Settlers, Regurgitated

1 February 2012

Victoria’s first settlers were whalers as well
as prostitutes. They were hale, they drank
ale. They were whalewrights, sexwrights –
they were Whites. They ate a lot of pasta
too – well before the Italians put in an appearance.
They didn’t call it pasta, they called it boiled
hay. The famous hay-twirlers of that time
have unforch been forgotten, their names deimagined.
By the way, citizens, to give them the retrospective
respect they so often misreceived in their
day, were often waylaid by hayrides heading
to sexpots to prosecute a beached whale for
trespassing. There were lists of such carryons
and possibilities: if you could read and they
could write. The punning laws were the most
like a minefield, to keep in mind. Requirements
and avoidances, speeches and acts: regarding
choir mints, or boy dances, peaches under
the axe. Our most senior writers were born
out of this malaise. You might substitute
scenic and or mayonnaise at this point – but
don’t hurt yourself – and don’t fall – history
isn’t worth it. We had a septic tank once,
but who has them or wants to hear about
them now, when society is so shit-free? How
they produced any progeny escapes me like
a three-footed convict, that is, awkwardly,
that is, confusingly, with so much seafaring
and the unreliability of work. The big stations
where the trains never came. Where they
were forced to invite the black milkman and
the black mailman in in order to enjoy company.
The settlers used to receive a lot of Aboriginal
people back then when wages were more
conceptual (as they’re becoming again). There’s
something about this narrative that doesn’t
make sense! It’s like the old days when the
fruit from the sheep got mixed in with the
sultanas: I think I’ve been talking about New
South Wales half the time – and that’s the
most actionable law in the book.

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