Between The Lines
Nothing like a good READ on the weekend. For a very long time, I have been a fan of Mike O'Connor, a journalist here who, among other styles has a way of writing that appeals to my inner self.
Below is a copy of last weeks meaningless satire written by Mike from the magazine I am reading.
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There arrives that time in life when you realise you've turned into one of your parents and, last week, I became my father - a man of great virtue but with a low tolerance for morons. My partner and I were on a cruise and I had decided to visit the buffet.
"You know what you're like with people. We should go to the al carte restaurant" pleaded my partner.
“Ill be fine," I said, mildly miffed at being reminded of those rare occasions on which l have lost patience with the shortcomings my fellows. "Are you coming?"
“I'm not going anywhere near a buffet with you” she replied.
I walked inside, took a tray and waited while two women in front of me exchanged inanities. If you want to discuss your idiot children and brain-dead husbands, I thought, you do it while moving along the queue? Walking and talking simultaneously was patently
beyond their grasp, but the death stare I was giving them finally penetrated what passed for their collective consciousness and they moved along.
There is an etiquette when lining up cafeteria-style. One of the commandments is that thou shalt not eat while in the queue. The tattooed toad three places in front of me had not read this rule, perhaps because he could not read. Faced with the possibility his plate might not contain at least a million calories, he hit on the strategy of filling it with whatever was in front of him and eating as he went, creating space on the plate by shovelling pasta, bread rolls and salad into his mouth with the efficiency of a dragline.
They are obese, as if overeating is a medical condition over which they have no control. Aussie after Aussie, both male and female, trundled past me with their plates stacked high, bellies swaying before them.
I continued shuffling along the queue, waiting for the only dish that interested me.
Where are the nachos? I moaned inwardly, dodging a blob of airborne custard as the woman in front drowned a massive slice of chocolate cake in a yellow lake.
All I wanted was a plate of corn chips, some avocado, salsa sauce and a dollop of sour cream. I spied it about ten trays away in the slowly moving queue. It was a mere three trays distant when a man resembling a monkey, his knuckles dragging along the floor pushed into the queue and began loading his plate. I copped it for 20 seconds before I yelled: "Hey mate! Are you sure you've got enough on your plate? Why don't you borrow a shovel?"
"No problems?" asked my partner when I returned with the nachos.
"Piece of cake ... with custard," I said scraping a hitherto undetected blob off my sleeve.
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Between Theme
Between The Lines
Nothing like a good READ on the weekend. For a very long time, I have been a fan of Mike O'Connor, a journalist here who, among other styles has a way of writing that appeals to my inner self.
Below is a copy of last weeks meaningless satire written by Mike from the magazine I am reading.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
There arrives that time in life when you realise you've turned into one of your parents and, last week, I became my father - a man of great virtue but with a low tolerance for morons. My partner and I were on a cruise and I had decided to visit the buffet.
"You know what you're like with people. We should go to the al carte restaurant" pleaded my partner.
“Ill be fine," I said, mildly miffed at being reminded of those rare occasions on which l have lost patience with the shortcomings my fellows. "Are you coming?"
“I'm not going anywhere near a buffet with you” she replied.
I walked inside, took a tray and waited while two women in front of me exchanged inanities. If you want to discuss your idiot children and brain-dead husbands, I thought, you do it while moving along the queue? Walking and talking simultaneously was patently
beyond their grasp, but the death stare I was giving them finally penetrated what passed for their collective consciousness and they moved along.
There is an etiquette when lining up cafeteria-style. One of the commandments is that thou shalt not eat while in the queue. The tattooed toad three places in front of me had not read this rule, perhaps because he could not read. Faced with the possibility his plate might not contain at least a million calories, he hit on the strategy of filling it with whatever was in front of him and eating as he went, creating space on the plate by shovelling pasta, bread rolls and salad into his mouth with the efficiency of a dragline.
They are obese, as if overeating is a medical condition over which they have no control. Aussie after Aussie, both male and female, trundled past me with their plates stacked high, bellies swaying before them.
I continued shuffling along the queue, waiting for the only dish that interested me.
Where are the nachos? I moaned inwardly, dodging a blob of airborne custard as the woman in front drowned a massive slice of chocolate cake in a yellow lake.
All I wanted was a plate of corn chips, some avocado, salsa sauce and a dollop of sour cream. I spied it about ten trays away in the slowly moving queue. It was a mere three trays distant when a man resembling a monkey, his knuckles dragging along the floor pushed into the queue and began loading his plate. I copped it for 20 seconds before I yelled: "Hey mate! Are you sure you've got enough on your plate? Why don't you borrow a shovel?"
"No problems?" asked my partner when I returned with the nachos.
"Piece of cake ... with custard," I said scraping a hitherto undetected blob off my sleeve.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Between Theme