No, it isn't the new Scientology themed chain of restaurants; it's in reference to the fact that the cultish freaks were lambasted on the radio this morning. It was part of a segment discussing freakish religions and it was in the top three with the Destiny Church and the Vanuatu cult that worships internationally famed racist Phil the Greek. They are not just crazy; they are Japanese game show crazy, the lot of them. However, in my book it is the people who donate to Scientology who really do “fundamentalist”.
The week continues to be weird. Our new cat, Xena, is either a genius or a complete imbecile. She has a propensity to scream all of the time, kicks off on the other cats for absolutely no reason and has an appetite like a blast furnace. The resulting presents she leaves for us in the tray are as hazardous as to the health as rods of plutonium and any trip that takes you within spitting distance of the kitchen means she will make a beeline for you and then start screaming for food for the next 45 minutes. The other day she was unusually quiet, and despite some other strange noises in the background, we got on with our business thinking that she was at last calming down. Eventually Xena emerged from the hall with the washing basket over her. When the other cats came to investigate as she slid it along the floor, a claw came lashing out from the holes in the basket. Had she invented the world's first feline testudo or is she just an idiot? I'll keep an open mind.
The next day saw a trip to Cheesefest. No, it wasn't a David Hasselhoff worshipping event, but a festival of New Zealand cheeses with free samples of both mouldy milk products and local vino. Needless to say the wife had booked us in thirty seconds after it was announced.
It was very good even though we were both sick of the sight, smell and taste of cheese after 40 minutes. The old wives tale seems to be true as we both had weird dreams afterwards too. Hers involved Chris Moyles and mine involved electrifying the sexual organs of Ashley Cole in order to get him to tell me all he knew about string theory. I then punched out Stephen Hawking for cheating on Chezza.
If you're reading this, Stephen, I'm very, very sorry. If you're reading this, Ashley, you were wrong about zero-dimensional horizons and I'm coming for you with the rusty pliers.
The Baptist Church posse were out again when I jogged past the other morning in an effort to get the smell of blue cheese and fried gonads out of my nostrils. This time they had drafted in two other women, one Maori and one Pakeha. I think next time I'll just stop and join in and see where it leads. I may end up doing either Tai Chi of worshipping the Great Cthulu, but I think the risk is acceptable in either case.
Speaking of dodgy Churches, Christchurch, or as I now prefer to think of it- Bram Stoker's Christchurch, hasn't been in the news much this week. I don't know if they have reclassified what constitutes as murder in an effort to drop the stats or if they have been unibrow-beaten into submission, but it is too damn quiet. Maybe they are all staying in watching NZ's top rated TV programme of last week "Piha Rescue". Set on the world's second most dangerous stretch of sand other than a building site in Gaza, it is the real life drama of lifeguards rescuing swimmers, eating Tim Tams and talking about rescuing swimmers and eating Tim Tams. Imagine Baywatch without the looks or charm and you pretty much have it spot on. No word of a lie, people actually go to the beach in the hopes of getting on the series.
Sort of like Leeds and Crimewatch, really.
Finally there was much amusement the other night when the news report show 60 Minutes returned to Kiwi screens and had a special (and very good) slot on the hunt for internet paedophiles. After this segment, the first advert was for Michael Jackson's This Is It dvd. It is either a sly dig or as my good mate Chris says "target marketing".
Chamone!
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