My Creative Writing Essay from 2008

The following is a copy of an essay I wrote for my Creative Writing paper back in 2008 at Unitec. Thought I might share it with the world. Any feedback would be appreciated. WARNING: UN-PC! Even my favorite political party gets a friendly ribbing. Nobody is spared!!!

2008 already, eh? 26 years of my life gone down the gurgler – wow, I can't believe that I'm already over a quarter of a century old (that itself makes me sound ancient!) and statistically I've already used up one third of my total life span – aargh! Well, no matter, I've got me a zimmer frame and a mobility scooter on layby and hopefully I won't have to up the weekly payments anytime soon, so long as the Reserve Bank or some pot-bellied reprobate in Wellington with all the charisma of a calcified dog turd doesn't bugger up the economy. Anyway, enough of that 'Pushing-30 Syndrome' mumbo jumbo and down to the relevant stuff. Now, despite having the classic status of a Lada with a blown head gasket, I must say I've seen some pretty significant events within the past 26 years. Stuff like telethons, politicians being themselves, and Michael Jackson getting whiter and weirder to the point of resembling a Gothic Diana Ross after snorting generous amounts of cocaine...and sneezing.

So without further ado, let's start at 1982 – The year that I was born. Piggy Muldoon, history's other renowned National Socialist aside from Adolf Hitler, was in power. Wacko Jacko had brought out his not so exciting 'Thriller' album, introducing 47 million people to the wonderful world of the Frisbee in the process, and a drug-addled Steven Spielberg comes out with a family movie consisting of some short-arsed, long-necked florist from Proxima Centauri who uses a Geiger counter for a heart monitor and with subtle paedophiliac connotations befriends a 10 year old American bully magnet.

From there on we saw the worldwide introduction of the compact disc, much to the delight of audio purists and novelty clock makers everywhere. The booze swilling Piggy Muldoon drunkenly and foolishly calls a snap election, gets himself arsed out, and subsequently a bloke, who resembles a cross between Ernest Borgnine and Dick Smith after a freak teleporter accident, gets in and lets his finance minister shag the buggery out the economy. Actor Rock Hudson dropped dead from AIDS, and Britain's most famous musicians get together, courtesy of bleeding heart do-gooder Bob Geldolf, and sing arguably the most disturbing piece of Christmas cacophony since Elmo and Patsy's 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer'. The first of three Never Ending Story films is released, a misleading title which should have, by all the laws of ethics, seen its producers sued for false advertising.

The launch of the space shuttle Challenger went off like a fireworks factory – literally, and in 1987 the stock markets went down hill faster than a starving Augustus Gloop tripping over his shoe lace at a Cooper's Hill cheese rolling contest. Sale of the Century made its debut on New Zealand telly, telethons were at the pinnacle of their popularity, unlike David Lange's Labour party, and New Zealand television got slightly better with the launch of TV3, meaning bored drug addled church-dodgers could stay home and gaze mindlessly at the trippy test patterns. It was either that, or Praise Be. Shudder.

1990 saw in the introduction of a new decade, which turned out to be utter bollocks. Corporal punishment in schools is outlawed, much to the dismay of sadistic school headmasters everywhere. The anatomically incorrect and morbidly jaundiced animated family, The Simpsons, make their debut on television, the revenge of National with Ruth Richardson as finance minister spells further disaster for New Zealand politics, op shops are floated on the NZ Stock Exchange after grunge band Nirvana becomes decidedly popular, and the quality of rock music in general would decline like the average share price during the '87 crash.

Metallica would release it's excellent self-titled album, proving once and for all that heavy metal wasn't just the domain of Lion Red swilling, flatulent Cro-Magnon dullards known as Westies or bogans. Freddie Mercury confessed to the world that he had AIDS, only to drop dead the next day, and much of the country mourns the death of legendary 80s comedian and entertainer Billy T James, who would be replaced by 'funny-as-a-burning-orphanage' Pio Terei. The video game Mortal Kombat would make its debut appearance on fish 'n' chip shop arcade machines everywhere. Not only was it insanely violent, it was also insanely difficult. If I wanted to spend my lunch money in being pummelled by a bloody great simian oaf, I would've buggered off back to school.

Winston Peters got the arse from National and founded the New Zealand First Party, much to the delight of pensioners and white nationalists everywhere. For the next 15 years little old ladies would lustfully swoon on him and his geriatric skunk-like hairdo like randy teenage girls, who haven't had it since turning 12, going the grope on an inebriated and incapacitated Johnny Depp. The now plastic fantastic Michael Jackson has a run in with the law, this time on allegations he slept with teenage boys. He was later found to be not guilty and the case is subsequently thrown out, on account of the fact that he clearly preferred monkeys. Nevertheless, as a result of Jacko's alleged kiddie-fiddling comedians would have enough written material for their routines to cover the next couple of decades or so.

In 1995 New Zealand shat and stomped all over the easily disgruntled American yachtie Dennis Connor and his team Stars and Stripes, deflating his woefully inflated ego and taking home the Auld Mug in the process. The Internet became widespread, and now small children with negligent parents and giggling schoolboys could now indulge in the delights and wonders of readily accessible pornography. Sex addicts, school principals and perverts are somewhat disappointed to discover the real meaning of Hotmail. In a seemingly random act Princess Diana is killed in a car crash in Paris, and the world mourns for weeks to come.

New Year's Eve, 1999, and the world cacks it's pants in fear and terror as the end of the millennium approaches and the threat of computers worldwide crashing creates panic and uncertainty amongst the computer illiterate. Eventually the 'millennium bug' would turn out to be nothing but a false alarm, the only reports of planes falling out of the sky and nuclear bombs falling coming from Rastafarians, schizophrenic vagrants and Syd Barrett. The year 2000 finally arrives and the only thing significant that happens is when George Bush's Neanderthal dullard of an eldest son is somehow elected president later that year and screws the Middle East faster than the Babylon Whore Company going multinational. Goodbye Billy Boy's little white porkies and sex escapades, hello Bubba Dubya's incoherent use of language and trademark 'Bushisms'. How they managed to name the Center for Intelligence after him supersedes 'the meaning of life' as the one question mankind will never be able to answer.

The following year, on September 11, disaster strikes New York and Washington as a bunch of very angry Islamists fly two aircraft into the World Trade Center and one into the Pentagon, a U.S. Government building famous for its vague resemblance to the most prominent feature of the mammalian lower intestinal tract. This event would later be known as 9/11. Sadly, thousands of people are killed in what is regarded as the worst terrorist attack in history, and Dubya's puppet masters would push for war in Afghanistan. Conspiracy theorists would argue that 9/11 was staged by the federal government as to justify the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Critics dispute this, as someone in Dubya's position who waves at Stevie Wonder clearly lacks the intelligence to come up with such a bold and conniving plan. Two years later, the Yanks get bored with Afghanistan and try their hand instead at toppling Saddam. They succeed, only to find the deposed 'Iraqifuhrer' cowering in a hole in the same deadbeat town that he was born pigging out on Mars bars, and sporting a vagrant-like beard the size of the state of Utah.

Michael Jackson is back, and back in court again on allegations similar to his 1993 kiddie fiddling case, but again the case is eventually thrown out, although playing 'grandfather's clock' with his baby son over the balcony of a French hotel leaves him as popular as haemorrhoids at a farting festival. The Boxing Bay tsunami wipes out over 200,000 people around Indonesia and Sri Lanka, and a bloody great hurricane called Katrina bowls over New Orleans. Much-loved life-size chess piece Pope John Paul II finally carks it after 27 years on the job, and in September 2006 overenthusiastic animal teaser, crocodile hunter and professional baby-dangler Steve Irwin is finally, yet somehow, killed off by a mere stingray whilst filming for his latest television program.

And those, ladies, gentlemen and hermaphrodites, were some of the more notable events of the first 26 years of my life.