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Pushover Revolutionary Rice

Rice Pudding

Do you find after feeding the masses their main meal you made too much rice? Here’s what you can do with leftover rice, which can be deployed as a nutritious replacement for wasteful, exploitative, expensive packaged cereals for brekkie/brunch/desserts for days afterward.

Leave the fluffy, strained, cooked rice in the saucepan and add a suitable amount of coconut milk to maintain a creamy texture – not too stiff or runny, then sugar, vanilla, sultanas, macadamia nuts, dried cranberries, or whatever else your imagination provokes, and simmer for 5 minutes. Cool, refridgerate or freeze for later, or offer immediately as dessert. Stored and frozen in recycled containers, you also have instant food to deliver to your ailing friends struck down with the plague who may not feel like cooking for themselves. Combine with Isosauce, and your mates can enjoy an easy complete meal with minimal effort.

Pushover Revolutionary Rice saves you precious time you could otherwise spend plotting to overthrow capitalism, on poetry, art or other meaningful, under-appreciated work. Help defeat capitalist monopolies and bourgeois alternatives with delicious mouthfuls created by your own time-saving toil.

Pictured here served with icecream, yoghurt, fruit and meringues.

Deep Retreat

The Frangipani Path

At the top of the hill, twelve white-robed women filed into a clearing in the forest. In the centre grew a frangipani tree in full bloom, emanating elegant fragrance. On the other side, veiled by a pink thicket of quisqualum, a dark entrance was barely visible.

“Wait, my sisters, and anoint yourself with the sacred oil,” said Elysia, the group’s leader. “We have arrived for your ascension. You first, Arcolia. Your vibrational energy is exceptional.”

Through the hoop pines, the solstice sun flickered its morning rays across the clearing, illuminating the mouth of the cavern. Arcolia smiled serenely at the other women, knowing her journey to the photon band had succeeded. Finally, she was to be initiated into the Frangipani Sisterhood.

Grasping her carved quartz sound bowl, Arcolia followed Elysia to the secret sanctum of the High Priestess Frantia.

….

“Just smell these high frequency aromas, Wendy, absolutely spectacular,” Carol gushed and beamed.

I had to admit they were delicious.

Carol had always loved yoga classes. She stumbled across the Frangipani Path through a goat meditation yoga workshop at Byron Bay. On her return, she paid up eagerly for the introductory 12 week online Franginitiate course. A cool thousand seemed like a lot to me for a couple of zoom sessions a week with Mother Frantia. And the scented oils and lotions to complement the meditation exercises cost a mint too, as did the Frangipani chakra toning tapes.

After the sixth week, Carol was hooked.

“Mother Frantia tells me I have perfect potential to become one of their best teachers. During meditation, she introduced me to my Archangel guide Razeel from the Pleiades. He spoke to me and promised to reveal all my past lives and merge them into me. First I must achieve the ceremonial initiation into the Frangipani Sisterhood.”

“What do you mean he ‘spoke’ to you. Did you actually see him?” I struggled to conceal my mirth.

“I saw a golden cloud in the zoomroom and his voice came from the cloud. They call it sound alchemy.”

Sounded like a lot of hooey to me.

“Where does the money go, Carol?”

“The Frangipani Sisterhood has a wonderful network of retreats, oracles, sound healers and spiritual trainers. It’s really exclusive. They only take women who are truly suited for the holy tasks. Because of my potential, they’re giving me a really big discount.”

Four weeks of arcane ministrations and meditations at these retreats would still cost her $60,000.

“Nothing but the best, look at the gorgeous website, Wendy. The High Sisters can levitate. I’ve seen them in my net sessions.”

“Carol, anything can be faked over the internet. More likely they lift your bank account and leave you with a credit card burden.”

“No, my darling, these are holy women who have gained their knowledge at the best ashrams in India and Native American sweat lodges. Mother Frantia even met the Dalai Lama and stayed in a real ancient Egyptian temple of Isis near Cairo. The sisters have thousands of years of experience with only the best mystic guides and past lives from all over the world and time. And their Archangels visit from throughout the galaxy. We come from the stars and return to them eventually, you know. I’m longing to bathe in my Archangel’s divine energy.”

None of my sensible questions could divert her enthusiasm, not even when I told her if she could prove any of this, the Australian Skeptics Association would give her a cool million.

“It’s not about the money, don’t be so crass, Wendy. These are sweet, loving, enlightened women!”

In a month, Carol had finished her course and attained her Franginame, Arcolia. She received a plaque of commemoration recognising her candidature which she displayed proudly in her tasteful meditation room.

The retreat itinerary was frantic. First, some Maori chanting with taonga puoro communication with the deities, then chakra tonings, frangiopathy, a didg and drum circle, frangireiki and a variety of yoga styles, karanas and kahuna massage. Set in lush rural seclusion, the lodgings seemed very luxurious, clean and white on the web, with shining devotee faces grinning ecstatically at each other as they carried scented candles through aisles strewn with frangipanis. The food at least looked interesting – a panoply of exotic oriental menus, with frangipanis ever present in the food or as decorations.

Still, I was worried. What if they wanted even more of her hard-earned savings? I searched the net and located the company which owned the web site in Sydney. I rang the number, pretending to be an Ayurvedic artisanal frangipani oil maker.

“Oh, we’re just an accountancy firm,” a woman’s efficient voice replied. “You will want to speak with the company direct. They are based in the US. We just handle their local branch business. You can email them from their site.”

I was running in dwindling, swindling circles.

In case, I kept a careful record of the information and took screenshots of the Frangipani site.

Next week, I farewelled my friend as she flew down to Brisbane to begin her adventure.

“Email me, Carol, let me know how you go.”

“No phones on this trip, darling, the G vibrations interfer with the cosmic floral light codes and disrupt my DNA transformation, but there’s net access at the retreats. Can you make sure you cuddle Pussums every day for me?”

Every few days I received another happy note from her and my fears began to subside.

At the end of the four weeks a longer message arrived.

“We’re at our final retreat now, somewhere near Bellingen, darling. It’s so gorgeous here, and the guru, Swami Bababaa, he’s a dream boat. He stands in the temple of the Goddess and sees women as they truly are. His Arcturan tantric techniques are out of this world. I’ve never experienced anything like it. After my ascension to immortality tomorrow, he says I can stay on and teach. He is sure I have the gift. Please look after my cat till I can pick her up. Sunshine and celestial moonbeams to you.”

Sadly I stared at Pussums. The grey cat blinked back at me. Though I trusted she was well, I missed my friend.

After that, I received short emails sporadically about her wonderful new life embedded in the Frangipani Path community, the glories of psychometric angelic instruction with new initiates and the sublime wisdom of Bababaa. Yet Carol never asked about Pussums and didn’t respond to my questions about her exact location. One of the emails hinted she was considering a mission post at a new floral ashram in Bali.

Months passed. Then one year. My curious concerns transmuted to unease and I began considering a jaunt to the covid-ridden Northern NSW wilds to search for my friend.

Then, out of the blue the phone rang. It was a mutual acquaintance, Lucy, another yoga enthusiast on whose husband Carol once practised her new tantric skills. Whether Lucy knew or cared, I’d kept my mouth shut.

“Quick, turn on the news, they’ve found Carol!”

At the bottom of a mineshaft around two hundred women’s bodies had been discovered by bushwalkers, who’d smelt something strange above and beyond the sweetness of a frangipani grove.

Immediately I checked the Frangipani Sisters website. It had vanished along with all associated social media.

I collected my saved information, copied it to a USB stick and headed to the police station. Though I may not be able to bring Carol back, I could pursue justice for her and the others.

Yet it turned out the Australian retreats had been sold and they never found the Frangipani grifters who’d completely emptied their victims’ accounts as well. FBI corporate searches hit a dead end since the parent structures had dematerialised along with their fraudulent progenitors. Perhaps they’d ascended to some far flung tax haven in the West Indies, or had set up another sting for gullible fools elsewhere. Like their floral namesake, also the emblem of Palermo in Sicily, the scammers were great survivors even under extreme heat.

Today I can’t look at or smell a frangipani blossom without feeling nauseous.

Jinjirrie
December 2021

If you would like to encourage my story writing, your donations are happily accepted.

Mr Speaker Stand Up

Scummo

Cando Bullshit

A lot of people from down south jibe and sneer at Queensland and us banana benders, especially those of us who don’t live in the city. You live 50 years in the past, they reckon. Well i’m here to tell you we in the Noosa hinterland are as erudite and edumacated as any of those Antarcticans. And if Queensland wasn’t so great, why have they been moving up here from down south in droves since the Covid hit? why do so many of them holiday in Noosa? why are they buying up all our houses?

So I decided to prove how in touch we are round here, by interviewing people in the local Cooran shop and asking them about our one and only prime monster, Scummo. Yeah, so Queensland gave Canberra the ghoulish Pauline Hanson, Malcolm Roberts, George Christenson, Matt Canavan, Potatohead and a couple of Mad Katters, but look what we got in return? and now he’s reckoning we can’t go to coffee shops in Briso? bollocks mate, we’ve barely noticed lockdowns. It’s him with his vaccine strollout who hasn’t noticed, the way he never notices how many times he says “Mr Speaker” in Question Time. But we notice.

Here’s a good one Laurie from round the corner told me.

A liar, a dogwhistling opportunist and an incompetent leader walk into a bar.
The bartender says “What can I get you, Mr Morrison?”

So you didn’t get it? wake the fuck up, Scummo relies on you mob being half asleep to pull the wool right over yer eyes.

Scummo doesn’t hold a hose to folks round these parts. As long time local Carol told me, the only hose he actually holds is his own and even then he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Then there’s Annie, who’s worked from home as an artist for years before covid. Here’s her sparkling wit.

This bloke went to a job interview and they asked about his work ethic.

He said, “I don’t give a fuck about my work colleagues getting death threats or raped or sexually harassed, just as long as someone takes lots of photos when I get a haircut instead of working.”

And they said …

Congratulations Prime Minister, when can you start?

Yeah, people round here are woke to Scummo’s foibles, we don’t put up with the prick. Terry reckoned he heard he could walk on water, but the real miracle is Scummo swims with the sharks down the Goldy and they line up on either side of him – it’s professional courtesy.

Scummo says it’s the Australian way, but what’s that? witch-burning? He’s taking us back to medieval times with this religious ‘freedom’ bill so nasty people can be racists and bigots again.

We’re not silly here, we all know religion’s just another blokey con job to keep us preggers in the kitchen and bringing the bloke his beer. Though it was a miracle Scummo got elected. That’s the last real truth I remember him telling us. My mate Jacky who works for the local rag, her journo mate down south asked him:

“Mr Morrison, what’s your favourite lie you’ve told the public?”
“I’ve never told a lie in public,” Scummo says.
“That’s my favourite too!” she replied.

Now he’s hawking hollow gibberish about climate change mitigation. We know he’s up to his eyeballs in coal, his precious. You can’t trust the bugger as far as you can throw him. The planet will fry, we’re all going to hell on earth, never mind the afterlife.

What’s the difference between Australia and hell?
Scott Morrison hasn’t managed to fuck up hell yet.

So what is a Morrison promise worth?
Net zero. Just ask the French.

Do you know what the mummy sardine said to the baby sardine when they saw the nuclear sub?

“Hey sonny, there goes a tin of scared Aussies.”

Now that’s critical technology, forty years late. When Scummo rants on about critical technology it reminds me of a joke at Tourism Australia when he was CEO, before he got the arse as he always does after his lies catch up with him. If his PA was off sick or on leave it was pointless expecting an answer to any emails. She wasn’t there to log him on to the system.

Scummo’s election pitch about government interferring in people’s lives is another joke. His same sex marriage bigotry, Indue card, Robodebt, alleged rape and FOI cover ups and religious discrimination laws all interfer in peoples’ lives. He talks from both sides of his mouth. Who else is sick of his coddling of neo-nazis? Just like his roll-out stroll-out … his call-out of the far right was a crawl-out. Ben at the shop told me this one.

What’s the difference between Neil Erikson and Scummo?
Neil is an honest self-proclaimed neo-Nazi.

Have I thrown you lot into enough of a spin yet?

Rightyo, folks, now I’m not going for a Scummo break – leaving in the middle of a crisis – I’m off to meet up with my mate from Melbourne who’s double vaxxed and tested clear so he can visit Queensland and not infect us the way Scummo wants us to be so he can claim a Labor state failed to do its job. Have a good one and remember to put the LNP crime family last on the ballot, the way they put our future last with their lies, dirty kick backs, net zero cred promises and pickled pork for their mates.

Jinjirrie
November 2021

(This is a standup exercise, to be performed in a broad Queensland accent.)

Addendum

Q. What’s the difference between #Omicron and #Scomicron?
A. One lays you out straight in bed, the other can’t lie straight in bed.

Fly My Pretties

Witch cat

Samhain 2021

Hear me friends, heed the call,
around the bonfire gather all,
to cauterise its endless bingeing
patriarchy needs a singeing,
Our broomsticks now wait in the wings
for sophisticated modern things,
3d drones printed in the thousands
to swarm the warming world unmanned,
We’ll guide them swift above the land
and torch oppressors where they stand,
locate them by their hi viz vests,
divest them of their treasure chests,
seize power from wealthy old white men,
incinerate the deadly capitalist system,
With eye of newt and skin of toad
remove the crushing brutal load,
cast a pure contemporary spell,
send the colonisers straight to hell,
as they consigned our beloved sisters,
corrupted flesh will melt and blister,
On Judgement day their bones won’t rise
while we’ll embrace the end of lies,
Off, you ghoulies, to the kitchen,
we’ve better things to do – more witchin’,
We’ll heal the forests, mend the breach,
before the tipping point is reached,
Now fly my pretties, straight to prey
so our planet lives for another day.

Jinjirrie
October 2021

Related Links

Caliban and the Witch (Silvia Federici)

On The Plague of Grifters

Disdainful Black Cat

Wicky Woo

Wicky wicky wacky woo,
do as i say, do as I do,
spread disease, reject the vax,
embrace my bullshit alternate facts,
the sicker you get, the more you’ll need me,
your desperation is what feeds me,
western doctors, what do they know,
big pharma, like me, wants profits to grow.

Buy my potions, pills and prophecies,
there’s none so blind as do not see,
don’t forget your horse dewormer,
I’m your role model star performer,
freedom is my personal brand,
your body, your choice are in my hands,
wicky wicky wacky woo,
I have the snake oil just for you.

Us woo merchants are on the fiddle,
you sitting ducks are scared of needles,
this border lockdown really sucks,
burn your masks, free the trucks,
all the experts huff and blow,
let’s party like there’s no tomorrow,
wicky wicky wacky woo,
more money for me and pain for you.

Jinjirrie, August 2021