THE SKY IS FALLING!
INFORMER IS DONNING THE HARD HAT AS HE PREPARES FOR THE END OF THE WORLD AS HE KNOWS IT
Informer has been laying low this week, just in case the sky fell in or the moon exploded or the sun turned to ice or the rivers turned to fire or Mrs Informer’s head started spinning like it did in the late 1970s when we couldn’t move for wailing priests in the bedroom.
I continued to keep my head down to avoid the likelihood of my bank account being suddenly drained or Mrs Informer’s account being suddenly full or the kids deciding never to leave home or the car coming to a grinding halt on the M1 or all my fillings dropping out or someone buying me a season ticket to the Titans for 2018, or worse, front-row seats at Metricon for Bon Jovi.
I admit to popping my head up for a few seconds to check whether Neil Diamond had hired my business to promote his new album or zombies were walking the Earth or I’d been invited to spend a long weekend in Adelaide or I’d spilled ketchup over myself five minutes into Diner En Blanc. I lay doggo a bit longer in case my son became a Scientologist or my daughter turned vegan or someone, anyone, in the local media had a good word to say about the Commonwealth Games or every meal I ate had carrots in it or the world ran out of bacon and coffee.
I then remained hidden for fear that Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un might have joined forces to become Ding Dong Pumpkin or Big Dump Long Tonk or Dim Dum Kath-unKim and put their stupid heads and stupider haircuts together and accidentally nuked Switzerland when they were aiming for New Zealand.
Out of sight I cowered to prevent suddenly caring about the 10 best places on the Gold Coast for a coffee or burger or pizza or seaweed smoothie or kale pie strained through a meter maid’s bikini or smashed roadkill brioche or organically distressed octopus ice cream or quinoa enema or pulled pork with a happy ending or a takeaway baked fake steak and hake cake served as a shake on a rake by a lake during a quake.
I huddled hidden to the very last minute to ensure I didn’t eventually emerge to find that rap, reggae and rugby union had become palatable or everything was politically OK in Ipswich or I was overcome by the urge to see every Adam Sandler movie ever made or had become convinced that neck tattoos look really excellent. And when finally I did return to the light of day, it turns out nothing had happened and there was never anything to worry about it.
All this crouching in corners and behind cupboards just because I voted Yes on the same sex marriage survey.
I still don’t know why some people continue to make such a fuss and spread such fear, loathing and misinformation.
After all, Mrs Informer and I have been enjoying the same sex since the early ’80s, namely the first Tuesday of every leap year. Roll on January 2020.
So take it from one who is still feeling a little sheepish as he hoses the mess out of the crawl space, if you have still to return your postal survey, vote as you see fit, but please see fit to vote Yes.
My guess is all that will happen is love, equality and tolerance.
“MRS INFORMER AND I HAVE BEEN ENJOYING THE SAME SEX SINCE THE EARLY ’80S, NAMELY THE FIRST TUESDAY OF EVERY LEAP YEAR.”