Te Radar: Dawning of the age of Post Civil Unions

Hopefully by the time you read this you will be able to hear the staccato rhythm of the high heels of hordes of pink-shirted Storm-Super-troopers as they march through the streets of small towns rescuing children from the tyranny of heterosexuality. Many will be thankful.

If common sense prevails the Civil Union Bill will have passed on to its third reading, and civil society will be beginning to crumble. Nothing could be more exciting.

I eagerly anticipate the end of the PC era, (known by many as the PC error) and the dawn of the age of PCU (Post Civil Unions).

This age will usher in a glorious apocalypse, which will serve as a welcome distraction from the banal mundaneness of early 21st century existence, and I suspect will be a wonderful test of character.

Already several whale whanau have beached themselves in a vain attempt to warn us of impending doom.

My eyes moistened as these beautiful sea cattle were allowed to spoil in the sun, their rotting carcasses discarded in shallow graves.

Surely these denizens of the deep (or as I think of them, the venison of the sea) could have been harvested, and portions of their mammalian meat sold both to raise money to research why they beach themselves, and satiate those of us curious as to the nature of their taste.

Regardless, I have been continuing preparations for a PCU world.

I constantly wear my spectacles, not only to help me see, but in the knowledge that they will also serve as elementary protection from any PCU detritus which will no doubt be flying around.

This will consist of shattered family units, the fractured hearts of those who believe themselves morally superior, and pieces of broken children.

I have no doubt that if any of this enters my eye in a PCU world it will invariably lead to blindness.

This I fear will then allow rats to come in the night and symbolically gnaw off my manhood, forcing me to wander like some blind sexless shaman, trying to convince hamlets of homosexuals to house me.

Wayward street urchins, lacking male and female cohabiting role models will delight in prodding the suppurating wound where my manhood used to be.

Fortunately I began my preparations early. I was a boy scout, but sadly the only thing I recall from my stint in a woggle was the rudiments of semaphore.

I have used this knowledge only once, when I happened across the unconscious body of a middle-aged woman. Unsure what to do I immediately began to sign for help.

Within seconds members of her family noticed me, but, being unfamiliar with the intricacies of semaphore, did not see me as a hero sending carefully crafted messages for assistance.

All they saw was a strange looking guy who appeared to be dancing spasmodically over the unconscious body of their mother.

Our union was most definitely not civil.