LIFE DEATH PRIZES
"LIFE, DEATH, PRIZES" : I swear to you this is true. It was the masthead on a magazine called CHAT. I remember when papers had proper mastheads with Latin stuff like Verita Vino et Alia, which roughly translates as "our reporters are drunk half the time but they have a theoretical commitment to the truth". Now we're down to "Life, Death, Prizes". Then again, that pretty much covers it all, doesn't it. A sparse but complete cosmological view.
I swear to you this was a real magazine. I saw it in a servo on Canterbury Rd in Bayswater. One of those I'm in the waiting room and I've got five minutes I'll read this load-of-crap magazine. And you know five minutes is about all you've got before your brain turns to maggot-infested mush and you start thinking things like "Gee that Zumba looks like fun and I've heard it's great exercise. Just the thing for a fifty-six year old white man "
Anyway, I swear this was a real magazine. Everything in this blog is true. Well most of it. All right some of it.
Okay look it's written in English. More or less. Bits anyway
So it's one of those gorgeous publications from Rupert (where's the carotid artery when you need to find it) Murdoch that features beaut stuff like Psychic-of-the-Year awards (must have been a hell of a show) and articles like: My husband died, but he came back as a ghost and got me pregnant, now the bloody baby moves through the walls at night. You know the sort of thing.
But I love the feature article the best. A stirring story of a man and heavily pregnant wife lost in the desert. Baby's due, he delivers, severs the umbilical with his teeth all that sort of jazz. Wife and baby fine, Placenta buried in some bizarre we're-all-gonna-die-let's-turn-into-hippies gesture. Attracts dingos, which husband is able to kill after watching that Barry Grilled person on the TV. He is then able to save baby and wife from dehydration and starvation by feeding them disgusting bits of dead dingo. The headline : MY BABY'S GOT A DINGO . Had to be didn't it.
Try saying it with a Kiwistralian accent. Lindy Chamberlain's. The one Meryl will always know as the accent that got away.
I swear to you this was a real magazine. I saw it in a servo on Canterbury Rd in Bayswater. One of those I'm in the waiting room and I've got five minutes I'll read this load-of-crap magazine. And you know five minutes is about all you've got before your brain turns to maggot-infested mush and you start thinking things like "Gee that Zumba looks like fun and I've heard it's great exercise. Just the thing for a fifty-six year old white man "
Anyway, I swear this was a real magazine. Everything in this blog is true. Well most of it. All right some of it.
Okay look it's written in English. More or less. Bits anyway
So it's one of those gorgeous publications from Rupert (where's the carotid artery when you need to find it) Murdoch that features beaut stuff like Psychic-of-the-Year awards (must have been a hell of a show) and articles like: My husband died, but he came back as a ghost and got me pregnant, now the bloody baby moves through the walls at night. You know the sort of thing.
But I love the feature article the best. A stirring story of a man and heavily pregnant wife lost in the desert. Baby's due, he delivers, severs the umbilical with his teeth all that sort of jazz. Wife and baby fine, Placenta buried in some bizarre we're-all-gonna-die-let's-turn-into-hippies gesture. Attracts dingos, which husband is able to kill after watching that Barry Grilled person on the TV. He is then able to save baby and wife from dehydration and starvation by feeding them disgusting bits of dead dingo. The headline : MY BABY'S GOT A DINGO . Had to be didn't it.
Try saying it with a Kiwistralian accent. Lindy Chamberlain's. The one Meryl will always know as the accent that got away.
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