David Stevens

Posts Tagged ‘satire’

Happy Australia Day

In Uncategorized on January 25, 2016 at 9:47 pm

I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be a thing. Why does stuff have to change? It used to be a dusty little public holiday tucked away at the end of the summer school holidays, a final gasp. Now its concerts and loyalty tests and mass barbecues. We didn’t used to wave flags, we all knew where we lived.

Sorry kiddies. Listen to me carrying on! It’s not like we haven’t seen it all before, somewhere. And so now I repeat myself …

FLAG DAY

It was Flag Day

so we wrapped ourselves in flags

and went to the pub.

Funny, eh!

Everybody else had the same idea, but.

And all the flags were the same

because we are all Flaglanders.

It would have been nice to wrap myself

in the flag of difference

but I was too scared.

Everyone looked the same.

The fun idea had become

A Sad Party Thing.

It doesn’t matter.

The flag unites us.

Our fear of looking different unites us.

All eyes are wary on Flag Day.

Everyone smiles with their mouths

as they lift their beers,

but all those eyes are looking about.

And those eyes are quick.

You don’t want to stand out.

Not on Flag Day.

There are no excuses.

It is not “I pay my taxes” day.

It is not “I am a human being, I have rights” day.

It is fucking Flag Day.

Alright?

You sad party thing.

Advertisements

School camp

In Uncategorized on February 28, 2014 at 7:31 am

The school camp was held in another universe. The cabin was small but the huge moon pouring through the window swelled it with liquid light. I could not sleep with the drilling of mosquitoes. I could not sleep this far from home. I had to lie in the tedium, desperate for the hours to pass. With no reference, I could not tell what time it was.

The night before, the only one still awake in a room of snoring boys, I had kneeled in my bed looking out the window, hanging out of my sleeping bag, a towel draped round my shoulders in an attempt to further block the mosquitoes. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I prayed for sleep. I thought of my family. I said to myself that this too would pass.

In the morning, it started. ”What were you doing at the window?” I could not think of an answer quickly enough, so Kevin answered for me. ”Tossing off, I bet.” Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha haaahaaa. I ignored it, went off somewhere else in my brain while I spooned at the weetbix made with hot water. Mum made mine with hot milk at home. And honey. And sometimes chopped banana. To me, this was like pouring orange juice on cornflakes for a lactose intolerant kid – it might do, but who would want it? ”What were you doing brushing your teeth?” ”What were you doing wearing a hat?” ”What were you doing riding a bike?” ”Why did the chicken cross the road?” . Kevin’s answer would always be “having a wank” or “pullin’ his pud”, and the donkey chorus would erupt. Wheat shreds braying through teeth and braces. The repartee of boys. He wasn’t even in our cabin.

I had thought the silence meant they all slept. It just meant that the fear of Mr Palmer, lying in the corner, was more powerful than I realised. They were all watching, all of the time.

It was unbearable. I ached with the tiredness. I wanted to scream, but I did not want to go through the rest of my school years known as the screamer. The loony who broke down at camp. Let someone else scream first. Of course they were not as sensitive as me.

The idea came to me, and I was calmed. I could test the universe. If I fell asleep, I would not do this thing that I had thought. I could not do it immediately, it would need to wait until the depth of night, to be sure the others were sleeping. If I nodded off, then it would not come to pass. Good. if the idea came from God, then I would know whether He wanted me to do it or not by whether He granted me sleep or not. Fair enough.

I counted sheep. They started off as white, strong merinos. As I got into the high hundreds, they were leaner, scrawnier, meaner looking. Their faces were more canine. Sometimes the dingoes didn’t just kill sheep, I figured, picturing the genetic mingling. I was nearly asleep, but the nocturnal sounds of wombats kept bringing my consciousness back to the surface.

Finally, when the sheep were all mangy curs and jackals, snapping at each other and refusing to leap the gate, I stopped counting and realised I was standing up. With the room flooded, I could float through it. I drifted to the corner where the games equipment had been tossed. I had seen it before going to bed. A loose cricket stump, slipped from the kit, lying there. The cricket pitch was tough here, grassless with the endless drought, and the spikes of the stumps were all sheathed in metal, the easier to knock them into the earth.

I picked it up and let the current carry me. It was no surprise that I found myself next to Adolf’s bed. Even then, I knew him for what he was. I had no doubt of his evil. I stood there a long time. I was not wavering. I just wanted to be in the moment, to be fully aware of what was happening. From an early age, I did not want to simply stumble through life as a mindless sleep walker.

I had waited long enough. I raised the stump with two hands above me (thinking, if I could see this, I would look like a pyjama-ed Druid), gripped it hard, and thrust down. The metal tip pierced, and I leaned in, pushing down, forcing it with all of the weight of my body.

The stump made a shucking sound as it entered Adolf’s chest, and I felt the resistance of bone and flesh. I kept pushing, and would swear I felt the wiggle as it pushed between ribs, the final scrape against his spine.

I felt nothing. I stood back and looked. Clear in the moonlight, the stump was buried in his chest. Nothing momentous. No blood fountain, no demon scream, no flash burn to ash. Not for Adolf the instant dissolution of the centuries delayed death of the vampire.

After a few minutes, I returned to my bed. I had no thought for consequences. I felt annoyed that really, nothing had happened. It was only after I had laid there a long time that I realised that I had staked one of my school mates, and that this was no small thing. I could not have done it. It must be a dream. It could not be real.

I had to look. As I raised my head, Adolf snored and rolled in his bed. There was a drawn out vacuum suck as gravity slowly dragged the wood from meat, and I looked about in horror, sure that everyone would hear it, certain all eyes would turn to the noise. The noise ended, and I rested relieved, until I heard the crack as the stump crashed to the wooden floor.

No one reacted. No one heard. They were all fast asleep.

I got out of bed, not floating this time, more grounded. I knew the solution. Shoes in hand, I snuck past Palmer.

The sun rises early in summer here, and dawn was starting. I would have to be quick. Yes, the axe was sticking out of the wood pile. It was not much effort for me to pull it out of the log, and I was on my way. You have to pick the appropriate weapon when fighting monsters. Adolf was something foul, but he was no vampire. A stake through the heart was not going to deal with him. I would have to put a lot more thought into it. But I was pretty sure an axe through the head would fix Kevin.

His cabin was across the path from mine. I began to run, when I heard the yell.

“BOY! What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

Old Palmer was awake. (I wonder whatever happened to him.)

“Nothing sir.”

“Then put down that axe and get back to fucking bed!”

“Yes sir.”

I was much wearier that morning when I sat down to breakfast, bowl of slop in front of me. Then it appeared, slipped straight in front of me. Crispy bacon on toast, a dab of scrambled eggs, a spoonful of baked beans. I looked up. It was Adolf, feeding me from his personal supply, sharing the bounty that was magically served to him each morning.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Benito” I replied, finding it hard to meet his eye.

“Benito.” He stared hard. ”I hadn’t noticed you before. Benito, you and me. We’re going places.”

And so it began.

Tips for good living

In Uncategorized on February 13, 2014 at 11:27 pm

In this modern hurly burly world, it is important to have a code to live by. These are the tips I give my children:

1. Don’t marry an evil person.

2. Don’t eat candy you find lying around.

3. Remember, guns don’t kill people. Mostly, its the bullets.

4. You know those bestest ever bestest friends you love so much now? Five minutes after you leave school, you’ll never see them again. Friends are replaceable. So is money, but you have to work to get that.

7. If you hear a scary noise outside, stay inside. And take off that red shirt.

8. Lots of the stuff your parents tell you will turn out to be right, which is very very annoying.

9. Let it go. Let it all go.

10. Don’t. You will get caught.

11. If your plane is about to crash, try and be floaty.

12. Don’t start a land war in south east Asia.

13. Don’t get a tattoo with your girl/boy friend’s name, because they are hard to change. Get a generic one, like “Boyfriend” or “I heart Girlfriend”.

14. Flags are not worth dying for, and taste like shit.

15. Stephen King needs to find characters who are not best selling authors.

16. Don’t tease vegans, they bite.

17. It is possible to own too many books about wars. And to read ‘The Day of the Triffids’ too often.

18. Tolerance is no excuse.

19. Keep the door closed to prevent rats come in.

096

Unknown short Wes Anderson film

In Uncategorized on January 28, 2014 at 8:37 am

I was not aware that Wes Anderson was a contributor to Bucketman’s oeuvre. One may think Bucketman the antithesis of quirkiness, favouring direct story telling for human beings. However, as Bucketman has said in the past, “Hipsters gotta hip”, so who can hold it against them. Or him. Either of him. When aliens invade Earth, I for one do not want Anderson to be directing the defence. However, despite his well established credentials in alien fighting and other important things (Thunderbirds, UFO, Captain Scarlet, Space:1999), ultimately I have to concede that Wes Anderson would do a better job than Gerry Anderson, largely because Gerry Anderson is dead. Still, it was a close run thing. The advice I would give Mr Anderson (pre-posthumous) is to try to get some alien fighting product into his resume, so that on the day film makers must stand up and direct something useful, he is not found lacking.

Australia’s Film History: jingoism and the lead up to World War 1

In Uncategorized on January 27, 2014 at 9:49 am

Australia is a multi-cultural society, but this archival footage reveals the jingoism present in the days leading to the First World War – hardly an indication of some halcyon Golden era.
In this week of Australia Day, and in this Centenary of ANZAC Day, it is worth reminding ourselves of the way it was, before it wasn’t, when it was something, rather than something else. Who can argue with that?

Here is a poem for Australia Day

In Uncategorized on January 26, 2014 at 7:43 am

Today is Australia Day. You can tell by all of the people walking around dressed in Australian flags. Otherwise, you might not know that it is Australia Day, or that you are in Australia. And you wouldn’t want to make a mistake about that, there could be consequences. I still remember when Australia Day was a dusty little public holiday tucked away towards the back of the summer pack, hey a day off, thank you very much. Now it is a thing. Not unlike a sad party thing. So here is an alleged poem, for Australia Day.

FLAG DAY

It was Flag Day

so we wrapped ourselves in our flags

and went to the pub.

Everybody else had the same idea, but.

All the flags were the same

because we are all Flaglanders.

It would have been nice to wrap myself

in the flag of difference

but I was too scared.

Everyone looked the same.

The fun idea had become

A Sad Party Thing.

It doesn’t matter.

The flag unites us.

Our fear of looking different unites us.

All eyes are wary on Flag Day.

Everyone smiles with their mouths

as they lift their beers,

but all those eyes are looking about.

And those eyes are quick.

You don’t want to stand out.

Not on Flag Day.

There are no excuses.

It is not “I pay my taxes” day.

It is not “I am a human being, I have rights” day.

It is fucking Flag Day.

Alright?

You sad party thing.

Counselling the Radiator

In Uncategorized on January 26, 2014 at 3:36 am

I hate
the way you radiate
energy and power
how you excrete
heat
and make weird noises
on the hour.
Your functionality
does not excuse
your lack of personality.
You are not everything to me
when that is what I demand
of everything.
You do not radiate love, radiator,
nor compassion or understanding.
So like a man
to think you can get away with fulfilling one mission.
I don’t want you to fix everything.
I want you to listen.

Do you come here often?

In Uncategorized on November 13, 2013 at 8:01 am

Your story-telling style is witty, keep up the good work!
Your story-telling style is bravo, keep doing what you`re doing!
Your writing style is witty, keep it up!
Your story-telling style is bravo, keep up the good work!
Your story-telling style is spectacular, keep up the good work!
Your humoristic style is bravo, keep it up!
Your humoristic style is awesome, keep it up!
Your story-telling style is witty, keep it up!
But your On-Page SEO is is missing a few factors.

Hip to the max

In Uncategorized on October 19, 2013 at 3:27 am

Don’t say I’m no hep cat, I’m hip to where the youngsters are at. I keep myself youthful by staying in touch with my inner child and staying alert to the latest jive. Wanna stay young, have to keep with it, dog! Been listening to Katy Perry singing Roar …

(Do you get the feeling that Poe has lost it since he … well, since he died? Sold out perhaps? Have you read “The Bloody Red Baron” by Kim Newman? Poe becomes the biographer of the Red Baron who is indeed bloody.)

(Thanks to Rachel Stanford)

Cheerful Apocalypse

In Uncategorized on October 7, 2013 at 9:15 pm

“But David”, I hear you say, “you drag us down with your dismal ends of the world, your Cormac McCarthy, your environmental collapse, your negativity. What about a cheerful apocalypse?”

Girls and boys and mutants, look no further!

“And it won’t be a pretty sight” cha cha cha …

(Thank you Daylight Savings and Rage.)