Shock news this week, folks. News to boggle your equilibrium until you jump the tracks and land, squealing, on the third rail, and that’s the one that spits sparks, friends. News to make your cat razz up and walk sideways like an Egyptian gangsta stoat. News to … here, I’ll tell you about it.
The Dulgigin Sphynx has been moved! The uber-enigmatic mystery sentinel construction that has stood next to the Clarence Way sentinentally gazing westwards at Ewingar, has been shifted. Yep. Not far yet, but something’s afoot.
Ewingar, Tabulam, Coongbar and parts of Mallanganee have been in mild uproar all week. There’s been shock, dismay, religious ecstasy, conspiratorial theorising, drooling, indifference – and some folks have taken it right spiteful.
Lumpy Hanfull, 35, ‘Influenza’, of Bulldog Diggings: ‘What?’
Dalton Prancley, 35, ‘Stockman’ of Yulgilstone. ‘Never saw it. Never liked it.’
Prance Jittering, 35, ‘Rattled’, of Yates Flat. “Oooh, just wait! Why, I’m gonna… Let me at ‘em. Not The Sphynx!’
Rhiannata Wisdom, 35, ‘Old Soul’, of Ewingar: ‘Let’s hold a vigil.’
So, who? And why? Everything about the Dulgigin Sphynx is a mystery. What’s it for? Who made it? What’s it made of? How old is it? None of these questions has been properly answered, but I’m prepared to blow this thing wide open.
It’s a case of ‘The usual suspects’. Some of you may recall Quandaree Selflove, quack vitamin supplement heiress of Byron Bay, who infamously attempted to bully-purchase Bonalbo’s famous Pink Beach House and relocate it to her property at Wategos.
She declared at the time, “I’m rescuing it. Price is no object. I want it. I deserve it. I’ll get it, and it’s going to Wategos. Open and shut. Over and out. Thank you, line dudes and ball-busters. Take that to the bank and smoke it.”
The Pink House was one of three beach houses built in Bonalbo by legendary waxhead builder and innovator, Waxy Noggins, in the early 1960s and remains the only one that hasn’t been repainted. Fortunately, concerned locals sounded the alarm and contacted Paul Keating.
Keating didn’t mince words. “These people. I mean, all the trappings of ill-deserved huckster wealth and all the rich inner life of a naked mole rat after a night on the sherbet. How’s her form? ‘Rescuing the Pink House’. The only things she’s ever considered rescuing are her split ends or mis-cued toenail polish. I know her type of old: all the architectural appreciation of a hamburger bun; all the altruism of an Eastern Brown.”
The ex-PM’s salvo worked, and soon local activist, Keratin Deadpan, could declare, “Yay for the Keatster. Pinky is saved, and the Selflove Minx has been booted back to Byron with her legs between her ears to – I don’t know – manifest something marvellous in her fabulous toilet bowl.”
And that’s how things sat. For a year or two. But, say what you like about Quandi Selflove, she is a loose cat. And you know what they say about loose cats: they always land, right way up, in someone else’s cream. Turns out the Minxyavelian billionette has set her tinfoil cap at… the Dulgigin Sphynx.
Approached by the Indy for a comment, Ms Selflove chugged a Himalayan Pink Mountain Goat Protein Smoothie and jabbered, ‘Listen, Skidmark, Frizzmark, Freymark…whoever, I want that brooding pussy installation, and I’m getting it, don’t you worry about that. I’m going to Bluetooth him up for light and sound, and he’ll manifest as the centrepiece of my wellness fire pit at Wategos, brooding out at Julian Rocks, almost Gothic. I’m getting it. Let the bogan yokel rubes gnaw their tear-sodden bandanas in vain. Money talks, and my awesome dosh will create an oration so epic it’ll make the Gettysburg Address look like a Limerick, so, sit on those secateurs, sista!’
Questioned on the ethics and legalities of her plan, the putative pussy-snaggler beamed like White House Press Secretary, Karoline Leavitt describing a glorious presidential bowel movement and gloated.
“Legalities? Don’t make me chortle and guffaw! I hold all the cards. Nobody owns it; nobody built it; it’s not native flora or fauna. Nobody knows what it’s made of (except for the loonies who think it’s termite nest or powdered aliens, ha!). It’s not subject to any protection order, green ban, sacred site, net zero target, and the silly council knew nothing about it until that precious Bullbag whackster of yours opened his trap, so I’ve caught them with their pants down. It’s mine, m-i-n-e. (Dances) I feel pretty, oh so pretty…”
When and how will the Sphynx be moved?
“ASAP, Baby, ASAP. I’ve got a top relocation contractor on the job. He gave it an exploratory nudge with a big digger the other day and told me it would be a piece of p… Pez candy. Easy peasy.”
Is it a local contractor?
“Yep, a small operation, but he reckons he’s lifted and shifted plenty. All sorts of stuff. Yeah, Frenchy is very experienced.”
Frenchy Fargas !!!!!!!
A lesson to us all.
Bullgoose