The Anonymous Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #6

As transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

1 April 2020

Your corresponded is still holed up at the Hotel Cortez in LA. Might stay here indefinitely, with the ghosts of indiscretions past. It’s the best place from which to watch the world fall apart and politicians make jackasses of themselves.

Look at Donald Trump, trying to be all adult and take-charge about the coronavirus, after labelling it a hoax that will nevertheless disappear with April’s warmer weather. And, proving that male hair dye saps intelligence, Emmanuelle Macron made a handsome but hysterical appearance on national television that more rightly belongs in a Gaspar Noe movie.

Putin is the only one who’s true shown leadership in the matter. Was it not he who suggested chopping off Angela Merkel’s head and holding it aloft to ward off evil, like Perseus with Medusa?

‘Anything that hideous,’ he said to me during a telephone conversation, ‘is bound to scare off the worst calamity.’

‘We bow to your greater wisdom, oh Russian bear!’ I replied, knowing we were in good hands.

The world’s senses are definitely deranged. If further proof is required, we need look no further than Australia, where shoppers are panic-buying toilet paper. Why toilet paper?

Because people down under have a fetish for the boom-box, the dunny, the crapper, the shit house or any other colourful variant you care to use. And they live in fear of having nothing with which to wipe. Hence stockpiling.

As of this writing, supermarket shelves are empty as Gwyneth Paltrow’s head. (She, by the way, recommends vaginal steaming to get rid of the virus. For men. And a coffee enema for fun.)

Back in Terror Australis, a truck carrying emergency supplies of toilet paper to Queensland supermarkets crashed and burned. The usual rioting and pillaging ensued as Queenslanders—a variant of the Appalachian inbred hillbilly—rampaged, reducing the suburb of Inala to rubble. Not that anyone could tell the difference.

Adding insult to injury, busloads of Chinese-Australians (neighbor Clancy Smith among them) are raiding country supermarkets, buying all the toilet paper, and selling it online at prices only their capitalist-oriented communist brethren can afford. Elsewhere thieves held up a Woolworths delivery van to steal ‘date rolls’, as they’re commonly known in Ocker circles, and stores are putting up signs that read ‘No toilet paper kept on premises’.

Today the Morrison government passed a law restricting citizens to one square of toilet paper per loo visit. Exceeding that is ‘un-Australian’ and will be punished by five years as senator Michaela Cash’s personal arse-wipe. Out of sheer desperation citizens are using wombats and koalas to wipe the fundament. The man who used the head of a Tasmanian devil is, as of this writing, sans cul.

To help during this crisis, I should like to offer a quote from Gargantuaand Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais:

‘I maintain that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose, that is well downed, if you hold her head betwixt your legs. And believe me therein upon mine honour, for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure, both in regard of the softness of the said down and of the temporate heat of the goose, which is easily communicated to the bum-gut and inwards, in so far as to come even to the regions of the heart and brains.’

Excuse me. The phone rings…

It was my good friend Tom Hanks, calling in sheer panic to bid his final farewells. There was the most dreadful ruckus in the background as he spoke and then the line went quite suddenly, and very ominously, dead.

You may know that Tom and his Albanian-Greek wife Margarita Ibrahimoff—otherwise known as Rita Wilson—have been incarcerated at the Gold Coast Hospital, with COVID-19. Apparently, they brought it with them from the U.S. and spread it far and wide while schmoozing with sundry Australian industry professionals and celebrities.

Who would have thought an innocuous creature like Forrest Gump was going to turn nasty and wipe out ‘the arse end of the world’, as ex-Prime Minister Paul Keating put it, with a cough and a sneeze?

So there’s Tom calling me to say goodbye as rabid Queenslanders break into the ward and perpetuate what history will surely view as a mercy killing. Secret hospital sources later revealed the horror began when Rita stepped onto the terrace to regale the Gold Coast with a rendition of ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Even before she finished the first verse, incensed radical lefties with no patience for cultural appropriation, let alone any form of colonialist nationalism, gathered outside the building, booing and hissing.

‘Strewth, mate, a Wog-American sheila is singing the bloody Astralyan national anthem.’

‘Who does she think she is?’

‘Let’s fucken kill ‘er.’

I heard it all. The outrage. The offence. The crude utterances. The screams that ensued. The shouts. The badly constructed sentences. The swallowed vowels. The disregard for niceties of punctuation. And finally: breaking glass. Celebrities ripped apart and eaten before my very ears.

Tom’s last words were: ‘This is so embarrassing.’

Rita followed with, ‘Παναγία και Χριστέ μου, σώσε μας,’ before her larynx was ripped out and tossed from the window. It fell with a splat on someone’s head and he used it to wipe his bottom. Before feeding his family.

It was horrible. On the bright side, Rita Wilson will never sing again.

Until next we meet.

Cheerio!

PS My bosom buddy Dickie Arbiter, commentator on the Royal Family, called to say Prince Charles and the Queen were put down this morning at Windsor Castle after contracting coronavirus. The drastic measure was taken before they turned rabid.

The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. Of no fixed abode, he has subsisted in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently hiding out in Melbourne. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and four packets of Dunhill cigarettes a day.

His mortified amanuensis, Dmetri Kakmi, is a writer and editor. The fictionalised memoir Mother Land was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia. He edited the children’s anthology When We Were Young. His new book The Door and other Uncanny Tales will be released in May 2020.