February 28, 2009

[Sandy Hunt, Herald Sun columnist]:
“Blackmail, bullying and fraud. That’s all I’ve seen from you. It really worries me. These aren’t acceptable tactics. Doesn’t matter how many wrongs you stack up, they can’t result in a better world.”

[Cardinal Melland, seconding]:
“I concur with Mr Hunt. This miracle of yours is indeed blackmail. Regardless of whether your hands really lit up… and I’m not sure they did… blackmail isn’t how God works. I fully understand why many in the religious community have been saying ‘if not God then what?’”

Boisterous boys. Dogs at a hose pipe or what? If she didn’t have such an advantage and such overwhelming public support they’d happily tear her flesh apart and be barrel-chested about it.

That Sydnersider Melland is easily worked out though… frantically pomping up his public image muscles… and donning his weightiest robes. He’s frightened. Initially, faced with Layla’s marvels, his little boy wanted to chuck this religious route in and start afresh near a clear water stream.

But no, there are responsibilities, relationships and obstructions… too much invested. Layla could see ember blobs of hell lodged in his eyes and thought “He has no idea how God works and is tormented that it might be through me. Melland, listen to me, man. I’ve denied all claims to divinity. I’m off your patch.”

Melland had heard her the first time but his experience informed him that if someone says ‘day’ they mean ‘night’.

[Sandy Hunt]:
“Spot on, Cardinal. Nail, hammer, head. There are important principles at play here. And you’ve done violence to them Ms Parkin.

Let me clarify in a way everyone can understand. Contrary to the good Cardinal here, a Buddhist friend of mine actually believes you did perform a miracle. Well, okay. That’s his choice I guess. The interesting point though is that he sees it as a negative. And he told me a story that sums you up perfectly.

A monk used his supernatural ability to fly up into the air and collect a beautiful bowl. The bowl had been put in a very high place by a man who wanted to verify that monks really did have special powers. When the Buddha heard of this he was disgusted and summoned the monk to him. The Buddha smashed the bowl into smithereens and ordered the shamed monk to never again perform stupid tricks to impress people. The monk should have been using his abilities to guide people according to their capacity in order to decrease their suffering.

Now, I’m not Buddhist… like Einstein, I’m agnostic… but I share the sentiment expressed in the story… big noting yourself by grandiose showboating… is not a ‘spiritual’ character trait and is not something that we should reward.”

[Layla, amused]:
“How did the man put the bowl in that high place? Who would have got it down if the monk hadn’t?”

[Sandy Hunt]:
“Helicopter. That satisfy you? No need to resort to tricks and illusions. “

“Poor monk. There’s an element of entrapment about it.”

Sandy, feeling she was getting herself off the hook, decided to give it to her straight. He shouted over the top of another person who had begun to introduce their own question.

“Hold on. Let’s get real here. You are out of control and obviously completely blind to it. It’s not just about this horrendous infertility epidemic you’ve brought upon us. There’s been a dark cloud over you ever since your weird victory in the Stawell Gift… a much vaunted success that coincided with a large betting coup orchestrated by your close friends.

And your claim to privileged powers has backfired on you hasn’t it? Isn’t it true that sporting authorities are, right now, investigating the validity of your victories and records? And I’ve been advised that the services of legal professionals have been secured to claw back your ill-gotten poker winnings? That real enough for you? Well, that’s nothing compared to what’s coming your way when the politicians get a grip on you.

And, I’ll say it again, the judgment in that deadly tram incident was severely flawed and that case should be immediately re-opened and you should be punished.

What a mess. And all this from a self-confessed depressive. Is there any reason that I, or anyone, should trust you? Certainly not with something as complicated and delicate as the balance of world power?”

“Burn her. Burn the witch.” Cajoled a heckler. A confident roll of laughter thickened the Main Hall causing Sandy to stall.

[Sandy, blindsided, hurriedly addressed the audience]:
“Now look, don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side… the side of the Aussie battler… and battlers everywhere. I’m looking out for you. Been doing it for thirty years.

Look, I care deeply for Layla. Those communist WCA people have hoodwinked her. I’m trying to get her to face up to her responsibilities so she can be saved. Otherwise, she’ll take us all down with her. Remember how it turned out for my dear colleague Callo Callaghan?”

Another heckle. Sandy stared out at an aggressive and sarcastic field of faces. He’d lost the mob. He sighed and threw his arms up. Before they’d floated down again he got a second wind.

“Layla Parkin, you really think threatening to end civilization is the right approach? Of course, who wouldn’t be all for world peace and an endless land of plenty but you’ve got to go about it in the right way. Admit it to them. You are that mad monk. In this case, your desire for adulation has involved you in this most sinister crime.”

“First Einstein, and now you’re the Buddha right? I’ll make sure to keep my ceramics well away from you.”

Nasty barb. Sandy was offended and humiliated by it. She was playing to the audience which had descended into a troop of cackling boguns. They had to be told.

“This unity thing you’ve been spruiking… it’s all sentimental, new-age claptrap. And nothing can come of it. I have ample evidence that the major powers are not playing ball with your idea of a kumbaya global tea party. I have to wholeheartedly endorse their stance. They simply cannot be seen to talk with terrorists and this is the most blatant form of terrorism ever.

Look, Layla, you’re a beautiful girl. Melbourne loves you. The world loves you. We will be forgiving. If you actually have anything to do with this crisis, or know who does, back out of it and re-enter the fold. We’ll say no more of the past.”

“Hey, I’ve got a story too. Now, we all know, don’t we, that enlightened monks can perform miracles. Besides flying, they can walk through walls, read minds and even duplicate themselves.

Scandalously, the most talented monk, Sandy Hunt, used his supernatural ability to fly up into the air and collect a beautiful bowl. He had been goaded into it to by a woman who had loudly proclaimed that monks had no special capacities. When Cardinal Melland heard of this he was disgusted and summoned Sandy to him. The Cardinal, with his huge right arm, smashed the bowl into smithereens and ordered Sandy to never again use his hidden powers to impress people.

Our purpose, the Cardinal intoned, is to guide the people and comfort them in their suffering. The Cardinal issued an apology to the people. He assured them that this unfortunate incident would never be repeated and, in future, the enlightened ones would practice their spiritual and miraculous prowess safely out of the sight of the public. He cautioned against pursuing the path of that disbelieving, unruly woman. Her foolishness had tragically cost her life. It was a loss he mourned deeply”

“Okayyy. There’s really no point in continuing. That’s it for me. Taxi! I’m out of here.”

“Hey, say hi to your brother Mike for me.”

Sandy recognized that voice. Ann Glubben, a branch leader of one of Melbourne’s WCA groups. So crude. These people have no class. Sandy stood up and, pretending to be sitting in the back of a cab, bbrrr bbrrroomed out of his study towards the lounge room.

How strange. And how bout that… Sandy Hunt cares deeply for me. Now that’s sinister… and raw uuunngggah. He cares deeply alright, like a knife for its victim.

Layla became aware that the floor she lay on had a lovely hard, coldness. She twitched and shimmied her body to disperse the lovely over her skin.

Callo is indeed dead Sandy. You old croc! You wrote him a rousing, grief-stricken obituary in the Herald Sun. Soggy copies in every Melbourne cafe and fast food joint. You hated each other so publicly yet so many still sobbed along to your distressed rhetoric… convinced of the passion of your loss? Columnists! The more shocking, outrageous and conceited the better, it seems. Still, I bet Callo would have done the same. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe you guys fed off each other.

Yeah, I know… its all about entertainment. By the way, have you seen my hands glow? Self-publicists are even more appealing than car crashes. Just want to look though, not get involved. Look it’s no way to run a society but I suppose it can be a lot of fun.

Like last year, when Kevin Rudd twisted his ankle.

Sandy roared: “How can this lame Prime Minister run the country if he can’t run himself?”

It was so true. In the hierarchy of difficulty, running the country must be far harder than jogging therefore…

And Callo’s tweed jacket response: “Sandy Hunt barely conceals his hatred of difference at the best of times. His most recent display of brazen contempt for the challenges of the differently-abled community is reminiscent of Nazi Germany.”

Yes. Yes. Nothing wrong with invalids Sandy Hunt, shame on you. And, errr, where’s the Prime Minister gone? Not far probably, har har.

Did I overdo it with Hunt and Melland? Are they that bad? Let me think about it.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: