Am I the only one who’s disappointed there aren’t many more dying from this Chinese-engineered virus? Am I alone in feeling disappointed it hasn’t lived up to its full injurious potential?

Firstly, I’m genuinely irked that it hasn’t torn through China’s population like last summer’s bushfires through our parklands. But I’ll be honest, I am not prejudiced where this pandemic is concerned, I hope it kills everybody.

Well, maybe not everybody, I still need people to farm my food, brew my beer, and roll my cigars, but there are good prospects for a major culling of the human race and that’s what I’m hoping for.

See, I hate everybody. Sure, I prefer to be with my own kind but then the white race is so full of bogans, snowflakes and arseholes that it could do with a bit of thinning out just to improve the stock.

I don’t love you simply because you’re white — I expect certain standards to be maintained. Invoking ‘Hitler’ and ‘the Third Reich’ won’t save you either just in case you figure doing so will trigger a simpatico response. Don’t be coming on with your pan-universal white-race crap: I don’t buy it. Besides, I have often wondered what makes Germans think they’re not wogs: they wear silly costumes; they eat smelly sausages and drink crap beer; plus, they don’t speak English. All of that in my book makes you a wog. And if you’re not an Aussie, you must be a wog.

Anyway, that’s just so we’re understood that no one gets a free ride on my watch; you have to earn your corner of the room.

It goes without saying that I hope those segments of the population who I’ve noticed don’t even believe there is a pandemic are hammered by the virus the most. All those oblivious Asians that ignore social distancing rules as they track to the supermarket to cheat Australians out of whatever is on the shelves. I’ve been watching them. They don’t get away from me unscathed; as I’m prone to certain types of criminal behaviour. I’ll vilify them no matter how many busybodies with mobile cameras are about. I’ll let them know that it was their race that started this; either by eating rat’s mucous or because a klutz in a communist virus lab got splashed with bat blood. Furthermore, I expect Australian bystanders to not only support me but to join in. This might save you from the scoops.

Because the scoops are coming and I’ll be directing them. For anybody, regardless of race, who doesn’t maintain the minimum 1.5-metre distance, you’re guaranteed scoop fodder. Down come the scoops to scoop you up and dump you in the trash compactor with the rest of the waste.

Yes, I’ve been watching how people have responded to this crisis and I’m not surprised but even less impressed. Sleazy Indians who’ve worn a cloak of invisibility up till now thanks to the psychotic politeness of white guilt can no longer take advantage and push ahead in queues, which pretty much goes for all non-whites, particularly Africans and Boogawanalanders that I’ve observed. They have lived a life blessed by white people’s fear of calling them out lest they are labelled racist. The cloak of invisibility has come off along with the gloves. We not only see you, but we’ll be singling you out, and Tim Sloop’s 20 plus books on Racist Australia won’t save you since he’ll be the first stomped bloodily into the glass-strewn gutter along with his bag full of hoarded noodles.

Human trash being removed courtesy of the scoops

What triggered this journal of rage, you ask? Yeah, well I don’t mind saying: it was a trip outdoors during this phoney lockdown.

Now, I hate our Zionist government as much as the next good nativist. But in this case, they’ve got it right. Sure, it’s the only time in their deceitful existence that they’ve gotten anything together and it’s bound to be the last, yet it makes sense. And what bothers me are the galahs who’re ignoring the rules because they don’t feel the virus is serious enough. It hasn’t occurred to them that it’s exactly those tough measures that have kept the body count down from, say, Italy or America. And bearing in mind how close to China we are it’s also kind of a miracle.

So, instead of a lockdown, I exit my building into a suburb that is treating the sunny Sunday like any other. Lycra-clad munchkins on bicycles zip past spraying their beads of sweat like wet dogs shaking off. Thankfully, they are sticking to the road. However, I am forced to lend a wide berth to the family of Lingers on pedal bikes who, with dinging bells, approach me on the footpath in total contravention of the numbers rule; papa rice bowl wearing a rictus grin as I give him the death stare and yell out racist stuff, which Asians are adept at ignoring. It’s like watching a brace of ducks waddling past except they’re on pushbikes. This is the price I pay for living nearabout a bicycle track, but more so in a multiracial suburb filled with as many Chinese as there are Lebs and Indians.

Joggers, long the bane of this scribe’s existence, catch me unawares by slogging up behind me covered in potentially infected sweat. Huffing, chugging, and glistening repulsively in the sun they go, with my thundering voice trailing after the ‘His and Her’ fitness fanatic couple, warning them they’re more likely to spread the virus at this point than a Chinaman with a mouthful of turtle’s piss.

This is how easily my affable mood is ruined by idiots. This is how an otherwise equanimous chap is transformed from a footloose gentleman of leisure into a raging rah-rah man.

I haven’t even walked a block yet and already it’s apparent that many people either aren’t aware of the restrictions or don’t care. What’s more, nothing can be done since owing to the Lebanese population down this way the police are rarer to spot than an Aussie face in Bankstown mall. Therefore, it’s also evident that none of these supposed laws is actually being policed because I must’ve passed a year’s revenue in fines of rule-breakers in the last week alone.

Another thought occurs to me, so insightful that I actually remember to jot it down when I return: Is it any wonder that the people act like babies when the system infantilises them.

Regardless, I haven’t finished my account of an “essential” journey outdoors to visit the local Coles.

I’m also visiting my tobacconist. He’s a Greek man of middle-age who’s something of a religious nut. His shop is a part-convenience store, with a small range of household products, loads of candy, and soda fridges. However, among the other merchandise, such as Ice pipes, bongs, tobacco and assorted drug paraphernalia is a somewhat incongruous selection of bible quotes handwritten on photocopy paper in thick ink-pen and stuck up on the walls. They’re real end-of-world stuff. That’s the thing about gung-ho Christians, they’re loving all this, as in their minds, it proves them right about chucking in their lot with Jesus.

A child victim of COVID-19

However, there are two roads between me and his store, and before I reach the first set of lights a jet-black Holden Commodore pulls up, and almost as quickly as it jerks to a halt the driver leaps out. A stout Aussie girl with dyed-black hair, a black T-shirt and unflatteringly tight jeans wobbles straight out in front of me with her enormous rump undulating under the fabric of her jeans.

She senses I’ve stopped dead in my tracks and perhaps confrontationally turns around and asks, “Is something wrong?”

“SOCIAL DISTANCE!” I screech, ready to hiff a shoe at her head. “Oh,” she says as if it had never occurred to her.

At the lights, I preserve space between us almost as wide as her waistline or the gap between her ears but notice the traffic has slowed so I bravely cross.

It’s no better on the other side, and walking this street has become like playing a game of Pac Man. Nobody is distancing, so I have to dodge the oncoming human traffic, which often means crossing onto the road with all its inherent dangers.

I plan a good rant to the tobacconist, whose name I think is Con. At least, I imagine his name is Con. In point of fact, I have no idea what his name is. But a shaggy old bastard with rat-grey hair and a lump on his nose cuts ahead of me. It’s only a small store, and he’s an odds-on carrier, so I wait. But as he exits moments later a dark-skinned leech in a baseball singlet pushes ahead of me so I abandon this project until later and head to Coles. Dreaded Coles.

I have never been able to appreciate kids. I don’t know what it is but I definitely come from a traditional ‘children should be seen and not heard’ background that excludes the ‘seen’ part of that saying.

Worse yet, they’re probably the most virulent carriers of every germ going and thus to be avoided like the proverbial plague.

The tricky part here is that a little girl, white, on a pink kiddie’s bicycle is blocking the pathway to Coles. She has a child’s bike helmet on but there is no adult to be seen. Given that it’s only a tot I can’t very well let her have an earful, they have to be slightly older before I’d do that.

Once again, I move onto the road and veer around her only to come face to face with a dead-eyed Chinaman moving towards me without making any effort to widen the distance between him and I. It is a good thing then that I’m carrying an umbrella, expressly for the purpose of enforcing social distance. I let him get within a foot or two then I open it up: a big ballooning, joyous golfing umbrella canopy that so startles him as it unfurls right in his face. He squawks some gibberish before jumping back defensively. I almost laugh, but remember this is a serious matter and he shouldn’t be allowed to become trivialised. One day we may have to charge him with crimes against humanity for his part in the spread of choo flu.

It is a pity I’m not wearing rollerball gear when entering Coles because that way I might’ve sportingly deflected those funnelling into the store without making any concessions for distancing rules: those spiked pads and steel-toed shoes coming into their own. Likewise, it is troubling just how many people are out and about on this Sunday morning: I reckon half of them are only visiting Coles as an excuse to leave the house. Nothing is essential about their visit. They don’t really need anything because they’re the sort that hoarded half the available stock about two weeks ago. This makes me hate them even more.

Given I’m so paranoid about catching this thing, I wonder why it is that I haven’t broken out one of those surgical masks I bought on eBay and I remember: the only thing worse than catching Mao’s Revenge is looking like a tool. There are two things I shall never wear come what may: a restaurant bib, or a facemask in public. In the first instance, I would much prefer to ruin my good shirt, and in the second, better dead than look like a dickhead. So, given these provisos, I must be certain that nobody else on this planet comes within a fly’s piss of me until the pandemic is officially declared to be over.

The supermarket is definitely the Thunderdome of COVID-19. This is where the battle for survival is strongest, seeing as how we all must eat, but in fetching those supplies we put ourselves at the greatest risk of succumbing to the contagion. Bear in mind that the cautious are few and the foolhardy in the majority. Apart from those who stop at the front of the store so the Coles geek can disinfect their trolley others dither and meander. I must grab a basket on the way in. I have my umbrella but the basket also serves as a distancing weapon. Now, whether or not there is anything left to fill it with is the important question.

Welcome to the Kow Pungderdrome

Up the noodle aisle, looking for a five-pack of Maggi’s and I’m thwarted by a sad couple. The hubby has a floppy belly, sandy hair covering his eyes, and gay sandals. The missus is an Ewok. I wouldn’t normally pause to think bad thoughts about them but they’re in front of the noodles and I need them to fuck off. Noticing me, they whisper something between them, and then move towards me. I hiss, waving the umbrella, encouraging them to turn back the other way. Instead, they sidle past me terrified I might be out of my mind. I take a deep breath so I don’t inhale their germs, and then I hear the Ewok say, “What’s his problem?”

“I don’t want to catch what you’ve got,” I yell back, examining the shelves. Yes, there are noodles, and I place two packages in my basket.

People keep coming. One human after another. All potentially carrying this stinking virus. None minding the rules. Oh, how I yearn for the scoops.

Surprisingly, I find a display stand full of facial tissues. Facial tissues are better than dunny paper: softer on your ring. These packs are three-ply and fragranced with Aloe Vera, which must be good. I’m only allowed two boxes, but hey! This is a real score. Not that I’m running low on bog wrap, because unlike these ethnic pigs I don’t stuff myself every hour of the day with pungent high-calorie tucker.

These families are running on a combined scale weight of at least a tonne between them and what they excrete from their bodies could bury an armoured car. You don’t figure their supplies in terms of how many super packs of poo tickets they use but how many trees are logged just to keep their arses wiped. Selah.

Nobody will get out of my way. Two Coles workers stand near a tall stacking cart and don’t realise the obstruction they’re causing. And, even though it’s popular right now to extend goodwill to those working at the frontline in supermarkets, in my estimation they’re at the top of the list of those likely to have caught the wretched gook flu. Pardon me if I consider their dallying thus to be not only a waste of their employer’s time but a direct threat to my wellbeing.

An old git that I’m certain I threatened a fortnight ago sticks his head in the freezer door as I’m choosing a microwave meal and jovially says, “Ah, the wrong fridge. I can never find what I’m looking for.”

Normally, I would receive this social transaction and respond with an equal measure of perfunctory chitchat. But this is a time of international emergency and instead, I snap, “If you’re looking to have your head slammed in the fridge door then you’ve come to the right place.”

“Wha…?”

“Keep your fucking distance! You’re old enough to know better!’

Warily eyeing me, he moves away down the aisle. What did he expect? What made him think I’m gregarious? Stupid old git. Another clod that just can’t comprehend that the fate of the nation depends on him keeping his mouth closed and his distance from me.

Except for a few older persons wearing surgical masks, the majority of those who are shopping aren’t bothering to separate, so it’s entirely up to me to navigate myself through the gauntlet of idiots.

I find myself suddenly stopping when a human appears out of one of the aisles not even considering giving way, or another emerges from the sides of an aisle. It is evident that I’m the only person who’s actually stepping out of anyone’s way: nobody will do me the courtesy of removing themselves from mine. When they stand to block an aisle, as one elderly foreign couple did, I waited patiently until I could wait no more and exploded, “MOVE, YOU GERMBOTS!”

I’ve always hated the supermarket for its mediocrity but now I detest it for its specimens. It is the COVID-19 Thunderdome and until the bat bag is nixed, I’ll be up in the gladiator’s ring each time I shop for groceries. These necessities of life all sustain stupid, and that’s all I can make out of this thing as I undertake the final phase of this gladiatorial nightmare: the self-checkout.

For some reason, the staff person is forever looming over me when I’m at the self-checkout. Too close, way too close for comfort even though the girl, a Moslem, is wearing a surgical mask on top of her ludicrous headscarf. This I find both disconcerting and irritating in the extreme.

Then there is the geek I mentioned who stands at the front of the store disinfecting the trolleys while beaming like a goofball in a yellow hi-vis work vest. While I stand at the furthermost checkout machine by the store’s entrance, the cunt is within breathing distance of me. If I don’t catch a dose of China Virus then I’ll doubtless cop a waft of his spuming breath.

On the way out of the store, things don’t improve; I encounter the same funnel of shoppers that I did on the way in. Only, now they’re coming at me like zombies.

“So,” I grin at Con, or whatever his name is, as I stop for my daily order of three Romeo & Juliet no.2 cigars, “you’re a man of god.”

“I stand with Jesus, brother.”

“Doesn’t it all fit your prophecy or whatever it is. You know, what with the bushfires during summer, this virus, and the depression which is going to come from this. Isn’t it like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, although I’ve forgotten which is the fourth? Locusts or something?”

He suddenly looks serious, his gold crucifix glinting in the splash of light shining through the doorway of the store.

“Do you want to know when all of this started? It started in October of last year. Do you know what they did? The NSW government passed a law that allows a baby to be terminated at nine months old?”

“Far out.”

“The bushfires were God’s punishment. Nobody has the right to take human life, only God! Only God has that power, not man. That was the first sign, brother. God is now punishing us: he’s angry! This is why the bushfires started. If you don’t believe me, check the timeline, you’ll see.”

“Nine months, eh. That’s like waiting for it to be born and then smacking it by the head over the side of a trolley.”

“That’s right! It’s not for girls to go around living their lifestyle —”

“But what if she gets raped? I mean, what if the girl gets raped by a Sudanese or something, and she comes from a traditional family. Why should she have to give birth to a monster?”

“That’s a different thing, OK. That’s a different thing altogether. But these girls and the boys too that make babies — they are committing a sin.”

Another customer enters the store and I don’t feel comfortable with them overhearing our topic. I nod cursorily, indicating my intention to disengage from our tête-à-tête, but Con is on a roll.

“You have to know Jesus, bro, you have to have him in your heart.”

“Sounds like something.”

I nod, as my hands are full with two shopping bags and an umbrella under my arm, exit the store, and right next door is the pharmacy. I’m nearly out of my meds and no one else is in the shop. There is a strict three-person rule during this lockdown and I’m grateful it’s being observed. I order my meds at the counter. I worry about whether the retail assistant has been infected. Likewise, I wonder how a man so dedicated to God can be selling cigarettes let alone Ice pipes and bong paraphernalia but he’s a good bloke, Con, so I let it go.

I put down my bags and take a seat. A few moments later the pharmacist arrives with my prescription and takes it over to the checkout. So far, so good. But it isn’t long before a bush-pig in a shabby tracksuit scurries into the store anxious to solicit advice. She blathers at an employee, “Yes, I need something. I have symptoms, a runny nose, a dry cough, a heavy chest —”

“Faarrrk”, I say to myself, gathering up my scrip and dropping it in one of the bags, which I scoop up as I rush for the exit.

I had to happen, didn’t it; I made it through the Thunderdome but the pharmacist was a big mistake. That was stupid. The bush-pig didn’t even hide the fact she had all the symptoms of chop fluey. I figured, ‘I am a gonner for sure.”

I hate the regular flu, and as such, have psychically willed myself never to catch it. This fortified state of mind works up to a point. The last flu I had was two years ago, and I had a shot this year, so I am not expecting the regular kind. But I’ll be well and truly fucked if I plan on coming down with this insidious little Chinese contrivance. I’ve been fucked over by many a gook in this lifetime, I kid you not. My spite of them comes easy given the dealings I’ve had.

But I reserve my true malice for the human race in its entirety. Consequently, I return to the point at which I began this rant. I want the human race to devastated, but that’s not going to happen. Meanwhile, no amount of libertarian anxieties or anti-vaxxer paranoia will change the odds if one were to ignore drastic measures to contain this thing. Nowadays, people have no vision, they can’t see beyond their immediate needs for gratification. Whether or not the new technologies exacerbated that trait I couldn’t quite say right now, but I’d hazard a guess in the affirmative.

Nevertheless, hunkering down now might mean seeing in tomorrow, whereas rushing into the atmosphere to test whether or not one can breathe might be a gamble that proves one way or the other. That’s fifty-fifty odds against a certainty. This is how come I am observing the rules of a government that I despise from a system I am eager to see destroyed. The world will certainly be changed after this thing. The question is, will the measures taken by the Morrison government require a total sell-off of Australia’s assets to cover its debt to the world economy? Will this mean China being invited in after all that it has done to injure the entire world?

China will use this time of international vulnerability to make its move in the South China Sea and elsewhere. It will be all-hands-on-deck in Beijing’s war room. Thus, the virus is just the first hurdle.

The battle for Australia is yet to begin.

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