Bombs can turn your car into convertible

I WAS not at all sure what caused it.

My roof paint had vanished in areas, only small, but down to the zinc, fair dinkum.

As a true Sherlock Holmes, I reckon it was a flying croc’s bite, or maybe a meteorite, I saw one on that National Geo doc on Netflix, Lost In Space.

Simply so many possibilities, I turned my incredible deductions (like the banks) to the air, and I thought someone could have flushed on board the 11.15 Qantas and it landed on me, not dissimilar to what my mates do to me on a Saturday.

There’s the chance the next door neighbours tossed a stubby, wheely bin or my motor mower on the roof, or were a couple of geckos romantically entwined, and the result of the ensuring shenanigans, was the well-worn spot on the roof.

Naturally one of these would be the truth, but to confirm I went to a paintologist with a photo.

Shane took one look, didn’t flinch, and said bat poo.

I simply couldn’t believe it, I’m never eating another mango.

If this is what reconstituted mango comes out as, I’d be scared to go to the loo, think about it … actually best you don’t.

This stuff from the southern end of your average Dan Gleeson gardens cute little flying rat, can eat through anything.

If you park under a mango tree for a day, and the foxes use your car roof as a porta loo, you’ll have skylight in no time, if it’s there for a week, you’ll have a convertible.

Have the scientists of JCU examined this toxic material, find out its properties, and send out a warning to the world through the UN, UNESCO, Spectre, Kaos, One Nation, and all the other agencies.

This could be a global threat, forget climate change, with the number of bats in Gleeson Park, the Oonoonba mangroves and parks at Ingham, we need to be vigilant of a possible attack.

I reckon I slept under a mango tree, a healthy bat above me, and that’s what happened to my hair.

OK, that was a positive look at the negatives, let’s have a negative look at the positives, um, won’t be a sec, talk among yourselves.

OK here’s one, and a beauty, the RAAF, Royal Australian Air Foxes.

If we train a squadron of these bats to defecate on demand, our air force would be unbatable, err beatable.

So now we come to the end, actually we were at the end at the beginning, because that’s where it began.

Our flying foxes, our darling and dangerous bats, our terror of the trees, this ‘BP’ bat poo that eats into anything, is now known by our RAAF as the next FA/18’S, foxes a…….bottoms, 18!

But what shall we call this dreaded substance, how about battery acid.

‘All Australians Day’ on Sunday, let’s hoist the flag, handshakes and hugs, celebrating being US.

In 10 days, in our streets along the Ross, one year ago exactly, there were literally hundreds, of Australians of The Year.