Daylight saving zombies ATTACK!!!

Somebody's squeezed a few vials of Viagra into the tea urn down at Daylight Savings Zombie Central. Yes siree, there's a whiff of victory in the air and the cardigan brigade couldn't be more excited if Eoin Cameron was back on the electoral hustings.

It's been slim pickings this past week in the zombie hunt pack. Frank's done his best, but with Carps on the sidelines turning to fat and The Lazy Aussie running decoy for Barnett, he's pushing shit uphill with the proverbial toothpick.

Bento is hell bent on cutting the fiends down to size with his Ruger semi-auto with the hollow tip slugs Skink smuggled in from Taiwan, but the Bus Driver and his crazy partner Tea are providing safe passage in a steel plated ex-Transperth bus. Couldn't penetrate that sucker with a Zeliska 600 Nitro Express Revolver.

It's great to have new blood in Shazza come on-board to take on the hand-to-liver spot dotted hand-combat, but for every new body we gain, another falls by the wayside. The Outrage Cohen has been next to useless since he started mainlining that aqua-farmed squid from Chinese-Taipei. It was only a matter of time before the zombies commandeered the presses at The Post to turn out their JUST SAY NO propaganda, but at least the Stones Green Ginger-based Molotov that Poor Lisa lobbed through the window put a spanner in the works.

The regionals are where we're really copping it in the neck and although Rolly is making all the right noises, my fears are that he's working as a double agent. Word is he has plans to put Matt Birney under the wheels of his tractor and seed him with a GM-free canola crop.

The referendum is drawing ever closer. The excited chatter of false teeth and the snap of elasticated double-waisted pants is a drill boring through my skull, making passage for the savage rays that will surely exact their revenge when summer 09/10 rolls around.

As I wander the early morning beaches, taking out the kneecaps of those rendered incontinent at the giddy joy of banishing daylight saving to the dark bottom drawer where Sunday trading resides, my thoughts start to wander.

Lonely summer afternoons on the beach watching a feeble, febrile sun slink away into the Indian Ocean at 6.30pm. Riding back from Little Parakeet Bay on Rottnest Island asking no one in particular, 'Hey, who turned out the lights?'. Poking the snags on the backyard barbie in the half gloom wondering if they're going black, or if it's just the fading light. Sending down a beam ball to the number one son in the Floreat nets and realising too late that he can't see jack shit and is about to wear an incrediball on the chin.

But I guess that's okay, cause the zombies will march forth in the early morn like some remake of Wacko Jacko's Thiller video, boldly striding along to the beat of their own selfish drums as the rest of us consider block-out curtains to keep the baby from waking up at 4.30am.

They'll gather in excited clusters at suburban Chinese restaurants in the 6pm gloom, proferring wine coolers and competing with each other as to who goes to bed and gets out of bed the earliest. 'Water the lawn at 4am, tea on the table at 4.30pm and in bed with Graham Maybury by 6.30pm - that's the life Frank!"

I gather I'm not alone in the YES army, but I feel that our numbers are thin and the zombies are on the rise. Indeed, I think there will be people who vote NO simply because they feel that somehow the people in the eastern states are trying to get one over them. If it aint broke, don't fix it.

And then there's the crowd who say we already get more sunlight than the east, so we don't need daylight saving. Well, I say balls to that theory. Maybe we get more at 4.30am when it's about as much use as TOAB.

So I guess the question is, are you with me, or are you de-linting the woollen cardy and sharpening up the chopticks for a small night out with the zombie brigade?

Yes, or no?

Daylight saving zombies - part II

The story continues, as told by the Herring affected, but often brilliant scribe David 'Teh Rage' Cohen, author of Rottobloggo: To make sense of the many non-sensical references - of the non literary variety that is - you'll need to visit The Worst of Perth... for herein doth the secret lie...

It was a dark and stormy evening; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Fremantle that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the scented candles that struggled against the darkness.

Through one of the obscurest quarters of the beautiful port city, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen and women of the police, a man, evidently from the distant suburb of Floreat, was wending his solitary way. He stopped twice or thrice at different bong shops and houses of a description correspondent with the appearance of the quartier in which they were situated,--and tended inquiry for some article or another which did not seem easily to be met with. All the answers he received were couched in the negative ("F#@k off", were the plain'tive cries); and as he turned from each door he muttered to himself, in no very elegant phraseology, his disappointment and discontent: "C#*ts".

At length, at one house, the landlord, a sturdy sniper, after rendering the same reply the inquirer had hitherto received, added,--"But if this vill do as vell, Cookie, it is quite at your sarvice!" Pausing reflectively for a moment, Cookie responded, that he thought the thing proffered might do as well; and thrusting it into his ample pocket he strode away with as rapid a motion as the wind and rain would allow. He soon came to a nest of low and dingy buildings, at the entrance to which, in half-effaced characters was written "Fremantle Markets." Having at the most conspicuous of these buildings, a boutique brewery or fusion-food restaurant through the half-closed windows of which blazed out in ruddy comfort the beams of the hospitable hearth, he knocked hastily at the door. He was admitted by a lady of a certain age, and endowed with a comely rotundity of face and person.

"Hast got it, Cookie?" said she quickly, as she closed the door on the guest.

"Noa, noa! not exactly--but as I thinks as ow . . ."

"Pish off, you fool!" cried the woman interrupting him, peevishly. "Vy, it is no use desaving me. You knows you has only stepped from my boosing ken to another, and you has not been arter the book at all. So there's the poor cretur a-raving and a-dying, and you . . ."

"Let I speak!" interrupted Cookie in his turn. "I tells you I vent first to Poor Lisa’s, who, I knows, chops the whiners morning and evening to the young ladies, and I axes there for a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and she says, says she, 'I 'as only nunchuks but you'll get a RPG, I thinks, as Bedford Crackpot’s,--the deranged, as we knows.' So I goes to Bedford’s, and he says, says he, 'I 'as no call for weapons--'cause vy?--I 'as a call vithout; but mayhap you'll be a-getting it at the bong shop hover the vay,--'cause vy?--the bong seller’ll be damned!" So I goes hover the vay, and the bong retailer says, says he, 'I 'as not a RPG: but I 'as a dirty bomb laced with canola, and mayhap the poor creturs mayn't see the difference.' So I takes the dirty bomb, Mrs. Poor Lisa, and here they be surely!--and how's poor Lazy Aussie?"

"Fearsomo! Men are beasts! He'll not be over the night, I'm a-athinking."

"Vell, I'll track up the ammo!"

So saying, Cookie ascended a doorless staircase, across the entrance of which a chunk of corflute, stretched angularly from the wall to the chimney, afforded a kind of screen; and presently he stood within a chamber, which the dark and painful genius of the bloke who painted the pic of the kneeling woman and the Alsation might have delighted to portray. The walls were white-washed, and at sundry places strange figures and grotesque characters had been traced in burnt orange by some mirthful inmate, in such sable outline as the end of a smoked herring stick or the edge of a piece of charcoal is wont to produce. The wan and flickering light afforded by a farting candle gave a sort of grimness and menace to these achievements of pictorial art, especially as they more than once received embellishment from portraits of Brendon Grylls, such as he is accustomed to be drawn. A low fire burned gloomily in a sooty grate; and on the hob hissed "the still small voice" of a kick-arse pan of mandrax. On a round deal-table were two vials, a cracked cup, a broken spoon of some dull metal, and upon two or three mutilated chairs were scattered various articles of female attire. On another table, placed below a high, narrow, shutterless casement (athwart which, instead of a curtain, bloodied mayoral chains had been loosely hung, and now waved fitfully to and fro in the gusts of wind that made easy ingress through many a chink and cranny), were a looking glass, sundry appliances of the toilet, a box of cricketers’ boxes, a few ornaments of more show than value; and a watch, the regular and calm click of which produced that indescribably painful feeling which, we fear, many of our readers who have heard the ravings of the Daylight Savings Murder Posse can easily recall.

To be continued...

Daylight saving zombies attack!

It happened on Sunday morning. The world as we knew it was gone and a dark pall had fallen over suburbia like a blanket over a bird cage.

I stumbled outside to find out where the sun had gone. Yes it was morning, but the harsh glare that would normally prise my lids asunder and prod the sleeping baby until he screamed for his bottle was curiously missing. It had shrunk away and was hiding in the shadows like a dog licking its wounds.

But I had been tricked before. The cunning beast which is the coming of day in Western Australia does not suffer fools gladly. It will tear the eyes from your very sockets and sear your flesh before you have time to mutter, 'where is the 30+?'

I donned my glasses and faux-quokka baseball cap, put the poodle on a leash and ventured into the street. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Sensing danger I grabbed a five iron from the garage and wrapped the dog's leash tighter around my wrist. I was like Will Smith in that awful armageddon movie set in New York, except instead of an alsation and a pump action shotgun, I had a yappy poodle and a golf club.

The cause of my paranoia became evident immediately. It was pre-empted by a wailing sound, followed by large groups of people floundering about and clawing at their eyes, shouting, 'I can't see', 'Who turned out the lights?' 'Oh my Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?'

They appeared to be blinded, unable to see where they were going... staggering on hands and knees, or scuttling along crab-like, bouncing off trees, tripping on gutters. Joggers, dog walkers, retirees and empty nesters with nothing better to do. Individuals, some gathered in groups, others dragged by pets.

I grabbed a flannel-hatted senior by the collar of his cardigan and demanded he tell me what had caused this nightmare vision before me. 'Tell me old man or you shall feel the blunt end of my Ping!'

He cowered in fear, his eyeballs rolling back into his emaciated skull. His lips trembled. 'Don't you know? Don't you see what they have done? They have taken away our light... our shining beacon. Without it we are doomed. Doomed to wander the early morning streets as the daylight saving damned - wretched, sightless, aimless beasts.'

I threw him into the undergrowth in disgust. 'Get a grip man! The day is here - look around you... is this not light enough for you?'

But it was too late, he had stumbled into the path of oncoming traffic and disappeared in a puff of brown woollen fibres.

'You've had it too good for too long!' I screamed at them. 'You must adjust to the light and learn that you don't need to eat dinner at 5.00pm and be in bed before the final sirens sound on the closing credits of The Bill!

'There is life after Parkinson. It's okay to stay in bed until 6.00am! There is NOTHING to fear...'

But again, too late. Blind eyes and deaf ears. Rather than embrace the change they gathered in even tighter groups, huddled around radios sharing mobile phones to call talkback radio and wail down the line to Hutchison and Beaumont - whoever was willing to listen.

And in time the savagery began. Within days these rabid packs would begin wandering the early morning streets in search of the 'Savers', chanting 'Death to the Twilight' and offering up sacrafices to the 'God of Early Morning Walks'.

Meanwhile, on Rottnest Island, David 'Teh Outrage' Cohen was mobilising forces to take out these vast zombie hoards, but there was much planning to be done. He rolled his first herring spliff of the day, kicked off his deck shoes and leaned back to look out across Thompson Bay to the mainland beyond.

'You f*#kers shall rue the day...'

As the blue smoke curled languidly across the room to join the sea breeze snaking across the salt lakes, making music in the pines, he eyed the cream bun in the pantry and punched 1300-COOKSTER into the Nokia.

'Teh Rage here Cookster. The barge will meet you at the North Mole at 6.30pm once the zombies are safely in bed. You bring the golf clubs and I'll supply the octopus. Tell The Lazy Aussie to pick up Skink and Frank in The Worst of Perth Combi on the way - I have a plan.'

...to be continued.

Too bad, so sad - Election 08

It appears that Mr Fels forgot to set his alarm clock and missed the cut off date to register People Against Daylight Saving (PADS) for the coming state election... what a shame. It's been a while since we've had a loony left runner to make things interesting.

But I wouldn't worry too much. Although Barnett's chief of staff position has gone to Deidre 'don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out' Willmott, someone will need to be in charge of the Grand Canals Project (GCP) when it is sneakily foisted back onto the agenda. Anthony, that job is YOURS.

Expect more from me on the election later, but to be honest, I'm yet to be inspired. Right now I'm heading over to The West Online to see what in hell Paul Murray's latest blog headed up 'Is baby sniffing going too far?' is all about... surely not???