Winter’s here, and the time is right for morons in the street

(…with apologies to Martha & The Vandellas.)

One (or more) of the local avant-garde intellectuals decided last night that the time was right to pull my mailbox and its supporting post out of the ground. Presumably they were inspired to do this after spending their dole cheques on some cheap booze, which is always a great source of inspiration for ad hoc performance art. As is witnessed by the number of vomit splots that appear around the footpaths of the town centre after every Friday and Saturday night.

I was alerted to this by a knock on my door about 8AM. A quick glance out my window revealed that it was the police. By the time I had put some pants on – it’s probably not a good idea to front the cops naked from the waist down – they were gone, after thoughtfully depositing the mailbox on my front porch. I guess the ‘performance artistes’ had strewn it across the footpath, so the cops were just doing their bit for public safety.

Why do people do this? My best guesses are:

• because they’re morons
• because they’re morons who drink, thereby reducing their already limited cognitive abilities

Perhaps they were ‘inspired’ by a spate of mailbox trashings that occurred on the other side of town earlier this year. Alcohol-based empowerment: “someone else did something brainless when they were drunk, so that makes it okay for me to do it too”. I guess it’s asking too much of these people to think, let alone to think for themselves.

What to do? Nothing, except plant my mailbox back where it was before Monday. So, they’ll do it again, and I’ll put it back again, and… they’ll eventually give up when they realise they’re being laughed at.

Given their apparent level of intellectual impairment, especially after gurzling down a few litres of cheap cask wine or whatever, this could take a while.

Update 16/7/12. The mailbox has been restored to its former glory:

Took me all of about two minutes. Over to you, alcohol-sodden losers.

Update (much later): checking around my neighbourhood over the subsequent few weeks I noticed that two other mailboxes had also been removed from their moorings and the one across the street had been the recipient of a punch worthy of Anthony Mundine (assuming it wasn’t a kick).

The common theme seemed to be that they were all easy targets – the ones that were bolted to metal fences or attached to buried concrete bases were untouched. The one across the road must have come as a painful surprise to the perpetrator. Wear boxing gloves next time, clown.

Trust Jesus, ‘cos I don’t.

Hot on the heels of the latest (alleged) Catholic priest kiddy-fiddling scandal (this one a bit closer to home than usual), I found this in my mailbox yesterday.

Now it’s not every day that I get a communication from the figurehead of one of the world’s major religions, so I thought I should reply to at least some of it.

My beloved,

How are you?

I’ve been better – and worse. Sometimes at the same time. Thanks for asking.

[…] I saw you yesterday as you were talking with your friends.

If there’s one thing that loners like me hate, it’s being busted talking to ourselves.

I waited all day hoping you would want to talk with me, too.

Sorry; my Aramaic is a bit rusty.

[…] As evening drew near, I gave you a sunset to close your day and a cool breeze to rest you – and I waited, but you never came.

The sunset was nice but the “cool breeze” was frigid, it being winter and all. That’s why I was sitting inside.

I saw you fall asleep last night and I longed to touch your brow…

If I had been awake, you would’ve been charged with break-and-enter. Touching my brow’s OK; just don’t go any lower.

…so I spilled moonlight on your pillow and face.

Yes, it was a full moon last night – but I had my curtains drawn. Sure it was me?

[…] Then you awakened and rushed off to work.

“Don’t have a job, man!” (To paraphrase Bart Simpson.) More like “crawled out of bed about 9 and made a cup of coffee” in my case. Again – sure it was me?

Today you look so sad – so all alone.

I call it “leading an idiot-free lifestyle”. If I want idiots, there’s always the supermarket. I think they’re on special there – every day.

It makes my heart ache because I understand how you feel: My friends let me down and hurt me many times too, but I love you!

Yeah, that thrice-denying Peter – fuck him! And as for Judas Iscariot – what an arsehole! With Pontius Pilate, at least you knew where you stood.

Oh! If only you would listen to me! I love you!

Fine, but keep your hands above my eyebrows.

[blah blah blah] I clothe you with warm sunshine and perfume the air with nature scents.

Could you ease up on the dog plop? It’s rank.

[blah blah blah] We could spend an eternity together in heaven.

Watching boofheads play Rugby and listening to the angels babbling in Arabic? (Wrong religion, I know.) Pass.

I know how hard it is on this earth.

That’s why they call it “terra firma”.

[…] I want you to meet my father, too. He wants to help you just as much as I do. My father is that way, you know.

He’s gay too? Let me guess – your ‘mother’ is a bloke. (It’s OK, I support gay marriage.)

[…] I have already chosen you. And because of this, I will wait – because I love you!

Your friend, Jesus

Restraining order in 3, 2, 1…

——————-

Reading the above communication I was reminded of a certain apposite song: Slobberbone – Trust Jesus.
The song and the photo are from their exemplary album Everything You Thought Was Right Was Wrong Today.

Hello world! (Or my little corner of it.)

In late middle age my memory is starting to fade. Short-term is going first. Whether this is the early stages of Alzheimer’s or just the normal wear-and-tear from nearly six decades of brain use (and abuse), time alone will tell.

So, my purpose with this blog is mainly to record the things that amuse, confuse or amaze me about the town where I live, for future reference by me. If anyone else gets some entertainment or information value from it, that’s great too.