6.

Ok. I really wanted to stop trashing politicians, but… let’s face it, they don’t make it easy for me to keep my trap shut. In fact, they make it darn right easy. Get a load of this one -
ACC Minister, National’s Nick Smith, on their plans to scrap support for the families of suicide victims:
“If my doctor told me that I was terminally ill and I had 30 days to live, with the ACC rules the way they are I’d be finding myself a train to throw myself under on the 29th day because my family would be treated so much more generously.”

Granted, I think he was voicing his against stance about the whole issue, but oh my… Poor choice of words, buddy.

MOON OVER MARTINBOROUGH:
www.moonovermartinborough.com
A gay American and his hubby move from the big city to the sticks. Hilarity ensues… I smell a sitcom.
Well written, worth a look, and quite funny.

MY LIBRARIAN:
All through the power of eavesdrop, I have managed to decipher that my Librarian:
- Drinks soy, is a vegan, is wheat and dairy free, and eats Alpha One Rice Bran products.
- Has been “communicating” with a man over the internet and is going (has actually already gone) to San Francisco to meet her new “Friend”. And I quote: “People keep asking me if I’ve fallen in love over the internet, but no, I’m just communicating with him!” She says this with her tongue firmly in her cheek too. Here’s hoping her communication works out well.

BILE OVERLOAD:
Ok folks. I have been pushed so far to my stress limits that I actually broke this week. So it’s time let loose on some personal issues. Be warned: The first three rows will get wet.

SCOLIOSIS:
…is a well-heard-of but little-known-about congenial birth defect. It usually involves a couple of bits missing from your spine when you are born, causing your spine to grow in bend in all sorts of directions, and all the muscles and nerves being crushed and pulled in unnatural angles causing immeasurable life-long pain and suffering. In a nutshell. Only in reality, a nutshell doesn’t do it justice.
I happen to be one of those circus freaks. I’ve had two major operations which involved hacking off a piece of hip and whacking it in my shoulder the first time, and the removal of most of the back right half of my ribcage the second. (Sidenote: Ask any of my schoolmates about the day I took my ribs to school and they leaked through my bag… Mmmmmmm.) Even though my spine is now shaped like a question mark – literally – and it continues to twist and collapse and give me all sorts of daily grief, I have been told by the “Medical Profession” that there is nothing more they can do for me and I have basically been left to my own devices. That’s fine. I can deal.
What I can’t deal with, is that once arriving in that point, the “Medical Profession” seems to swiftly forget why I was there in the first place. Like they suddenly came down with amnesia, or alzheimers, and then turn to me going “Huh? What? Who are you again? Why are you here??”
CASE IN POINT: This story requires going back a bit to the beginning of September, when I had a friend over from Wellington staying for a coupl’a days, and I ran out of pain medication.
Now, I’m on some fairly strong, highly monitored stuff – which, in case you’re wondering, barely even touches the sides of someone like me, and is actually on the lower end of the scale as far as highly monitored prescription drugs go – so there can be a fair bit of rigmarole involved in getting it…
Anyway I’m digressing and my poison can’t hold back. Here’s how it goes –
I go to Doctors, I get prescription. Supplies are doled out to me on a fortnightly basis. This lasts for three 2 week cycles. I go back to Doctors. Repeat til dead.
It’s early September. I’m working and I’ve got no time to go in and get my script. I call the Medical Centre, order my next prescription, tell them I’m working, ask them if it’s ok that my friend (who was over staying from Wellington) comes in to pick it up for me, they tell me it’s fine, I call the Pharmacy, ask them if it’s ok that my friend comes in to pick up my meds for me, they say that’s fine, I carry out my plan, and all goes well. Bar the fact that I rack up a small bill in the meantime.
Six weeks go by, I run out of meds.
I go in to make an appointment. Bitch receptionist demands to know when I’ll be paying off what I owe on my account. In front of the entire waiting room. Loudly.
I politely tell her I am well aware that I owe them money, and that if she’d like to she can come around to my house and see the bill pinned up on my wall, right in line behind my other bills, that I can’t do anything about until Pay Day, and in the meantime can I please make that appointment.
She kinda looks at me stunned and blank for a moment, before demanding to know when my Pay Day is.
By this point I’m kinda ready to reach over the desk and pummel her face into the counter, so I tell her not to bother and storm out, slamming the door behind me just like the shitty teenager I was impersonating.
I resolve to not go back until I have paid my account fully so that evil old bitch can never have anything to look down at me for again. Yes, this will involve suffering for a few weeks without medication, but I can do it. I cannot STAND being treated like shit by anyone, but in this case, it means giving them nothing to go on.
And so, fast forward two weeks. My bills are paid, my back is killing me, and I legally and honestly go into the Doctors to order, and pay for, my next prescription. It’s a Friday, I’m sore as fuck, I know I’ve got a largely Have-To-Be-Upright Weekend coming up, and I’m pretty much at my pain threshold looking forward to some long postponed relief.
I go into the Medical Centre. I order, and pay for, my next prescription.

“That should be fine, it’ll be ready for you this afternoon.”

But all is not fine. Come the afternoon, I get a call from the Nurse, who says

“You were given a prescription last week, so where are all your pills?”

Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…. What now?
She repeats herself, with the steel tinge of Judgement rife in her voice.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“According to Dr. McArthur’s files, you were given a script on the 8th of October.”

“Uuuuuuhhhhhh, No. No I wasn’t. I haven’t had any pain relief since I ran out over two weeks ago.”

“Well why didn’t you come in then?”

With a completely deadpan face:
“Because when I did the receptionist was such a bitch to me about owing money I felt obliged to pay off my account before I came in again.”

“…Oh.” (Yeah, take that bitch.) “Well, I’ll have another check around and get back to.”

“I’d appreciate it. THANKS.”

Half an hour goes by. My breathing has turned thick, and I have a new and interesting rage knotting in my stomach. My phone rings again. I am looking forward to not having the fear of pain relief being held from me.
It’s her again. Lisa the Nurse.

“Look, I’m sorry, but according to us you were given a script last week and the receptionist remembers your friend coming in to pick it up for you.”

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh… yeah, they did, but that was almost two months ago, not LAST WEEK!”

“…Oh.”

“And look, if I was given a script on the 8th of October, WHERE IS IT AND CAN I HAVE IT?”

“Yes, well, we did have a look around it’s not here, and we also checked the chemists and it hasn’t been taken in there either.”

“Riiiiiiiiiight. So what you’re saying is I NEVER USED THE PRESCRIPTION I NEVER GOT.”

“It would appear that way, yes.”

“So, can you just get another one from Dr McArthur then???”

“Well no, because he’s away today and we can’t ring him and he won’t be back until Monday.”

Snap. Now panic really sets in. Stress (and here comes the wonderfully ironic part) actually causes my spine to cramp up into all sorts of new and exciting pain enhancements. Am I really going to have to suffer through the weekend because these idiots can’t sort their shit out???

“Listen, Lisa, here’s the thing. I HAVE A SPINAL DISORDER AND I’M IN SEVERE PAIN AND I HAVEN’T HAD ANY PAIN RELIEF IN TWO WEEKS. I NEED IT.”

By now, I’m past caring if I make scene. Fuck you lady, I ain’t suffering because of someone else’s mistake.

“Well sorry, there’s nothing we can do about it until Monday now.”

Oh no you didn’t, Bitch!
And with that, I hang up, squish all that pain induced rage down into that growing knot in my gut, and go straight down to the medical centre. I’m there within two minutes of the phone call, making it very obvious to anyone who has eyes, that I am just on the edge of losing it, and someone had better come out and explain this shit to me NOW.

I am told that the available Doctor is busy until five, but I’m welcome to wait and then he’ll see me.
Oh don’t worry lady, I’m not going anywhere.
Five to five rolls around, and just when I think I’m going to start throwing up from rage sickness, start throwing things, start screaming wildly, and generally start acting like the Junkie I am being judged to be, Nurse Lisa reappears and whisks me into a side room. She gives me just enough pain relief to get me through the weekend, and suggests I make an appointment with the Doctor on Monday to sort all this out.
Yeah, No Shit Bitch.

SO… Crisis TEMPORARILY averted.
Here’s Monday. I go to my Doctors appointment.
Let it be known that the general consensus around town is that my particular Doctor is an idiot. I haven’t had him for long, and I haven’t minded him either. Let it be known that I now know why the whole town thinks this.
I sit down, I tell him the events of the Friday before. He takes one look on his computer and says “But you were given a prescription on the 8th of October.”
SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

“Look, do you remember writing that script out for me?”

“Well, I write out a lot of scripts every day, that’s my job.”

“So you don’t remember then.”

“Well the receptionist says that your friend came in to get it.”

“Yes. SIX WEEKS AGO, NOT LAST WEEK!”

Completley judgmentally, he replies:
“Well maybe your friend came in to pick it up again.”

…Oh THAT'S IT, you Mutha Fuck!

“Three things. One: The friend that came in to pick up my prescription for me? They live in Wellington, so they’re not even in town, and they did that for me because I had run out, I was working, and I asked them to do that for me, with the FULL permission of both the Medical Centre and the Pharmacy.
Two: I don’t actually have friends that would do that to me. They don’t do shit like that and I don’t appreciate you suggesting so.
Three: Here’s an idea, MAYBE SOMEBODY AROUND HERE FUCKED UP.
I am Not a JUNKIE, and my friends are not THEIVES.
Yes, I was probably DUE for a prescription around the 8th, BUT I DIDN’T GET IT. And while we’re on the subject, where IS this mysterious script? It isn’t here, it hasn’t been taken to the chemists, so WHERE IS IT???”
And yes, I did actually say all of this.

The Doctor kinda sat there with a dumbfounded look on his face for a moment before deciding to shrug the whole incident away with a “Oh, it’s probably gotten lost around here somewhere. But that’s ok, we’ve talked about it now, I’ll just write you out another one!”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Like pulling teeth! Or jamming nails in your spine, if you prefer.
I cannot word enough how much I RESENT those sorts of judgments from the very people who are supposed to be helping me. I can tell you what though - All this is going in a complaint letter to the Health Board so this bullshit doesn’t happen again. I’ve spent many a year fighting for relief, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with this shit forever. Fuck ‘em. I bet no other Junkie they ever met can string together the words DISCRIMINATION CHARGES. Fuckers.

And so ends part one of my bile vomit. Take a breather, then prepare to enter the world of

I HATE MY BITCH OF A PROPERTY MANAGER:
So. I move into a little one bedroom flat last April. It has a bedroom, a lounge, a kitchen, a laundry and a toilet. Everything you need really. Except curtains and curtain rails.

On moving in, I am assured by the seemingly lovely Property Brokers Property Manager Karen Dickinson (be warned people), that she will arrange for curtains and curtain rails.

I sign the lease, I move in.

Winter arrives. The house gets cold. Still no curtains. Now, the bedroom and the lounge have windows that go out and round in a half circle shape. The bedroom is a freezer without them, and I’ve resorted to nailing a blanket over the windows, but this isn’t working, so I start using the lounge as my bedroom. It’s easier to keep warm, and I’ve made makeshift curtains from couch throws, hooks, and nails.
MONTHS pass. In the meantime I have two house inspections, and both times am assured by Karen that she’ll “get onto that” when I bring up the curtains. So I continue, in my naïve good faith, to patiently wait.
Last week, and SEVEN MONTHS LATER, a handy man FINALLY arrives to put up my curtain rails. But, he informs, only on two of the windows. A little one by the front door, and over the windows in my bedroom. HOWEVER, he’s been instructed to go straight across with the rails and not around. Effectively making the room smaller and forcing it to have curtains as big as the wall itself and not just as big as the windows. Are you with me? Good.

This, I decide, is not good enough. I’m on a roll after my stint at the doctors, and I’ve had enough of being fobbed off and treated like shit, so I text Karen asking her to call me. I text her every five minutes until she does. This takes about an hour and a half, so by then, you can imagine that she’s had a few texts. She sounds annoyed and tells me she hasn’t been able to ring because she’s been driving.

I care little, memories of a winter spent freezing my arse off fresh in my mind, and suggest she could always have pulled over. But no matter, you’ve called now, and I appreciate it. Before she can even speak, I launch into the question:

“Why are you getting the man to put the curtain rails up straight across instead of around?”

“Because it will be too expensive otherwise.”

“But that means I will have to find curtains as big as the walls instead of the windows.”

“Oh I’ll find the curtains!”

“You will?”

“Oh yes, you don’t need to worry about that. We provide the curtains.”

“Really Karen? Like you’re providing me with curtain rails SEVEN MONTHS LATER???”

“...ah, er…”

“What’s with that anyway Karen? WHY HAS IT TAKEN THIS LONG?”

“Um, oh, er, because I had to get in touch with the landlord and organise it.”

“Oh Puh-lease, Karen. Really? SEVEN MONTHS???”

“Mm, yes, that is a long time isn’t it.”

Yeah, No Fucking Shit Cunt.
But Ok. I’ve had my vent, and it’s clear she feels above apologizing, so I say goodbye and hang up on her.

Two days later, I’m thinking, Fuck this bitch. If it took her that long to provide me with rails, Fuck knows how long she’ll take for curtains.

I look into the legalities of tenancy agreements, and discover (Thanks to my ex flatmate and best friend, daughter of two great lawyers and pseudo-niece of the Head of the Tenancy Tribunal) that I can serve my Property Bitch with a ten day notice in which they have to provide their agreed upon services.
But, weirdly, just as I’m organizing all this, I get a Text from an unknown number telling me that I am $220 in arrears with my rent, and to contact my Property Manager.

Now, this is TOTAL news to me. As far as I’m concerned, I have paid my rent on time every week bar ONE. And on that occasion, as soon as I realised it hadn’t gone through, I wrote to Karen the next business day explaining that it hadn’t gone through and that I would pay it in halves over the next two weeks.
I paid the first half, but the next week decided I would pay the other half when I got my curtains. And this was around early September.

This text, on top of everything else my week has served me, surges a new kind of bile through my system. I actually start getting hives. I feel like a demon has latched onto me and is pumping acid through me. It is an all new venom coursing through my veins, and I break, and see a new kind of red. Again.
I head straight to a computer and send an e-mail:

“Dear Karen,
I just received a Text on my phone supposedly from Property Brokers, although it didn't come from your number, that I am $220 in arrears with my rent.
Could you please send me this in writing, as well as the dates of the missed rent payments. I don't think text is an appropriate medium for these types of messages.
I was aware of being $60 in arrears, but I'm fairly certain the figure quoted to me by text is a mistake. However I'm unable to confirm this until I have been over my bank statements. If there has indeed been a mistake on my part I shall endeavor to correct it as soon as possible.

Also if you could give me in writing a reasonable time frame in which you are going to provide curtains for the bedroom of my property it would be appreciated. Taking SEVEN MONTHS to provide the curtain railings was totally unreasonable, and I don't really believe the flimsy excuse provided that it took that long to get in touch with the landlord and to organise. I would appreciate it if it didn't take as long this time and I can finally start using the bedroom for its intended purpose.”

Simple, to the point, and non-abusive.

This was Karen’s response, received within minutes:

“Nathan,
I sent the text as an informal way of contacting you regarding the rent arrears but if you want it in a more formal manner ie a Ten Day Notice, I will issue you with one.
I was being a nice guy about it but obviously this hasn’t gone down too well.
Could you please advise as to which curtain tracks have been installed so I can organize the curtains.”

I think I could actually hear my blood vessels burst when I read this. And lo and behold, a whole new vista of stress and rage knots, twists, and surges through me. Now I’m actually seeing red because my Eyes are Bleeding. And wow, who knew stress like this actually causes Nails to appear hammered between my vertebrae!

But no matter. I’ve played the Tenancy Tribunal game with cunty landlords before, with some of the best in the business by my side. And won.
You wanna play that game with me? Well I am MORE than prepared, Bitch. Bring it.

Without missing a beat, and actually trembling with toxic rage, I sent her this in return:

“Karen,
A ten day notice will be fine, as long as the dates of the missed payments are included.
I know all about ten day notices, as I was about to issue you with one myself.
Personally, I don’t think you were being nice at all, and now I think you are using threat tactics.
P.S. The curtain tracks that have been installed are the ones in the bedroom and the little side one by the front door.”

Although in hindsight I wish I’d added:

“… and now I think you are using threat tactics as a direct response to me pointing out that you aren’t doing your job properly. It sure does seem that way, seeing as I was only informed of supposed rent arrears after telling you that taking seven months to provide me with curtain rails was unacceptable.
Is that what you’re doing Karen? Threatening me?
By the way, I’m STILL not hearing an apology about you taking so long with that. You think I’m being unreasonable? I tell you what, Karen, why don’t you go home and next year between April and October, why don’t YOU take down all the curtains in YOUR house and freeze YOUR arse off, and THEN tell me I’m being unreasonable.
I thought I was being the “nice guy” by getting you to provide a reasonable time frame in writing instead of just issuing you with a ten day notice… but I guess that hasn’t gone down to well.”

Admittedly, in hind hindsight, it’s probably best I didn’t.
Fuck you Bitch. You work for ME, not the other way round, and tenancy agreements work both ways, Fucker.

Somewhat surprisingly, I got this response:

“Thanks Nathan.
I will arrange to get the curtains.”

Yeah, that’s right KAREN. You WILL.
Of course, this is in No Way Whatsoever providing me with a time frame in which she will “arrange to get” the curtains, but it isn’t a thinly veiled threat either, so I’m just glad she’s realised that I am prepared to go to War with her if that’s what she wants, and that I’m as well armed as she is, and not the usual small town hick she’s used to dealing with.
I’m not scared of you, or your Ten Day Notices, or even your Eviction Notices. A house is a house and there’s plenty more out there, and quite frankly, if they don’t involve you as a landlord, then bonus.
I couldn’t give a rats arse if I have to move. You can play your power tripping game all you like, but I tell you what… they only work on

People

That Aren’t

Me.

Kisses!

5.

A brief one I think this week...

.

Still no word from my dear love Rosemary. I hope she got my letter...

.

LADYHAWKE:
Masterton’s hottest female musical export is due back in town this week to go stay with Mum.
Aaaaaaaaaw.
And get this, she recently bought her childhood home for her parents and they are going to do it up.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw.
What a good bitch.

.

AISLING SYMES’ BODY FOUND:
It’s a real shame, but aren’t you glad she isn’t being kept in someone’s basement?
Surely a fate worse than death.

.

ANGUS KEBBELL:
The Martinborough man making a fortune off his mother’s muesli recipe.
Nice.

.

MELISSA LEE, NATIONAL POLITICIAN:
Gee, what do ya know, another dodgy National politician. What a shock. I’m SO glad people like this are running our country… (insert deadpan look here).

.

'BODY BLOW' BY THE HEADLESS CHICKENS:
Has recently been making a resurgence in my playlist. This is the album I lived most of my teenagehood through. Well, there were three. The other two were 'Very Necessary' by Salt N Pepa, and 'Erotica' by Madonna. But that’s another story.
Headless Chickens were my favourite band and I still think they’re great.
Not to gush, but FUCK yeah.
Dig it back out of your CD collections and give it a whirl.
…yeah yeah, I know 'Stunt Clown' is the benchmark, bla bla…
“Oh, do the Headless Chicken,
All together now, fingers clickin’,
You’re not safe in mother’s aaaaaaaaooooaaaaaaaooooaaaaaooooaaarms, LOOK OUT!”

.

PLAYIN’ TV & MIND GAMES ON SKY:
Don’t bother. Ugh.

.

THE THEFT OF CARTERTON FIRE STATION’S CENTURY OLD BRONZE FIRE BELL:
What the???
The thing weighs over 200 kilo’s, for one.
And would only fetch $700 sold as scrap.
What a dick.
Having had an Uncle in the Carterton Volunteer Fire Service for as long as I’ve been alive, I find this sort of petty theft abhorrent.
Surely the history of our town is worth more than $700.
TUT TUT.

.

LITTLE BOOTS:
Something about her has got me. She’s infectious, and entirely too cute.

.

THE SUGABABES REPLACING THEIR LAST REMAINING MEMBER.
BAH HA! Good luck with that one.

.

THE B52’S:
I am SOOOOOOOOOOO looking forward to seeing these guys in December. In MARTINBOROUGH of all places. Now if anyone wants to give me an ACDC ticket, my wish list will be complete. For now...

4.

BEST LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE WEEK… ish.

“New Zealand might contribute only 0.2% of the world’s carbon emissions,
but since it does this with only 0.064% of the world’s population
we can’t afford to be complacent about our small impact.
If everyone emitted as we do, the planet would rapidly choke.”

This particularly caught my eye because just the day before I had been having a conversation about New Zealand’s trash output, and my friend had commented on how even if NZ totally cleaned up it’s act, it would make fuck all difference.
While that still might be true, it’s also true that we do contribute significantly to the damage. For us.
So. There. Get greener.

THE SEASON 5 FINALE OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE:
Holy Fucking Shit!
I actually felt the wave of unanimous shock tremor across the country, measuring a solid ten on the devastation scale.
So I have a tale to tell:
At the party in Patea I recently attended, a friend of mine told me that a friend of hers had recently been on the set of Outrageous, and rumour had it, actress Robyn Malcolm had become so unbearable to work with they were planning to get rid of her altogether.
I said “Ridiculous! They can’t do the show without Cheryl, the show is about Cheryl!”
and she said “That’s what I said, but apparently they’re getting rid of her!”
And I said “Well I’d heard they were all having pay disputes and that’s why next season will be the last”,

and she said “That’s what I’d heard as well, and that’s what I said when I was told, but nooo, apparently they’re getting rid of her!”
Now, I must say I just didn’t really believe it, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought ‘Well, I suppose they could get rid of Cheryl and still make it all about the kids.’
And after last night… well, it doesn’t look good for Cheryl.
Either way, she’s going to jail, or she’s dead.

.

TAITO PHILLIP FIELD GOING TO JAIL FOR FRAUD:
Haha.
Line ‘em up, boys.
You can’t tell me he’s the only Minister guilty of the things he’s done.

.

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER RE-RUNS ON VIBE EVERY NIGHT:
Dreamy.
Who needs the news at six when you can have girlfights.

.

DAYS OF OUR LIVES:
Oh my god… SO far over the edge it’s hilarious.
Latest storylines include the nine or so characters who were murdered by the Serial Killer over the last two years being revealed as alive and well and on a mysterious island where a duplicate Salem has been built in the jungle. THE JUNGLE!
Days Of Our Lives does Lost. This show is MAD.

.

THE CURRENT BOUT OF SPRING CRAZINESS HAPPENING AROUND THE COUNTRY:
You’d think things would brighten up a bit with daylight savings kicking in and destroying our body clocks. But alas, everything from the weather to the people seems to be playing up.
Case in point: This FREEZING weather we’ve been having lately.
Spring, you cock teasing bitch. Just cut that loser Winter loose and be done with him. He’s a cold-hearted snake.
Case in point: David Bourke going on a shooting spree in the rural outback. Tsk tsk.
Case in point: Missing toddler Aisling Symes. Every mother’s worst nightmare.
Case in point: The Father of raped and murdered girl Karla Cardno, Gary Duffin, on trial for having sex with, and employing as a prostitute at the brothel he ran with his partner back in 1991, a 14 year old girl. Ummmm, maybe it’s just me, but does this not STINK of creepy?? Not to be coarse, but aren’t you glad Karla’s not alive to see this.
Come on Summer. End this madness and just keep it to good ol’ drink driving accidents.

.

.

A LETTER TO ROSEMARY MCLEOD,

DOMINION POST’S OPINIONATED BITCH:

Dear Rosemary,

Ten years ago now, I went to a café for a meeting with my writing mentor, and on the front page of the newspaper was a picture of my murdered friend Jeff Whittington, kid brother of my friends, also my upstairs neighbours.
It was completely shocking. I had just seen Jeff the day before, and let me tell you, Jeff was an
Amazing, Creative, Talented, Vibrant, Colourful (literally), Gutsy young man who had a very interesting life ahead of him.
This life was taken from him one night when a couple of skinheads decided to pretend to be his mates, take him for a ride, park up in a dark alley, and beat him dead.
Needless to say, I abandoned my meeting and fled home, where, needless to say, the shock and grief his family and friends were now in was colossal.
My friends had lost not only their best friend, but also their kid brother, and a mother and father had lost their son. One of the most gentle and passive people I ever had the pleasure to know was killed by a needless, senseless, violent, and brutal murder.
I’m not going to be stupid and assume you’ve never had anyone close to you die, Rosemary, but I reckon it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ve never had anyone taken from you in such a horrific and traumatising way.
During Jeff’s funeral, which inevitably turned into an alarming, invasive, and disrespectful media circus, I saw you there. Sitting in the back row of the funeral home, UNINVITED, with your pad and paper, scribbling away like nobody’s business. Like you were at a bad play.
And sure enough, the next day in the paper appeared something that can only be described as the most thoughtless and insensitive review of a fucking KID’S FUNERAL.
You were scathing in your disapproval of a family’s last goodbye.
You mocked their grieving process, and doubted their sense that this was a tragic event - that somehow the impact of his death had passed them by. You thought a coffin on which his friends and family could write messages on was… coarse in some way, offensive to tradition even.

That their nonsensical drivel of magic numbers and his spirit’s freedom to fly was inappropriate, irrelevant, missing the point, and just plain stupid.
In short, you spat out the vilest, most disrespectful and disgusting piece of writing I have ever had the displeasure to read. I can still smell the shit you shat a decade later.
I challenge you to google your name together with Jeff’s and ‘Wellington’, and then have a good read about what people think of you when it comes to this. Believe me, It’s Not just me.

I want to quote something I stumbled upon recently that You wrote:

“Good manners are the very least that anyone should expect, especially in times of deep suffering.”

Go Fuck yourself, Rosemary.
The disrespect and hurt you caused that family from one needless article was almost as bad as the loss of Jeff itself.
If you had only applied this gem-drop of wisdom ten years ago, I wouldn’t think you were a Fucking Awful Whorebag Cuntbitch Slutface Mutt from Hell, You Fucking Pillock.
How DARE you.
I can only hope that one day you suffer as greatly as Jeff did.
I hope that one day you suffer like his family did.
I hope pain rains down on you like flies to shit.
And when it does,
I want you to look around for the guy who’s chuckling and scribbling into his pad,
‘cause trust me,
I’m gonna be there to review it.

Yours very sincerely,
The Mad Scorpion.

P.S. Feel free to e-mail me.
I would just love to hear from you.
Kisses!

3.

THE JONAS BROTHERS AND HANNAH MONTANA:
Somebody, please… Do the world a favour and put us out of our misery.

IRANS’ NEWFOUND NUCLEAR WEAPONS:
Somebody, please… Just push the button and fuck each other over. Let’s get it out of the way and done with. Things clearly need to get worse before they’ll get better, so we may as well just fast forward the process instead of draggin’ things out. BORING.
Besides, unless they aim it at us...
If you’ve ever gotten hold of a globe and held it so New Zealand is in the centre of your view, you’ll see that it’s only us, Australia and Antarctica on this side of the planet.
So when the rest of the world fucks itself over, we’ll (HOPEFULLY, knock on wood) be fine!

9/11:
Still cracks me up.
…Ok, probably sound a bit heartless there (especially to anyone American) but let’s be clear.
I feel sorry for those poor folk trapped in the towers at the time. I mean… Fuck that. That would have been Hideous, to say the least.
But those fools on the ground… Oh boy. They still provide endless amounts of laughter.
A few weeks back as the Crime & Investigation and History channels re-lived the day over a week from endless angles, I watched a particular doco made up of eyewitness footage, stretched out in real time from just after the first plane hit to the collapse of the second building…
Amazing, amazing, AMAZING to watch, and to the producers credit (meaning they had a heart and considered the families of victims), managed to avoid any actual shots of the planes hitting, and still just as captivating as the day it happened, but my god… How fuckin’ thick do you have to be.
People were standing around at the bottom of the buildings STILL WATCHING well after the second plane hit. I’m sorry, but if you weren’t running by then, then you deserved to be swallowed up in the rubble.
Run, America, Run! Believe it, Mutha FUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRS, YOUR BIG STRONG COUNTRY IS UNDER ATTAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!
I have to say, there’s something to be said about a giant smoke cloud engulfing the streets and swallowing the city… Mmm, pretty.

LOST SEASON SIX:
I can’t wait… I CAN’T WAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIT!!!
For anyone who cares, I’ve read that about a third of the way through the season the two timelines will finally converge, and after that the narrative will become very linear. No flashbacks, nothing, just… ahead ‘til the end.
Plus everyone who’s ever been on it will again be back…
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.

SCHOOL HOLIDAYS:
Uh oh. Here comes trouble.
Although I must say, there is something nice to be said about my sleepy little town being suddenly over-run with cruising teens and prams and tots.
Not so lifeless after all.

CELEBRITY SALARIES:
Does anyone else think it’s just disgusting that people out there are being paid in excess of sixty million dollars for a few months work? Or because they’re good at sport?
I’m sorry, but nobody’s THAT good.

MINISTERIAL HOUSING ALLOWANCES:
Fuckin’ get rid of it altogether. Essentially Free housing for people already on stupendous salaries well outside the range of Average is bullshit, and said stupendous salary (and maybe low end work travel allowances) should be enough Perks for anyone.
No Work lunches, No high end piss ups.
The rest of the country works hard for our taxes while a select few work hard at spending that tax on themselves.
HISSSSSSSSSSSSS. SHAME ON YOU.

FAMILIES:
I heard my brother’s 21st was on Saturday night. I wasn’t told or invited.
I even drove past it accidentally and realised what was going on.
My aunty and cousin were stunned, and I thought I would be too, but then I realised it was pretty much in line with the rest of my life with that side of the family, and it wasn’t so much ‘Sad’ as ‘Typical’.
When I texted my best friend to tell her, she told me that her longtime boyfriend’s brother got MARRIED the day before, and even though her boyfriend was the Best Man, she was not invited…
All I have to say to that is,
Thank god we have each other, ‘cause what a bunch of Fuckbags.