Pottery Corner 8

Spike
Tribute to Nick Cave

She'd knocked them back and staggered home
But soon began to flounder
And as the sidewalk slipped away
That's when yours truly found her

I took her in with my concerns
She wailed about her creditors
I helped her up to my place warning
Her of sexual predators

I held her hand and sympathised
In tones so reverential
But all the while my body's craving
Something far more sensual

I palmed the dropper like an ace
The charlatan was keeping
And twenty minutes later Anne Marie
Was soundly sleeping

My kiss was firm the fire it burned
Caresses long and sensual
By the way that whore was moving
Youd've sworn it was consensual

Now some of you will shake your heads
But I would contradict
Cos Brother stand where I'd been stood
No jury would convict

Oh rohypnol my special friend
Prelude to copulation
My silent partner ever near
Deliver my temptation


(End of poem. The next bit doesn't rhyme)

If this story is to be believed, then a third of us think that a woman is at least partly to blame if she is raped after acting flirtatiously, getting drunk or dressing provocatively. I had no idea that the Daily Mail was circulating so widely these days.

Just think about it. On any given jury there are four members who automatically think that she was asking for it.

If you're sat with two other people right now, statistically, you're sharing a space with someone who thinks rape's okay in certain circumstances.

Take a good look, and ask yourself: Which one of them is it?

"Obsolete" Steve Austin Quits

Steve Austin, the world famous "Six Million Dollar Man" has finally quit his work as a special operative for the US government, after complaining bitterly of unfair treatment and victimisation.

"Steve's had his day." A Pentagon insider told us today. "He's had a good run, but he has to admit that he just isn't that special any more."

It famously cost the US government Six Million Dollars to put astronaut Steve Austin back together after the jet engine he was testing exploded. But thanks to advances in technology since the early seventies, that same level of upgrading is said to be worth fractionally more than two hundred dollars.

"By modern standards, Steve's a toaster." A Pentagon outsider admitted. "We've come a long way in a short time, and now that his old parts are wearing out, we just don't think it's economically viable to replace them. We've offered to swap his old legs for a set of shiny new wheels but there's just no talking sense into him these days."

Steve has had a very bad run of luck. His divorce from Jamie Summers, the much celebrated Bionic Woman, was inevitable, as this Hexagon informer revealed: "Steve was programmed by IBM and Jamie was programmed by Macintosh. Sooner or later they were going to have to admit that they just weren't compatible. They simply didn't support each other."

So the future looks pretty bleak for the man who inspired so many of us to run around the playground in slow motion. "It's getting harder and harder to find guys who can still read tikatape." A dodecahedron infighter added. "Steve's interphase hardware is unstable, difficult to operate, and requires thousands of square feet of flashing lights, endlessly spinning tapes and tiny green screens. It's becoming as difficult to find technicians who still remember the old pre-DOS routines than it is to find the old Radio Shack components."

In related news, K.I.T, the camp, vehicular sidekick to Michael Knight has also had a bad week, after being sold for scrap by the Foundation for Law And Government. A FLAG insider said: "Kit seemed pretty impressive in the eighties. But these days most people have more processing power in their mobile phones. Get a PDA and Tom-Tom and you've pissed all over anything we could have dreamed of twenty years ago."

In response, the fudge-nudging computer said "Hold on, Michael." before being flattened by a container load of Mister T action figures.

Monday Garbage

Ladies, it's Wheelie-Bin Night.
That's right, girls. Time to open up the big flap and dump it all down.
Check out the funky black wheels, girls. Smell the rubber; it's vulcanised. I've greased my axel and now it's dripping.
Oh yeah, honeys. Wheelie-Bin Night. Time to get filthy. Time to unwrap those feather-light liners, baby. Long, sleek and black. Just the way you like it.
Don't be shy, girls. Let's see those big white numbers that you normally keep hidden away. Some people might say it's dirty. But we know that's just trash.