Glob-a-log

It would make for a rather nifty end to a short story or Fifties B-movie.

I can see a bunch of panic-stricken scientists, generals and politicians, running around in some if-I-tell-you-I-have-to-kill-you secret bunker, like headless chickens, praying and pissing themselves…

… while outside…

… well, not so much outside – or very much outside, if you wish – way, way up, beyond Rupert Murdoch’s highest floating satellite, something is approaching at the highest speed Newton & Einstein allow.

Something that’s headed for Earth.

Many somethings, actually.

A whole damn flock of them – though flock would not be the right word.

It’s a shower.

Not as in ‘shower’ for the national English football team’s performance at any international tournament but that other kind.

The one about which any dinosaur could tell you a thing or two, if they had be able to hung around after that rock hit them and cleaned their collective clocks.

Speaking of which.

Dinosaurs, I mean – dinosaurs hanging around.

Yes, what’s headed for Earth at a totally warped speed, like big rocks of (or on) acid, is this huge shower of dinosaurs, coming to wipe humanity’s smile off the face of the Earth…

… and there’s nothing that a bunker of scientists, generals and politicians can do about it either.

We’re toast.

Dinotoast.

Walking home a bit earlier I passed a Hell of a lot of litter that was thrown out of cars all along the road.

It’s such a lovely place here – so, I felt some sudden & true hatred towards the moral morons who litter: here and everywhere.

It’s always easy to blame the big battalions: governments, international companies and what have you but to do so is missing a very basic point.

There’s no difference between someone stealing some stationary or a toilet roll from work and any MP or senator enriching him or herself in office.

There’s no difference between you speeding or parking your car illegally (or riding your bicycle on the pavement, yes) and any company breaking zoning or Health & Safety laws…

… and, ultimately, there’s not a blind bit of difference between people throwing shit out of their cars and Shell or BP fucking up whole countries and oceans.

What it boils down to is a deep black hole of moral laziness:

Our self-absorbed, self-centered, self-sold and soulless and disgusting it’s-all-about-me-and-my-immediate-impulses-and-wants behaviour.

It’s like the old Pogo cartoon told us, my fellow rapist ants:

Max and his boss Renata

*You really don’t want to see any of my after pub pics….

(Now just the no-longer-wanted poster boy slashed patron saint of Cabbies-R-Us…)

In general, I’ve nothing against generalisations. Hell, 99% of the contents of this blog would never have been written if I did…

… but it can be a dangerous game – especially when people start to believe in them…

… and let’s face it, as a species we’re rather good at believing all kinds of crap.

So, I kind of despair of serious, paid-for-their-efforts columnists talking the kind of rubbish you hear at the closing time end of an alcohol soaked night out of the cabbies-R-us appreciation society…

… and why is it that so many columnists seem to want to outLaden bin Laden when it comes to depicting “The West” as the greatest evil on the face of the earth?

As if the West was a fixed entity, ethically and politically and geographically…

… and as if its citizens had (at any over all time) any say in, let’s say, sending a man to the moon or a drone to an Afghan wedding party?

Yesterday, I was talking about opening lines for bunny boiler books.

Today, I’ve got another one for you:

‘She wore a long, thin silver chain around her neck, with a small crucifix at the business end that touched the tops of her breasts each time she put a glass of beer before me on the table. Jesus had it really nailed this time round.’

You know, I’ve always wanted to write noir & twisted bunny boilers – so why not start a whole new noirish ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ category for opening sentences Mister Marlowe would have chosen over opening his whiskey loaded desk drawer?

Here’s one for instance:

‘As he sat there in his chair, the bags under his eyes seemed to start around his knees.
This early in the day, with the curtains firmly closed against a sun split sky that was in mourning for all of life’s spilled coffee cups, he looked as mobile as the Maginot line.’