The End Of The World
Reasons why I prefer City Life to Life in the Countryside — №. 8 in a series of 8,847
Call me narrow-minded if you want, but I actually like the fact that my mother and my brother are two different people.
Every time I set foot outside the confines of the civilised world into Zone 3, I am reminded of why the nation is in the state it's in: it consists of villages and housing estates, in which, due to the paucity of population, inbreeding must surely be so rife that it is truly no wonder that there is scarcely an inhabitant with an IQ in double digits, let alone any surprise that the nasty brutes are bigoted fascists with webbed toes, hare lips and one eyebrow each — H.G. Wells was wrong: it is not the Future that belongs to the Morlocks but the Present.
You'll have to excuse me now, but I've got to explain to a most insistent indigent that, no, really, I have no interest in seeing the 'amazing' carbuncle upon his grandmother's behind, thank you, and that remaining dry in the rain is not indicative of demonic possession, as I am not so by dint of magic, but by virtue of the simple expedient of placing an impermeable barrier between my person and the sky: to whit, an umbrella.
If you don't hear from me by the end of the week, it'll be because they've either eaten me or burned me at the stake — tell my family I died a noble death.
This column was brought to you courtesy of a sojourn to the arse end of nowhere.¹
—
¹ Pave the Earth, I say!
