacabras Mystery Revealed!

Chupacabras

The mysterious chupacabras of South America has finally leapt out of the pages of crypotozoology, where it has long been feared by Mexican farmers trying to protect their herds of the chupacabras favorite snack, sheep and goats, hence the literal translation of "goat-sucker". Whilst the chupacabras has long to be rumoured to be a figment of the imagination of uneducated, superstitious locals, researchers have discovered that it is, in fact, a hairless thylacine.

 thylacine

DNA tests conducted by Professor Gesine Leah du Robert, of Gulled U, Dumfriesshire, have shocked doubters by conclusively proving that the legendary creature is a remnant population of the long thought to be extinct Australian Marsupial wolf, or thylacine (dog-headed pouched one).

The identification of the chupacabras as a hairless thylacine will no doubt prove to be controversial, but thylacines have been positively identified in other animal attacks many times, and surprisingly, in places other than Australia. The last recognised populations lived in Tasmania, Australia and were thought to have become extinct during the 1930s. Despite this, the Australian Rare Fauna Research Association has reported 3,800 sightings of the so-called Tasmanian Tiger (neither Tasmanian, nor tiger, but a marsupial dog.) on mainland Australia since 1936.

thylacine.

The thylacine is carnivorous, and is known to prefer the soft, internal organs of it's prey. Though not often mentioned by researchers, it's well known that thylacines are blood drinkers. Phantom thylacines have been historically located in many places, with one of the better examples being the Great Dog of Ennerdale, which terrorised the area of Cumberland, United Kingdom, in 1810, embarking on a killing spree that left left up to 400 sheep dead in 6 months. The great cur dog was hunted down and killed by dogs belonging to the local farmers. It's corpse was preserved for many years, until the condition deteriorated so much that the curator decided to dispose of it.

Great Dog of Ennerdale sketch  and, (below, photo)

Whilst researchers have often explained away corpses said to be of the chupacabras by claiming that they really Mexican Hairless Dogs known as Xolo, they may have been closer to the truth than they realised. The xolo is a native to Mexico, having begun its path to domestication approximately 3000 years ago, and is among the closest relatives to the thylacine, or to be more accurate it could be said that the xolo is the great, great grandchild of the chupacabras. Experts and enthusiasts are declaring the recent DNA findings a vindication of their quest to establish that the thylacine is not extinct.

 Xolo

Professor Roberts recently held a press conference in Edinburgh to announce these findings and commented, "The most resistance to the incontrovertible DNA results, that proved the carcass of the so-called "Chupacabras" is a thylacine came from Australia, where they appear very hostile to the idea that marsupials developed and flourished in places other than Australia. More important than any idea of misplaced national pride is the continued survival of this species.". Roberts added that she hopes measures will be taken to prevent the needless slaughter of these unique creatures.

Ummm, What's with all the satanic handsigns? You're not in Slayer, or are you?

Once upon a time, there lived a heavy metal bimbo. She dressed like an extra in an Alice Cooper filmclip and never slept on weekends, but despite her many and varied excesses, she never made satanic hand signs like the ones prominent world leaders and celebrities appear to have grown so remarkably fond of. Not because she was afraid of the gates of hell opening and carrying her off to the underworld, but simply because its not that comfortable, and kind of hard to do by accident.

So why are they all doing it? Really, I'm curious, and I cant come up with a good answer. Those who prefer milliners who work exclusively with tin foil will tell you it's because they're in league with Satan. Skeptics, the mortal enemy of crackpots and tin-foil-hatters everywhere, don't believe Satan exists, and therefore would probably tell you that Obama Barrack is simply having a bit of a laugh. And maybe he listens to the occasional Metallica CD , which is his right, but it's bound to lose him some votes. Which, if you follow closely, is about to nicely segue into my next point, which goes a little something like this.

I'm not the one who got myself voted into the leadership of a religion, political party or entire country, but I have to ask this. Is it politically a clever thing to do? You see, I was under the impression that politicians want people to vote for them. As many as possible. Even the ones that don't agree with their policies. That sign of the devil thing is going to lose you some votes. My parents wouldn't have voted for someone doing what could be interpreted as more than their bit for the apocalypse.

The current Pope and the last god knows how many U.S Presidents have all been contenders for the historically highly coveted role of antichrist, which most people would find offensive, but no, these dudes are so hip they just smile and flash the devil horns. Go figure. Way to reassure the masses, Prince William.

So- what's that about? A bit of research and you'll find some christians who find it offensive, for that reason alone, I dont think I want my world leaders doing this. It seems I keep finding myself defending people's right to spiritual beliefs, however nutty I may find them to be, and as some people, for whatever reason, belive that the power structures of the world are in league with the devil and the hand signal is PROOF!, I'd rather like to know why the hell you all keep doing it? It's not "cool" anymore, not even the eighties revival can account for every disturbing trend, you know....

Or maybe they're paving the way for their post-celebrity careers, and are busy drumming up future tin foil hat sales.

Alice's Adventures in Authorland; A Short Piece by Crackpot Genius, Texas Robertson.

Stuck as I am, I cant help but wonder
Why I stay and seldom wander
To linger longer or lumber yonder?

Trapped between these pages plenty
Forever twelve and never twenty
The sense is gone, the meaning empty

Questions elude understanding
But darn it! They can be demanding
So on what literateau are you standing?

Vast numbers of different theories
All bring up even more queries
My confusion grows until it wearies

But if you stop and if you think
Then you will see a common link
The one who put their thought to ink.

            Emily was starting to get rather tired of sitting by her sister on the park bench, and of having little to entertain herself with: a few times she took a peek at the book her sister was reading, yet she deemed the language of the book to be somewhat stupid, and just a tad too ridiculous. She also had a problem with the illustrations, thinking that the girl looked odd and old-timey, wearing weird, old-fashioned clothes. “What is the point of a book,” thought Emily, “if it is but a bunch of outdated nonsense?”
            Turning away from her sister and looking a few yards away from the bench, over near the bushes, Emily spied a sandpit and ruminated, (as best she could in the undesirable heat that currently consumed Sydney), as to whether or not the effort of going that far would be worth the fun that could be had in the sandpit, when suddenly a little girl wearing a pinafore ran around from behind the bench and off into the distance.
            There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary in such a display; nor did Emily think it so very unprecedented or out of the ordinary to hear her rabbit on in a fashion so fitting for a fool, muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! Where could he be?! Where could my Author be? Oh dear!” Afterwards, it occurred to Emily that this was not the most conventional thing one could witness and that she ought to have wondered about the queer way this scene seemed to be unfolding, but once she realised that it was the girl from her sisters book, Emily started on her feet, for a thought flashed across her mind - never before had she seen the character from a book in real life.
            “Christ,” thought Emily, “how on earth am I to catch up with her? Argh. Knowing names or having read that nonsense book wouldv’e been a helpful move around about now. I could, like, you know, get her to wait, or stop, or whatever. Ugh. God damn it.” It was around about now that what would have been a strikingly simple thought to most (and I hope the reader is, like the Author, part of this cohort) struck her. She could simply go back to her dearest sister and find out.  Hurriedly, Emily doubled back and seized the book from her sisters hands, much to her sister’s annoyance, and held it up. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” She was present only momentarily before beginning to depart once more. Her sister, who did not think kindly of young Emily looked up, and was about to call out in hope of her return, but refrained on the basis that life without Emily was life with less annoyances and thus a life most improved.
            “Aaaaaalliiicceeee! Stop my dear! Stop! Wait, just wait!,” screamed Emily, and in a moment she was running through the park to find her, never once contemplating how on earth she would find her way back to her sister; a problem considering her penchant for getting lost.
            In another moment, Emily spied Alice a short distance away. Alice appeared as if she was looking around, disorientated by the confusion that currently consumed her. However, Alice’s confusion could not compare to that of Emily’s. For Emily spied something most strange and unnatural. Alice, as it were, looked as though she were ripped right out of the pages of a book. Oh yes, oh yes! I deceive you not, for Emily no doubt had a firm grasp on what one would call sanity. From what I understand and have thus far written, Emily is one of the few featuring any common sense around here, and even she saw that Alice looked like a picture; a picture propagating a powerfully potent projection of 3-dimensionality that previously would have been purposeless. But yet here we are as we discuss the queer nature of Alice managing to look so very two dimensional whilst looking so strikingly three dimensional… 2-D or not 2-D? That is the question.
            And with such a question, only more arise. For example, if she is not 2-D what is she? Surely she could be 1-D, or perhaps even 4-D. We are clearly not restricted to 3-D. Also, Emily, like all humans, only sees in 3-D, so how would she know what 2-D things actually look like in the confines of a 3-D world? But let us suppose that this is “the” question, for this is what Emily did and, in doing so, she could not help but feel her grip on reality sneakily slide away from her. I say sneakily because, one moment it was there (those moments before she secured sight on Alice), yet it disappeared a moment later. So in a simple moment or two, reality was yanked away from underneath her. And thus she fell from the dizzying heights of sanity down to the depraved depths of insanity, no longer capable of differentiating between reality and its antithesis. But really, what’s the difference?
            “Excuse me, Madam,” started Alice in her typically polite manner, “this will sound strange - so please don’t be too taken aback by this, for I did warn you- but…. Oh, how do I say this without sounding kind of crazy?”
            “Well, you could say it English, that generally helps. And if not, I guess you could try French,” replied Emily..
            “No, no, no. For you see, it is not language that is the problem,” confessed Alice, “but rather what it is that I’m trying to say. What I’m trying to express.” Alice, in her youthful arrogance and naivety, clung desperately to her belief that despite being a child - and a fictional one at that- that she could indeed adequately articulate everything she wanted to say. The poor girl was wrong.
            Alice sighed. Then she began to speak again, ‘ Okay. I’ll tell you. But do you promise to believe me?” Emily nodded politely, perhaps the only thing she could do. “Alright. I’m looking for my Author.”
            Now its one thing to feel reality slide away from you, but it is another to be consumed entirely by the surreal. For Emily’s world was fast becoming overrun and overpopulated by total madness and some kind of crazed unreality. Amidst her strange haze of confusion and her vague, largely useless attempts to understand the many unbelievable things that kept happening to her, Emily found herself speechless. However, her mother did say that if one has nothing nice to say, one should say nothing. It didn’t seem to fit this situation, though. It just didn’t seem true in this instance.
            “Uhm… That’s quite an unbelievable tale you’ve got there. I’m not too sure I can stomach it!”
            “Oh goodness gracious me!” remarked Alice. “Whatever are you on about? I haven’t a tail, and, if I did, I surely wouldn’t let you eat it!”
            “No, no, no!” replied Emily. “I meant “tale” as in a story, not a tail like what a rat or a monkey has.”
            “Why, I shall have you know that it isn’t a story at all, its all a true. As true as the sky is blue,” came Alice’s indignant response.
            Frustration fluttered by Emily, swirling around until it encompassed her. Was she alone in this frustration? An unlikely situation. However, it would be but a benevolent assumption premised on madness to think the feeling was shared equally. Emily’s frustration was but minuscule compared to Alice’s.
            And who can blame her? Alice had, after all, before suddenly appearing in the “real world” had to deal with some of the most stressful and complicated and confusing questions known to mankind; why am I here and where am I going?
            “Alright,” continued Emily, “So, lets assume for a second that I believe you. Like, why do you want to find your Author? What’s the point?”
            Seemingly getting quite fussy and stressed about the entire situation, Alice exclaimed dramatically, “Oh goodness, gracious me. You are a bit of a silly one, aren’t you? So I can find out how my story finishes. So I can understood just who exactly I am. Why else would I want to find them?”
            Emily stood there and thought over this statement briefly. Thoughts flurried around her head like a flock of pigeons scattering from a young child’s loud and angry interjection at their feeding frenzy. She finally voiced one of these many thoughts. “So do you mean an Author is the reason for everything, ever?”
            Alice looked shocked, and for largely obvious reasons. Emily had communicated the very words on the tip of Alice’s tongue.
            However, insofar Emily failed to see the clearly religious, almost godlike connotations of her previous statement. For are the reasons she depicted not similar to the reasons for which one pursues religion?
            At this point, (“this point” being a convenient point in time for such a thing to occur), Emily, perhaps by some stroke of divine intervention, noticed a church off in the distance. The gears in her head began to turn, And then, with a blinding flash of common sense, it struck her. The Author was like a God.
            “Alice, if the Author knows everything about you, which I reckon he must, because he wrote you and invented you and stuff, well… he’d be like a God, right?”
            Alice, after giving herself a few moments to think about this, nodded and replied, “Yes, I think that could be so.”
            Emily thus concluded that Alice must indeed find her Author - it was him exerting his power and influence over an original text that defined all meaning. A brief discourse followed in which it was decided that the work must be a whole in itself that all springs from the same common root of genius. ( I would have thought this to be obvious.) Unfortunately though, neither Alice nor Emily had the slightest idea on how to actually find her Author. But on a lighter note, Alice found it reassuring that she was part of a work of genius and profound originality, and promptly decided that this must mean that she means something very important. After all, any work that is comparable to a blooming spring emerging from a barren waste must be rather important, truly the work of a transcendental genius.

            A voice interjects intermittently       
            Disrupting thoughts quite suddenly
            With questions of the literary

            Her Author, Carroll, gone or not?
            When in his grave he doth rot
            No longer present, but not forgot

            This time as well, the same applies
            But his meaning dons disguise
            Presently, I must apologise   

            For connecting meaning straight to me
            Is, alas, unfortunately
            Relying upon a fallacy          

            When what I mean, I may miss
            You can’t say, “the Author meant this!”
            Otherwise, why have analysis?

            Watch as it splits apart from the whole
            Meaning goes down the rabbit hole
            Further from common sense’s control.


            Emily and Alice, after much deliberation, had decided that the logical place to begin their search for the latter’s Author was a large library; the kind forever haunted by eager readers, stressed students and pretentious intellectuals. Alice, however, felt somewhat uneasy about the idea, for she feared that people may be shocked to see her, as she is traditionally little more than the product of ones imagination. She feared that the minds of those who saw her may suddenly snap, crackle and pop and spiral into madness. Consequently, Alice found herself utilising the path of entrance into the library used by all fictional characters; the book return slot.
             The book return slot went straight on like a tunnel for quite a while, and then spiralled down suddenly, so suddenly, in fact, that both Alice and Emily found themselves without even a moment in time to consider stopping their descent before falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.
            Perhaps they fell slowly, or perhaps the book return slot was very deep indeed, for both Emily and Alice had plenty of time as they fell further and further down to look around at their surroundings, and to ponder what may happen next in this strange scenario. Alice found herself overwhelmed by a peculiar sense of déjà vu, leading her to sigh to herself and to exclaim, as if she were a cliché character in a children’s movie, “Oh dear! Here we go again.” Alice, as she looked about, found herself under-whelmed by her current surroundings, perhaps even bored by the repetitive nature of it all. Emily, on the other hand, was simultaneously both delirious with excitement and frozen with fear as she looked about, noticing that the sides of this book return slot, in all its seemingly never-ending glory, were filled with cupboards and bookshelves. Fuelled by her own curiosity, (which would surely be a problem for the plot were she a cat and not a girl), Emily stretched her arms out as far as she could, and grabbed a book from a shelf as she passed it; it was labelled “The Death of the Author,” but to her great disappointment it was an essay; she was too careful and polite to feel comfortable dropping it and potentially scattering and ripping all the pages, and so she held it with a firm grip. Alice, who was still quite apathetic about her surroundings, was examining her nails in great detail, seemingly enthralled by their appearance, and was also wondering what all Emily’s fussing and bothering was about.
            Down.
                        Down.
                                    Down.
            “Well!” declared Emily, who was by now uncomfortable with Alice’s silence as her only company, “we surely have fallen quite a remarkable distance, haven’t we? Do you think this fall shall ever come to an end? In fact, I find it quite remarkable that we have even managed to fall so far down a book return slot. How is that possible?” Although she had never had the impetus to read Alice in Wonderland, Emily had indeed, like almost all children in our modern age, watched the movie adaptation. Emily thought herself to be rather clever, and although her school teachers recognised that she was intelligent, there was undoubtedly some disparity between her own views of her intellect and theirs. However, she could not help but notice the strange similarities between the lengthy fall she and Alice were currently enduring, and the fall Alice had faced in her original story.
            Down.
                        Down.
                                    Down.
            Emily was adamant that the fall would never end, whilst Alice knew that even if it were to take a while, it would end nevertheless. Suddenly, as if some transcendent figure had anticipated our characters boredom, a humungous and hefty book, a combined encyclopaedia and dictionary, came crashing down on poor Alice’s head, when suddenly, thump! Thud! Alice and Emily tumbled down onto a heap of books and paper, and with that, their fall had ended.
            Alice’s head was still aching from the book that had fallen on top of her head. Emily, however, was not hurt a bit, and leapt to her feet in no time at all: she looked up, but she struggled to notice anything but darkness, and so she looked down instead, and at first glance the floor looked to be covered in strange, asymmetrical tiles of multiple colours, but when she bent over and inspected them closely, she ascertained that they were in fact books that had been scattered all over the entire floor. It was at this point that Emily realised that she was still holding that essay she plucked from the shelf, and so she delicately placed it on a nearby shelf. Alice groaned and murmured, then she began to speak. “Golly gosh! What a terrible decision this has been! Oh, how I wish we had entered this place in a more conventional manner. Surely no Author would admit to writing me in the state I am in now… What a fussy and whiney character they would assume I‘ve become! I guess I should‘ve taken more care, I should’ve clung to his writings.”
            Emily interrupted Alice. “Hush your whining. You’re very cynical, Alice, did you know that? Besides, look over there.” Emily pointed towards the opposite end of the long corridor they had found themselves in. This corridor, in fact, was so long that Emily was unable to see where it ended. “What am I meant to be looking at, exactly?” asked Alice, who was quite upset by Emily’s rudeness and saw nothing significant about this corridor. “There’s nothing there,” continued Alice. Emily put her palm to her face, and reluctantly explained what she was pointing out. “It looks like it shrinks. How could you be so unobservant as to fail to notice that?”
            Agitated by Emily’s hoity-toity attitude, Alice smugly pointed out that of course it would look smaller at the other end of the corridor, that it must be a trick of the eye, and that everyone who has ever looked at an artwork should know this. “It’s called perspiration. It’s especially important in art.” (Alice was completely ignorant of the fact that the word she was searching for was “perspective” and that “perspiration” merely refers to fluid excreted by ones sweat glands.) She began walking down the corridor to prove her point, and was consequently quite surprised when she found her head colliding with the ceiling after only a few paces. “Oh dear. It would appear you were quite right Emily,” said Alice indignantly…. “Oh dear! I wonder where this strange place leads,” continued Alice curiously, and so she moved onto her hands and knees and began to crawl down the corridor, whilst beckoning Emily to follow suit. ( Alice’s intensely curious nature is quite renowned, leading me to assume that she is thankful that she is not a cat. I assume also, that the reader is aware of the dangers associated with mixing cats and curiosity.)
            For a while they crawled, crawled and crawled, until the ceiling and the floor had become too close together to crawl any further. Alice looked up, and although she was dismayed by how much further the corridor seemed to go, when she strained her eyes she could faintly make out a sign on the door situated at the corridor’s end. The sign read, “DO NOT DISTURB. CREATIVE GENIUS AT WORK.”
            “That’s odd,” started Alice, “for what kind of genius would ever be so small?” Emily was frightened by the strangeness she faced in this queer place, and scurried away back to the larger side of the corridor. “I want to go home, I want go home!” exclaimed Emily. So quickly did she scurry along backwards, that she failed to notice the table that had appeared behind her, and found herself tumbling over it and onto her head. A loud thud accompanied her fall, as well as a sharp, high-pitched cling-clang.  “This place is all wrong. Everything is weird and topsy-turvy!” yelled Emily. Alice  also moved back to the larger side of the corridor, and helped her frightened friend back to her feet.
             In doing so, Alice noticed that there was a small bottle next to Emily’s feet, which was quite unusual since there was certainly no bottle there when they first went past. However, it did explain the cling-clang sound that occurred as Emily tripped over the table, (“which certainly was not here before,” said Emily), and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words “Do not drink me” raggedly written on it in obscurely sized letters.
            “Do you think it’s poison?” asked Emily, who had enough common-sense to think it a bad idea to drink anything that explicitly states that it should not be consumed. Alice, however, had dealt with just enough equally bizarre situations and weirdly labelled bottles to decide that it would surely not be life threatening to drink it. And so Alice said, “Nope. I think that it would absolutely okay to drink. It must be reverse psychology. Why fill up a bottle with a liquid if not to drink it? We can only not drink it, if we entertain the possibility of drinking it. It’s surely a test. If it’s purpose has nothing to do with it’s consumption, then why mention anything about drinking it to begin with? Let alone on the bottle itself!” Once she explained her twisted logic and assumptions, Alice grabbed the bottle, ripped out the cork and curiously took a sip. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What?!” enquired Emily frantically, assuming the worst. Alice took another sip, and “Oh!” said Alice once more. “What? What!? What?!” yelled Emily.
            “It’s really tasty.”
            A brief silence, in which the two girls nervously stared at one another, followed Alice’s consumption of the oddly-labelled drink. Emily was expecting something horrible and surreal to happen to Alice, “perhaps she shall grow and grow, until she is as tall as a building. Or perhaps she will shrink down to the size of a mouse, which would surely be frightening, as people could easily squish you under their feet if you were that small,” thought Emily to herself. They were fairly close to accepting the drink’s normality when the rumbling noises began. Alice said something like; “I feel a bit light-headed, maybe I should lie down…” And all of a sudden there was a terrible roar, and the walls began to shake and rattle in the wind that flew down the corridor towards the tiny door, which looked much more frightening than it did before. And a voice was screaming; “Holy Jesus! What are these long-haired creatures?”
            Then it was quiet again. The small door had been opened and Lewis Carroll peered through it, to see what all the fuss was about. “What on earth are these girls doing here?” he muttered, observing the two little girls with only one eye visible and the rest of his face obscured by the walls surrounding the small door.
            “Good grief, I guess you shouldn’t have had a drink from that bottle!” cried Emily, “this is total madness.” Carroll snarled and then Alice cried out; “Oh crap! Emily, look at that eye…” but at the same time Carroll was ranting and raving; “What are you doing here?” the questions continued quickly, as did Alice’s previous statement. And so poor Emily, trying to decipher what each of them were on about, could only make out, “Oh Emily, are you that I?” (And I assure you this was a difficult question for her to answer; she was not even aware of the eye peering through the doorway yet.) Emily sat there, dazed and confused, trying to figure out which “I” she was being asked if she was, and what was wrong with Alice’s voice, the deep tone of which she assumed could be attributed to the strange liquid. She just knew that it wasn’t safe to drink from that bottle.
            It was then that Emily noticed the eye. “What the flip?” she cried, and as she jumped back in terror the eye focused on her; it widened suddenly like a diverging train track and stared her down. The rumbling noises began again - Emily heard strange banging and clanging noises come from down the corridor - and a voice boomed, “Juvenile delinquents! I don’t believe it. Who are you? Do you know Dodgson?”
            “Dodgson? Dodgson who?” shouted Emily, as she slowly backed further away from the tiny corner of the corridor. Alice crouched quietly behind a tower of books. The voice said, “if you don’t know Dodgson, then why are you here?” Alice looked back guiltily at Emily, who hadn’t had time to hide, and thus had to deal with the big, freaky eye and the deep, booming voice.
            An uneasy silence followed; it was almost awkward - the kind of silence that is accompanied by a sense of nostalgia harking back to the simpler days of primary school and the frightening voice of an overzealous teacher, who screams (in a stress-induced state of madness) that you’ve “done the Wrong thing!” Emily was quite accustomed to such silences. It was typical of Emily to, during such undesirably quiet moments, to smile tentatively, charming onlookers with her childish cuteness… and with that, both parties would be at ease. This was an exception, for the silence was unexpectedly broken by soft footsteps and the creaking, creaking sound of an old door opening. The sound startled both the girls. Previously, they had failed to even notice the presence of this door - they had both been too distracted by the other, much smaller door at the end of the queerly shrinking corridor. This particular door was larger than the other one, and was situated only a few dozen steps behind them.
            They turned around, frightful and anxious. Creak, creak, moan. The door opened further and further. The shadows around the door were long and dark, and a silhouette danced across the floor; its hands long and claw-like, its head appeared exaggeratedly large amidst the messy, birds nest hair resting on it’s crown. The looming and lanky shadow edged closer and closer, until the figure was no longer obscured by darkness. A short, stout and scruffily dressed man stood in the doorway. His face was long and drooped downwards, adorned with a pair of oversized coke-bottle glasses - the kind Buddy Holly wore, only this pair was far too large and wide for such a skinny face. The glasses made him resemble a beetle of some kind, and attributed to his generally timid demeanour. His name was Charles Dodgson, and he was a complicated character. To an extent, he has become a controversial figure.
            Dodgson’s eyes narrowed, and he peered curiously at the two girls. In a very polite tone, he said, “And just who exactly do you think you two are? Why are you here? This is my private library, and only guests I‘ve invited are allowed to be here!” A terrible silence engulfed the girls. Dodgson looked away from the two girls, and over towards the door at the opposite end of the corridor. Both girls expected him to be shocked by the weird eye peering through the door, perhaps even scared. The girls  followed Dodgson’s gaze, and were bewildered by the door now being shut - both the eye and the voice were gone. Dodgson, however, knew something about what lurked behind that tiny little door that is yet to be revealed to Alice and Emily. He, you see, knew that it was merely the entrance to Lewis Carroll’s room. It was as it looked - a door, nothing more and nothing less. Carroll, however, was a curious creature.
            Alice suddenly found the entire situation to be overwhelming. “Hey, excuse me, I need some help. I’m looking for my Author. Who are you? Can you help?” asked Alice. She had spoken very loudly and clearly, attempting to stress the urgency she thought the situation had. Emily’s eyes darted about apprehensively. Dodgson, raising his eyes at young Alice, said, “Isn’t the real question who you are?”
            “Me?,” asked Alice. Dodgson nodded.
            “I’m Alice,” she said.
            “Alice who? You have to have more than one name. I know an Alice. She’s a lovely girl,” remarked Dodgson.
            “Uh…What do you mean? I’m just Alice,” replied Alice, who was quite confused by Dodgson’s question.
            “Well hey, Just Alice, I’m Charles Dodgson. What’re you doing here?” Alice was unsure what to say; she was struggling to keep up with the constant stream of questions.   
            Emily spoke; the confusing conversation had started to irritate her…she had endured enough insanity at this point. “Gosh darn it! Can someone just tell what in the blazes is going on here? This is undoubtedly the most whacked library I’ve ever entered. Get me out of here, or explain what on earth is going on…that door, for example - down the end of the corridor - what the heck is that thing? And the eye! The eye! And the voice; the voice most intolerable and omniscient and loud!” (Emily was unaware that once again, she had chosen the incorrect word, and that the word she was searching for was, in fact, “ominous.”) She was about to continue ranting and raving, when Alice interjected, “Stop it. I think you forget that this isn’t about you. It’s about me. I’m trying to find my -”
            “Shut up. I just want to know what’s going on.”
            “Oh, and you think I don’t? Surely you realise that’s ridiculous.”
            “Well, I’m also here. I was just trying to help you when I was unexpectedly roped into this madness.”
            Dodgson interrupted. “Quiet in the library! Even as children you should be aware that one is quiet in a library,” he said. He pointed his index finger towards Emily, “You, Just Alice’s friend, you’re being far too loud. As the librarian, I will have to ask you to leave unless you maintain socially acceptable behaviour. I am a man of few rules, and so the only behavioural prerequisite I ask you to adhere to is that you be quiet.”
            Emily flew into a rage. “I don’t care, tell me what the heck is going on and then I’ll happily leave“, she said, and then she pointed out that the corridor got smaller and smaller, and that whatever was in that room was yelling a lot and frightening the living daylights out of both herself and Alice. Dodgson simply replied, “That’s Lewis Carroll’s room. The corridor get’s smaller and smaller because he get’s bigger and bigger. But this is your final warning, be quiet or you’ll have to leave. I don’t like to disturb Carroll, he‘s a genius, you know. ” Alice, being the polite girl she is, respects her elders and so she asked, in what was barely more than a whisper, what it was that made him a genius.
            “He writes books,” replied Dodgson.
            “What sort of books?” asked Alice. Emily was not convinced that this constituted genius.
            “Children’s books,“ he replied. “Alice in Wonderland, Through The Looking Glass. Perhaps there is more, but I‘m not too sure. He is wonderful and he is gifted but he is also quite tragically, insane.”
            “Woah, hold the phone!” shouted Emily, once again disregarding the rules of Dodgson’s library. “Alice, that’s your book! That’s it. I’m sure. My sister was reading it when I saw you run past. I remember having looked at the picture Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland… Lewis Carroll must be your Author.”
            “You’re both mad,” said Dodgson, “get a grip on reality girls. And get out of my library. Neither of you are welcome any longer.”
            “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
            “You must be,” said Dodgson, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
            Alice failed to see how this proved she was mad; however, before she could articulate an argument to the contrary, Dodgson suddenly scampered away. Alice, who had by now been somewhat desensitised to all things weird and wonderful, thought that there was nothing particularly odd about this display, nor did she think it without precedent to hear Dodgson say to himself, over and over again, “Oh dear, oh dear, I must be mad. Be mad I must. Must I be mad?” He disappeared through the door from which he had originally entered. Emily and Alice followed.
            They had entered another long corridor. They were roughly halfway between each end. Doors of all different shapes and sizes lined the walls, which were in turn adorned with books, books, and even more books.
            Dodgson, however, was nowhere to be seen.
            This corridor, oddly enough, was exactly unlike the last one in a single and strange way; this corridor became bigger and bigger the further on it went. Neither young girl could fathom how this was possible. “If it get’s bigger and bigger, surely it get’s smaller and smaller from the other end,” thought Alice. Emily verbalised her agreement. There was a broken mirror decorating the door which Alice had just closed, and while she stood there looking at her fractured reflection, she decided some disgusting delinquent must have vandalised it; “it’s broken and some naughty child has scribbled all over it. They must have terrible handwriting, or be from another country that uses a different language, for I cannot read a word of this,” said Alice. She said this more for her own benefit than Emily‘s. The mirror was adorned with the following.

            CAROLLWOCKY

            ‘Twas represfictive; both untrue and uncouth.
            ‘Twas riddled with oniony layerings,
            And obfuscated by portmanteau.
            So “Why?” frightful nonsense sings.


             Emily puzzled over where she picked up this piece of superstition and what language this peculiar message was written in for some time, but at last a bright thought struck her. “Why, this is not a foreign language - it’s not French, at the very least. Of course! I know what it is - it’s a looking-glass language. If we find another mirror, and hold it up to the glass, the word’s will go the right way again!”
            This was the poem that the two girls read.

            CAROLLWOCKY

            ‘Twas represfictive; both untrue and uncouth.
            ‘Twas riddled with oniony layerings,
            And obfuscated by portmanteau.
            So “Why?” frightful nonsense sings.

            ‘Beware the Carrollwock, my son!
            The mask he dons, his fake veneer!
            Beware the Authors words, and shun
            The frumious balladeer!’

            He took his subversive pen in hand:
            For paragraphs his foe he sought -
            So he rested by stanza number three,
            And stood awhile in thought.

            And as in uffish thought he stood,
            The Carrollwock, with his nonce words,
            Declared as silently as he could,
            That all of this was just absurd!

            To the beasts plight, he held the pen tight
            And scribbled all over the Carrollwock’s name.
            And with that motion, that poisonous potion,
            The Carrollwock fellapsed in shame.

            ‘Twas represfictive; both untrue and uncouth.
            ‘Twas riddled with oniony layerings,
            And obfuscated by portmanteau.
            So “Why?” frightful nonsense sings.

            “It seems very nice, almost pretty in a strange way,” said Alice when she had finished reading it, “but it’s rather hard to understand!” (The fact of the matter was that Alice merely refused to admit, even to herself, that she understood nothing of what she had just read.) “It seems to fill my head with all sorts of thoughts - only I’m unsure what they are! However, somebody vandalised something: that’s obvious, at the very least -”
            “But oh!” said Emily, suddenly grabbing Alice’s attention, “if we don’t make haste we shall never find Dodgson again, and we need to find him so you can find your Author. You have things to learn, and questions to be answered. We’ll have to look through every room, and that will surely take forever.” They were out of the corridor in a moment, and disappeared through a door labelled, “Carroll’s Cafeteria.” Both girls reckoned that, despite an Author being akin to a God, that Carroll would surely still need to eat at some point. Using this logic, his own cafeteria seemed a sensible location to begin their search.


            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

                                                A Mad Tea-Party.            .

            There was a table set out under a fake, plastic tree in this strange cafeteria, and Humpty Dumpty and the Mad Hatter were having tea at it; the Cheshire Cat lay fast asleep between the unlikely pair, who were using the poor critter as a cushion. “How cruel,” thought Emily, “as surely that would be most uncomfortable for the cat. It is asleep, however, so maybe it just doesn’t mind.”
            The table was large, perhaps excessively so, yet this peculiar trio were cramped together in one small corner of it: “The table is full! The table is full!” they cried out when they saw Emily and Alice approaching. “Good grief! Not only is there plenty of room, but this is important, and we haven’t time for tea, anyway,” scoffed Alice indignantly. Emily decided this was an appropriate opportunity to share her thoughts on their crazed choice of cushion, and said, “Don’t you think it’s a bit mean to use a sleeping animal like that?”
            The Mad Hatter seemed shocked by her suggestion. “Why would you say that,” he said, “for the cat is not asleep. He is wide-awake, far more awake than you or I!”
            Emily, who was now quite confused, said, “But he’s snoring! He must be asleep!”
            “Nope,” replied the Mad Hatter, “he’s just purring. His mind just works faster than most. Ask him anything, I bet he knows the answer.”
            Emily was not convinced in the slightest that the cat was not asleep, and so she slowly edged over towards him. She looked long and hard at the cat; it’s eyes were closed and he seemed very relaxed. She remained adamant that he was asleep, but she poked him softly on the top of the head, just to make sure.
            “That’s not very nice, you know,” said the Mad Hatter, who seemed genuinely taken aback by Emily’s behaviour. “Just ask him a question.”
            “Do I have to?” asked Emily.
            “No,” replied the Cheshire Cat.
            Emily had not expected this. “Oh,” she said, “I was sure you were asleep, I guess you weren’t though, hey?”
            “Zzzzz….I am asleep,” replied the cat. “I’m so fast I’m asleep.”
            “So fast you’re asleep? Do you mean you’re fast asleep?” enquired Emily.
            “No,” said the cat, “I’m just so fast, so quick in the head, if you will, that I’m asleep. That’s how things work around there parts. You know, you also have to run to stay in the same place, otherwise you start going backwards.”
            Emily, who was always ready for an argument if she was certain she should was right, said, “But then surely  we would be going backwards right now, wouldn’t we? I mean surely-”
            “You clearly have no understanding of Time,” interrupted the Mad Hatter.
            “What’s to understand? Time is what it is,” argued Emily.
            “Preposterous!” cried the Mad Hatter. “Not only is it not just what it is, it is not an “it” but rather many “its!” the Hatter knowledgably declared. The Mad Hatter removed a pocket watch from his blazer pocket, and looked at it curiously: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing more to say and so he sighed disappointedly. Emily and Alice looked at him with wonder and confusion.
            “What’s the time?” asked Alice, “Because all this seems like a bit of a waste of time, and we haven’t time to waste.”
            “My dear, if you knew Time as well as we do, you would never be so mad as to talk about wasting it! It does not like being treated like a commodity. And it’s the fourth.”
            “Do you mean four o’clock?” enquired Alice.
            “Heavens no! I believe I know what I said, and I said that it’s the fourth,” said the Hatter.
            “But do you mean that it’s four o’clock?” asked Emily, “For Alice did not ask what you said, but rather what you meant.”
            “Yeah,” agreed Alice, “You should say what you mean.”
            “I do,” the Hatter hastily replied; “at least- at least I mean what I say - and I think that’s the same thing.”
            “Not at all true,” Emily said confidently, “for you may as well be saying that “I see what I write” is the same thing as “I write what I see.” That’s too much writing for anyone!”
            The Hatter chortled. Then he said, “I can write what I see! I can see your shoes, and I can write them as well.” He quickly pulled a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket, and scrawled the word “shoes.” “See! I told you,” he confidently cried.
            Emily did not seem impressed. “That’s just a word,” she said, “It’s not my shoes. It makes me think of a shoe, but you didn’t write my shoes. You just wrote the word, there‘s a difference, you know.”
            The Hatter looked at Emily. He seemed confused. He raised one finger into the air, and shouted, “Ahah! I’ve got it!” Once more he grabbed his pen and paper, and wrote “my” just before the word “shoes.”
            Emily put her palm to her face. She was dismayed by the Hatter’s insistence that he was right. “Don’t you see,” she politely said, “It’s still not quite the same.”
            “Zzzzz…What I think she means, Hatter,“ said the Cheshire Cat, who was still so fast he was asleep, “is that the word signifies those ugly little things on her feet, but no matter what you do, it’s still only a word. You can never actually write them, you can describe them and do this and that and, but no matter what you do with that pen and paper, it shall never be anything but words. Words, words, words! Meaningless things!” the cat cried. He then vanished in what seemed like a puff of logic. After all, this does seem the kind of place where logic is not allowed.
            Alice, who was growing increasingly frustrated by this very silly conversation, once again asked the time.
            “Well,” said the Hatter, “back in the day, when Time and I were very good friends, I was able to persuade him to altering the time to whatever I liked. However, we had a falling out. We quarrelled a bit, you see, after I was singing a song about him. Would you like to hear it? It’s important to the story!”
            “I’m not sure we have the time,” said Alice.
            “There’s always time, nowadays. You’ll understand that very soon!” he happily yelled. He went on with his story. “So I was singing a song about Time, as I was about to say-”
            “You already said that; you said that before,” interrupted Alice.
            “So as I was about to say, I was singing a song about Time,” reiterated the Hatter. “Perhaps you’ve heard it,” he went on, “it went a little something like this:

                        ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little time!
                        Don’t you know you‘re so divine!’

            Do you know this song?”
            “It reminds me of another song I know, it’s very similar,” said Alice.
            “It goes on for longer,” the Hatter said, “in this way:

                        ‘All around the world you fly,
                          Like a spectre in the sky.
                          Twinkle, twinkle - “

            The Hatter suddenly stopped singing his song. He glanced about the room suspiciously. Then he whispered, “This is where everything started to go wrong! Mr Dodgson decided I must have murdered time, since I implied it’s a lot like a spectre - that’s a ghost, by the way - and so he suddenly screamed, ’Erase this hideous madman! He’s Murdering the time!’”
            “Oh, good gosh!” exclaimed Emily and Alice together. Alice looked at Emily and said, “perhaps we don’t want to find him, I don’t want to be erased!” She seemed genuinely scared by the idea.
            “And ever since that day,” the Hatter went on in a sombre tone, “It’s been stuck at six o’clock for me.”
            “Why did Dodgson react so cruelly?” asked Emily.
            “Well, I was looking for my Author, and once I had figured out that this was his library, I thought he could help me,” said the Hatter.
            “Wait!” cried Alice, “I’m looking for my Author right now!”
            “Funny place to look for him,” snarled the Hatter. His voice dropped and he said, “And between you and me, I’d stop looking now. Dodgson has some weird secrets he’s trying to hide. He’s a total madman!”
            “So what made you stop looking? And does this mean you don’t know where Carroll is?” Alice asked.
            “There is incongruously no point in searching for him!” said Humpty Dumpty, who had been quiet until this point.
            “Because there is never any time anymore! It’s always six o’clock, which is also dinner time. I just don’t have the time to look for him, and I don’t even have the time to wash up after dinner! We have to just keep rotating around the table so we can keep having dinner,” interrupted the Hatter. “Wait,” he continued, “why are you searching for Carroll? You may as well be searching for me or Humpty!”
            “Speaking of Humpty,” said Emily as she turned to face the eccentric egg, “what’d you mean by there is “incongruously” no point in her searching for her Author?”
            “I meant “there’s a definitely a hundred percent certainty that there is,” said Humpty Dumpty contemptuously.
            “But that isn’t what “incongruously” means!” cried Emily.
            “Incorrect!” Humpty scornfully declared, “for when I use a word it means whatever I wish it to mean!”
            “Stop distracting me with your irrelevant garbage,” boomed Alice, and all of a sudden everyone went silent. There was something strangely scary about a grumpy young girl yelling so ludicrously loudly. “We were obviously about to find out something very important about my Author,” she continued, “and you two went and distracted me with your nonsensical ramblings about words! Who cares? They’re only words. They mean what they mean.”
            “Hmmphh,” said Humpty, “perhaps you forget that “Author” is just a word as well!”
            “Shut up with your nonsense!” interrupted Alice. She sighed and said, “Hatter, what were you about to tell me?”
            “Carroll is but another character!” chortled the Hatter, “that’s why you may as well be looking for me.”
            “…What do you mean?” asked Alice.          
            “I mean what I say,” replied the Hatter.
            “But Carroll is the Author,” insisted Alice, “and I need him to tell me how my story ends! To find out who I am, where I’m going, why I’m here.
            The Hatter eyed Alice curiously, and leant close to her. “Well, between me and you,” he said, “and that means that this is a secret, Dodgson wrote Carroll.”
            “What!?” gasped Alice. “So why does he have a different name?” she asked.
            “It’s a pseudonym,” replied the Hatter, “he made it up by translating his first two names back into English from Latin and reversing their order.”
            Thud! Thud! Thud!             A ruckus developed outside the cafeteria.
            Thud! Thud! Thud! Bang!
            The door flew open. A tall, thin man stood in the door way. His name was Charles Dodgson.
            “The table is full!“ screamed the Wonderland characters. “Oh dear! Dodgson will surely erase us all!” whispered the Hatter, more to himself than to anyone else.
            “But he’s not Dodgson!” yelped Alice, “Dodgson is short and stout!”
            “It’s his library, my dear,” said the Hatter, “and he does as he wishes and he wishes to be many.”
            “W-w-what are you doing here?” screamed Dodgson, “don’t you know this is my library?”
            “Mr Dodgson,” said Alice loudly and confidently, “you’re my Author! Please may you tell me how my story finishes? And why is there many of you?”
            “Your story was meant to end some time ago,” snarled Dodgson. “Also,” he continued, “it’s not like there is only one of you, either! Why, otherwise you wouldn’t be here!”
            “What do you mean?” asked Alice.
            “Does it matter? This is your story, not mine,” he replied.
            “But what do I mean? How does this finish?” enquired Alice frantically.
            “Well,” said Humpty dryly, “if you used words as well as me, you’d mean whatever you like!”
            “But words are just words!” cried Alice.
            “Until someone else decides they mean something,” quipped Emily.
            Humpty looked at Alice and smiled. He said, “finished is also just a word.”