I spend a lot of time reading newspapers. There's nothing I like better than scratching about in my straw, finding a long forgotten bean, then settling down for a good old chew and a relaxing perusal of the papers that line the bottom of my cage. This can be a little frustrating because I don't always get the full story. It is however more often than not very entertaining, although I must say that I have never been impressed with the standard of Queensland's journalists, many of whom seem to be semi-literate at best. For example, how often have we seen a report of a car accident that told of a vehicle careening across the median strip? One does not careen across the median strip. Careening is what you do to a boat that is in need of repair. If anything, one careers across a median strip. In fact many people do in Queensland because the standard of driving is almost as abysmal as the standard of journalism. This is just one of dozens of examples of mangled English (or Manglish as I like to call it) one can find every day in our fair state's printed media. Now I know my own grammar is not all it could be at times but then I'm a guinea pig, not a university graduate earning a decent salary and with one eye on a Pulitzer Prize.
Having got all that off my furry little chest I have to say that I am full of admiration for whoever came up with this Sunday's Sunday Mail headline. "SEX TRADE EXPLODES" it screamed. Sadly I couldn't read the story because it was on the downward facing page, but the headline was so inspired that I didn't have to; my vivid imagination readily filled in all the gaps. My brain conjured up an image of a cloud of dust settling across a street devastated by a huge explosion.
There are emergency service personnel rushing around, appalled at the carnage caused by the explosion. Tattered corpses of blow-up dolls litter the street, their red painted lips open in the horror of sudden violent death, their washable, vibrating wassnames stilled for all eternity. Across the road a dazed man is staggering about with a large black dildo protruding from a horrible wound in his shoulder, and everywhere people are bleeding from shrapnel wounds inflicted by razor sharp shards of shattered love eggs. Condoms of various colours and flavours decorate nearby traffic lights and street signs and almost every vehicle within fifty metres of the blast has a peephole bra or a pair of split-crotch panties flapping jauntily in the breeze from it's radio aerial. Meanwhile a score of dirty old men in grubby brown raincoats are scrabbling about on the pavement frantically scooping up armfuls of tattered porn. A cop with a lacy red see-through teddy draped across his hat is desperately trying to keep the crowd back. "Move on, move on!" He yells. "There's nothing to see here." He's waving his truncheon, except it isn't a truncheon at all - its a thirty centimetre, skin pink dildo. Like hell there isn't.
In the end I was glad that I couldn't read the article because is was probably something very boring like the discovery that two more brothels have opened in Brisbane. I much prefer the version produced by my imagination and that wouldn't have been possible were it not for such dire headlines. So I guess it's not all bad. And if you want to know how a cavy knows so much about the contents of sex shops - mind your own business.