Apparently being questioned by Customs is a front page news article today. Old Mother Herald discusses some lass who spent up to two hours being questioned. Ooooh, the sniffers detected drugs but there weren’t any pills on her. Aaaaah, they questioned her age. Eeeeeeh, no-one actually makes that noise except grandfathers getting out of their chairs to go hit children with their canes. The point is, for fuck’s sake, there is a chain of events here that make me sad in my tummy.
1) Some bint gets questioned by customs.
2) Bint is so incensed at them thinking she was younger than her age she goes and finds a reporter to bitch at, a valuable use of the five days she is spending in our country to visit family
3) Reporter cares enough to submit this story to Old Mother Herald, who prints it along with some dire headline about this matter putting aforementioned bint off coming to New Zealand.
4) I read this and cry blood.
I don’t hate the whining baggage who started all this palaver. She is not of import to me. Nor is the reporter, making his money the only way he knows how while he dreams of making a mint with his erotic novel about the forbidden love of a farmer and his fistulated cow. Not even Old Mother Herald. Because it’s a supply and demand thing. Besom supplies whinge. Reporter supplies story. Paper supplies column inches. YOU CUNTS DEMAND. Somewhere out there is a target demographic, weighed, measured, recorded from tip to toe and analysed by machines bigger and more valve-filled than your bedroom, who this story is aimed at. You “OK” magazine-reading hand-wringing pisstanks.
…hang on. If these grand machines can analyse everything from the dandruff on your hobbit feet to the pustules on your scalp that pop when you brush your hair, then they must be able to figure out the advantage of pitching bullshit not only to the fans but to the foes as well. Perhaps Big Think COURTS anger and abuse knowing that one person who reads one nice story lets the buck stop there, while one angry middle-aged corporate zombie who reads something that fucks with their ulcer will trumpet it to dozens of unwilling listeners, spreading the attention like Marmite over a vast socio-economic slice of toast bread, free publicity for those advertisers selling you bee-shit supplements to smear on your buttocks or digital wonders that play music and films, read you bedtime stories and steal your dreams for the Dream Emperor on his jagged throne of raccoon penis-bones… Dear Sweet Jesus I am in the system, I am manipulated into posting this by electronic minds vastly superior to my own steam-powered thought-box, I am but a pawn in a game whose rules I’ll never learn, oh the inhumanity… Free will is a myth, god has been replaced by an Apple Mac, the devil is a teenage computer hacker from Norway and we’re all going to die. Thank you and good night.