The wonderful thing about Tiggers

Is, of course, that Tiggers are wonderful things. No-one ever mentions their views of a racially pure Europe though...

It is the 5th of February, 1934

In the shade of an old oak tree, two squirrels make plans. An hour passes, then they exchange a solemn handshake and depart.
 No-one knows exactly what happened under that tree, but the next day, the Far-Right Leagues attempt a coup in Paris. The event is just one of many political crisises to rock the Third Republic, and yet another example of the determination squirrels show in their obsessive quest to destroy France.
 Remember, Squirrels are the enemy! I've you've ever enjoyed a croissant or made love to a beret, defend France! Gather up as many squirrels as you can and put them in a sack, then launch the sack into space!

It's about the birds and the bees, but I'm using a different metaphor.

"Where do babies come from?"

 I looked around in confusion. Nearby, a small child stood by the shop door, looking at me with expectations. Of course, I probably shouldn't talk to strange children on the street, not after the last time, but this child was rather fat and ugly, so I'd probably be fine.

 "Well, isn't that a question you should ask your parents?" I replied, hoping to reach safe ground. After all, talking to a strange child is one thing, but talking to a strange child about sexy sex is where things start to get sinister. That's where it went wrong last time. Damn children with their sexy talk.

 "I did." The fat, ugly child replied. "I asked mummy, and she said the stork brings them."

 "Ah!" I sighed with relief. "Yes. That's right. A stork flies children to mummies and daddies who want them."

 "But where does the stork get them from?" Fatso Uglyass asked

 "What?"

 "Does he make them? The babies, they have to come from somewhere. Or does the stork get a supply from somewhere else? And how does he decide who gets which baby?"

 "I... erm? He just has babies, I think. He doesn't make them, storks don't have hands!" I had been shaken for a minute, but felt I was regaining ground now I'd established storks didn't have hands.

 "So he just has a big pile of babies? In his house?"

 "Erm... No, I think he has a storage unit or something. A warehouse, you know?"

 "And how does he decide who gets which baby? I mean, most babies look like their parents, and they've got the same skin and things. So does the stork get a picture of the parents and find a baby that looks like them?"

 "Yes, that's it!" I replied. Thinks were getting out of hand fast. Not out of hand like last time, of course, which is fortunate. But still out of hand.

 "But what about children who don't look like their parents? Or children with problems. My friend Tommy has three ears. Did his parents ask the stock especially for a kid like that, or did the stork think they deserved a child with three ears?"

 I began to look around in panic. Resisting the temptation to start calling out for the child's parents, I tried to think of a plausible answer.

 "Three ears? How does he have three ears?"

 "Well, he's got his normal two, and a third ear, on the back of his head. His hair usually covers it, but you can see it when he's had a haircut."

 I nodded, that made sense. A few seconds passed in silent contemplation, and the shop door opened. A young woman came out, and taking the child's hand, turned to me.

 "Hi. I hope he hasn't been bothering you." She asked. I smiled politely and shook my head, but didn't say anything. I probably should have, but I felt shy. She smiled too, a look of gentle confusion spreading across her face. Then, muttering goodbye, she turned and left, taking her podgy, ugly spawn with her. I went home.

 Halfway, I saw another young woman, this time pushing a pram. I smiled politely and cooed at the child. Suddenly, two storks rushed from a nearby alleyway, wearing masks and waving pistols. In a flash, they grabbed the baby and took off into the sky.

 Leaving the woman shouting angrily at the sky, I headed home whistling happily. Well, I thought, that answered the question of the day. Fortunately, I'd tagged the lardy child from earlier, and tonight I'd find him and answer his question about storks. I think I'll sneak into his room later, and laugh at his ugly face when he's asleep, leave him a note explaining the whole thing.

Politics

A filthy Commie.
Image via Wikipedia.

The heavy rainfall continued. You don't care though, do you? You think the weather's just for old people and owls, don't you? Well, I don't give a damn what you think.

"Can't we go in?" Max pleaded from the other side of two watery coffees.

 "No." I replied. "We're staying here until after 6."

 The reason for staying outside - beyond, of the course, the vague possibility that Max may catch hypothermia and die - was that Raiden (Yup, we're still doing that) was still plaguing my home, teleporting in and out of the living room to tell me about his day. His day was never interesting. The highlight of his week, I understood, had been seeing a documentary on seals. I used to like seals, but now I just want to club their adorable faces in and eat their fatty innards.

 "Besides, the rain's letting off a little."

 Max shrugged an indifferent agreement. The rain was definitely reducing in watery volume. Near the cafe table at which we had situated ourselves, the pavement began to bustle with life. Wet life, but life all the same.Seals are a type of wet life. Little bastards.
 Seemingly drawn out by the temporary drynessity, a few men and women began to stroll the aforementioned city streets. Their shoes splished and splashed into puddles and gutters, and little waves spread across the street. It was all nice and shit. Nearby, a wombat walked purposefully to the street corner and stepped up onto a soap box.

 "Is that a marsupial?" I asked Max out of curiosity.

 "Yea, wombat I think."

 Max's suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when the short-legged, muscular quadruped began to talk in a strong, clear Australia accent.


 "Good morning, comrades!" He yelled in a strong, inflected voice.


 I looked up in interest. Wombats, as is well known, hold strong Communist views. Whether you agree with them or not, they often make compelling, charismatic speakers, and I was eager to hear one in action. However, I quickly realised that I wasn't going to witness such a spectacle today.


"Hey! Hey you!"


 From the other side of the street, a haranguer emerged from a small crowed. Smartly dressed, he was some kind of creature made of potato sacks. In fact, as I watched him move across the street, I came to imagine him still filled with potatoes. His sack-arms heaved as he pointed and gesticulated, large bumps rolling and bulging across his personage. 


 "Yes!" He yelled as the Wombat looked to him in response. "I'm talking to you, you... you womb-bat!"


 I furrowed my brow, but continued to watch the ongoing scene.


 "Yes sir, you have a question. Or perhaps you want to silence me!" To this he raised an energetic jeer from the crowd. "Yes, you fear me talking! You want to stop me before I tell these people the truth!"


 This too raised a roar from the crowd, who turned in unison to see the newcomer's reply. Throwing back his cheeks, the man huffed and puffed in shocked, angry indignation. He shook, recovering himself, and prepared to speak.


 But Suddenly, a third figure arrived on the scene, riding triumphantly into the argument on the back of a lion. Her gown fluttering behind her, I recognised the figure of Britannia. Raising her trident, she thrust and jabbed in an arousing manner, knocking the Wombat aside her path.


 "Down with diesel! Oats, power cars with oats!" She yelled triumphantly.


 "But that isn't the argument mate?" The Wombat called out from the paving. "We're debating political ideologies. And you've gone and ruined it!"


 "Yea!" Yelled the sack of Potatoes, "How will I dispute this man's Capitalist stance if you go about knocking people down an' yelling?"


 "I'm a Communist!" Yelled the injured marsupial.


 "Oh." Potato-Sackman mumbled. "Me too."


 Britannia, dismounting and removing her helmet, explained that she too leaned far to the left.


 Joining arms, the three skipped merrily into a nearby hardware store, returning soon with red and yellow paint. First painting the town red, then gently painting the hammer and sickle onto the street walls, they made their way into the distance.


 I watched them go, their linked arms catching on lamp-posts and passers-by. This, I thought to myself through sips of coffee, was exactly why New Zealand won the Cold War.

Fear

Fucking hell. I was going to write some kind of fictional excuse for why I haven't posted for a while. But the typy-bloggy box thing has changed.
 God I'm scared...