thank god

the other day, whilst waiting for the spanish news to begin, i watched five minutes of seven sunrise. they were talking about the revelations of the alleged plot to poison the australian cricket team with sarin gas (a claim which is apparently pretty dubious, as sarin gas needs a special prescription from your doctor or something, you can’t even get it over the counter). the plot apparently didn’t go ahead because one of the suicide bombers was a big cricket fan, and he vetoed it (presumably saying something like ‘man vat’s just wrong, innit’)*. david koch then made the comment (and i’m paraphrasing from memory here) ‘gee, thank god he was a cricket fan then.’ yeah, thank god!

* probably the most interesting thing here is the idea that as a suicide bomber, he had a clear idea of the future he wanted to project. and in no way from a personal interest point of view, as the suicide bomber is an uninterested being, so to speak, at least in this world. so for the young suicide bomber, his dream was twofold: yes, he wanted a world without the horror of western imperialism, victory for his muslim brothers: but on the other hand, there’s no reason there can’t be cricket.

 

target envy

man, they’re such arrogant pricks down there in melbourne. they’ve even been named the number one terror target in australia. morris iemma tried to save face saying that we’re always up for a terrorist attack, that we’ve got heaps of shit worth bombing. we hosted the olympics so we could totally host a terror attack. but you know he’s just big-noting, trying to keep up. it’s like no one wants to bomb us at all, despite all the places we’ve invaded. there was bali, but we could only half claim that. i mean, no one’s even really scared anymore. you see the way people just stroll around, all soft and comfortable in their suits. as if there was no way in the world that at any given moment the slick glass windows of the nearest building could be blown out, the shards of glass like a broken water main in the early spring sun. meanwhile, down their in melbourne they snicker smugly over their crownies, looking out from their rooftop gardens that they pay for with their dole checks. cos in st kilda you can do that. the bastards.

and sure, you do get some release out of the death parade of celebrities, but it’s not enough. this is today. we crave catastrophe.