Nuclear club

"If you think things could get worse, wait a minute and they will."
Broughton

Damn the news media! I was experimenting in my backyard and inadvertently created a nuclear explosion. It was huge, a massive 0.000000000000000000000000.01 of a kiloton. It uprooted a strawberry plant and frightened hell out of my neighbour's cat. The resulting mushroom cloud reached a staggering 2.5 inches above sea level. It was so powerful I could see it from my bathroom window while reading the Sunday paper. I almost crapped myself.

Now I am public enemy No 1. The US and just about every failing power in the universe have threatened to impose sanctions upon my humble self. It's unfair, it's unjust and there's bound to be a law against it. New Zealand has a law against just about everything you can think of, be it commonsense or otherwise. But as a member of the public, I don't matter in the scheme of political correctness. Thus I am deemed to be unnecessarily aggressive by joining the international nuclear club. I am regarded as a military upstart bent on taking over the world by force. But all I was actually trying to do was protect my cabbages from the nuclear facility a few miles away. It has been used by the Agriculture Department to purify seeds for NZ's market gardens ever since Adam was a cowboy and fell off his horse in a drunken stupor whilst eating an apple and dreaming of ways to seduce Eve.

Sadly the local shop owner has refused to accept cash and insists on providing credit for essential supplies such as cigarettes and alcohol. Oh woe is me! Even the garden centre has stopped delivering unwanted pamphlets to my letterbox. I feel deprived and might forget how to read. Both my wives have threatened to stop supplying their personal services. This means I will have to make my own coffee and be undemocratically forced to wash my coffee mug every second week. My expired passport has been revoked and I'm on the no fly list of the King of Tonga's airline. Life is cruel in the fast lane!

The soap opera American media have spent millions flying their talk-back hosts to New Zealand in the hope of interviewing the latest threat to mankind. Disneyland has suggested that Mickey Mouse doesn't want to meet me and George Bush has barred me from the White House. He's decided I'm a fully blown terrorist and a bosom buddy of Osamba bin Laden who I haven't seen for at least a week. Apparently I'm his latest scare tactic to con the American people.

The local media keep thumping on my door and shoving microphones in my face. The questions and camera flashes never seem to stop and I'm getting thoroughly fed up with the unwarranted intrusions into my private life. Naturally I was forced to ban the NZ Department of Scientific and Industrial Research (DSIR) from examining my potentially global warming nuclear facility on the grounds of personal privacy. The ruling Labour Coalition government have declared me a danger to their dictatorship and have refused to stop paying my pension in the hope I'll vote for the opposition at the next election.

Now I'm sitting in my backyard supping wine to dull the effects of international fame. The weather is warm and there's a slight breeze. With a bit of luck the wind will blow the radiation over the fence and invade my neighbour's property and he can put up with the worldwide mockery heaped upon my undeserving head.

Holy Cow! A NZ native bird called the Tui has landed in my garden and is deliberately pecking at my nuclear facility. This is disastrous. He's eaten two strawberries already. I could starve to death before I run out of wine. But I guess that's life at the top of the heap.