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The Rae St Institute > Blog archive > OMG GIV IN 2 DA gSUS!!11oneone - also featuring A trip down Memory Lane

About a fortnight ago myself and my erstwhile compatriot and fellow traveller The Colonel were accosted during early Friday night pre-flight checks in Bourke Street Mall by a young lass insistent upon us reading the pamphlet to the left.

When it comes to misuse of the language, I'm flexible. To a degree. There are certain things I cannot abide: SMS abbreviations in everyday conversation - SMS abbreviations in SMSes for that matter - SMS translations of worthwhile literature, SMS translations of theory (Deleuze is already fucking indecipherable enough..)... but there are certain things that resonate somewhere between amusement and indifference.

One of these is The SMS Bible.

Actually I find it downright funny. Furthermore as a devout atheist, it illustrates as much as any salivating televangelist the desperation of Religion-As-Marketing. I mean, to shred the shit out of the archetypal Canonical text in the interests of Greater Market Penetration?

Fucking gold.

So to have this cheap attempt at being "hip" foisted upon us by a bunch of dumpy middle aged white Fundies and their confused daughter/niece/whatever crystallised the reason why I am not and never will be religious.

The other side of the coin is that handing a pamphlet like that to the two dangerous lunatics concerned could have proved problematic, had it happened later on..

See, the night progressed thus - we dropped by at the Institute briefly to finalise construction of The Rae Street Institute Department of Doing Fuck All, sink a beer or five, and then sketch out a plan of attack for the evening.

And a little later, The Colonel and I took a trip down Memory Lane.

Memory Lane is exactly like Brunswick Street, with a few subtle differences. The sky is luminous, and everything is the wrong shape. Every woman has vines crawling all over her back, and every man is an avid pugilist. It's unsafe to cross the road except at the lights because you never know when some fucked up pulsating Green Bubble Car is going to come from nowhere and smash you into a million tiny pieces. It's unsafe to walk down the footpath because you're either about to be strangled by a stray vine, or get into a fight.

It's a deceivingly inviting street - while it's attractive to the senses, it's actually extremely fucking perilous, and bilaterally dangerous: visitors are threatening to each other, and the environment is dangerous to them. Just below the glossy, ad-mag surface bubbles something terribly fucking sinister.

So, in this heightened state of readiness for battle, when we came across the confusing fact that Johnston Street was devoid of cars, with flashing lights at the distant opposite end of the block, and people stumbling around confused, we came to the strange and solemn realisation that something extremely significant was going on: it was either profoundly BAD, or GOOD, or WEIRD, or probably a combination of all three. Had someone bombed a club? Was something on fire? Were the police raiding something? Were we on a film set? Struggling to see, with a sense of intense terror and looming destruction, we stumbled into a bar and watched Rumsfeld furrow his way through bad poetry and Ellen Fanning prostitute herself to the machine... AGAIN.

And then somewhere around this point we became aware that the remainder of the evening would be premised on several core facts:
  1. The street was being set up for the Spanish Festival the next day. Nobody was dead, nobody was being raided, nothing was on fire.
  2. We, funnily enough, weren't the two most fucked up people in the place
  3. We had to promptly get ourselves the fuck away from polite society before something genuinely sinister actually DID happen.
We cautiously made our way back into the Green Zone, and sequestered ourselves in a now heavily fortified Institute.

Only the combination of the two dangerous lunatics myself and the Colonel had become when confronted with the offensive barrage that was Memory Lane could turn something so simple into something so complicated and fraught with risk.

Somewhere in the back of my mind the scene played out differently.
"STAND WELL BACK! STAND WELL BACK!" we bellowed at the crowds gathering on an empty Johnston Street.

"The situation is under control. Nothing to fucking see here people, move along."

The Colonel waved something that might have been anything, but was most probably a builders drill, high above his head, and we charged on into the darkness astride ride-on mowers.

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