Theatre from the cracks in the psyche of culture

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    SCREAM: 
    September (No.2)  2009

Reading the wisdom of Kyle Sandilands draws
into sharp contrast the dilemmas facing the future

POST MODERN SUCK
VS
THE LEGACIES OF A DEAD GOD

 

All life's a joke ... you know the one about the dingo who ate a baby ... or how to lose weight by going to a concentration camp ... or how to earn a million dollars by being a funny guy ... you know, telling jokes about kids strapped to machines and made to confess being raped ...and you know the joke about the morons who think they're above it all and who pride their cool wisdom which sets them afloat on their sea of paradox and their universe of ironic nothingness ... you hear what I'm saying ...


The poverty of culture, all cultures, lies in the inability to feel the pain and the struggles of the other ... while eulogizing the past events and myths that shaped one's own eyes of culture ... the post modern phenomena realizes this and so all struggle, all pain, all feeling is bullshit and so worthy of Kyle Sandilands ...

And while god might have died a long time ago, the architects of god still peddle their self-serving delusions ... thus pandering to Kyle and his omnipotent pontifications and righteous smirkings that rile the paper thin sensibilities of culture's rear guard activists ...

Meanwhile on a galaxy far away in the middle east and nearby parts, bearded cybermen strap the suicide bombs on to the chests of their children ... the bed time stories are told for real ... the myths of their ancestors alive in their spirits ... the tears from the robotic keepers of the sacred texts are kept within the sea of personal discipline born of the book ... the scribes nod in approval ... the mothers lament the sacrificial lambs ... the charcoal burners rocking too and forth reciting the incantations of sacred murder ... as the rockets pound their neighbourhood watch ... their will is pressed into steel ... the triggers are well set ... the celebration of death is about to begin as god is the greatest chameleon of all ...

Kyle farts through his mouth ... a new trick to enhance the joke ... the jolly jokers of western civilization resting in a burp and a fart and giggle for the morons ... the mass distraction from the freedom of speech ... the collectivisation of smug indifference ... post modern delusions ... a million year reich ... Saint Kyle of Nothingness beatified under the fluorescent skies of cool indifference and sardonic expressions ... the eyes drained ... it's all too much ... so much to say ... is it still time for saying ... for saying ...

While Kyle's done it again,the child in the galaxy far away prays to Allah ... his father plays the sick joke on the child ... invigorating the dead god's son with mortal powers of death. The child looks up to the father for eternal guidance ... eyes smiling with love and grace ... a serenely beautiful boy ... a gift to the universe ... his dead god demands his soul ...

In Queanbeyan, New South Wales, another child crosses a street with his mother and aunt. He is slow. Cars are coming. The mother growls at the boy to speed up. He is slower than she would like. "I said to run you fuckin' idiot," the mother says not so gently. The boy moves faster. Once on the other side of the street, the mother gives the boy a shove. "When I say run, you run. You fuckin' little idiot. Fuck you." The boy looks away at me for a moment as I happen past ...

Then the mother and the aunt continue their talk.

"You know Idol won't be the same without Kyle Sandilands ..."

The other disagrees. "I always preferred Dicko ... He's more intelligent ... you know ..."

"But really, it was a bit rough ... that kid just wanted to brag about being raped ... "

"What kid?"

"You know the one ... the one strapped to the lie detector and talking bout being raped and stuff ... you know ..."

Yeah ...

Yeah ...

and what was that about "poverty of culture" ... another bomb in Bagdad ... or was it somewhere else ...

 

 


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