The Secret Diary of . . . Richard Prosser
Dateline: Wogistan. Among the Wogistanians. Behind enemy lines. Keeping an open mind.
Everywhere I look, young Muslim males, praying and plotting, their minds sick with ideas planted by weird bearded mullahs who keep a vice-like grip on their ancient superstitions.
"People like that are bad news," says Ian Wishart.
"Copy that," I whisper into my walkie-talkie.
"Put that away. I'm standing right next to you."
We're on a fact-finding mission. The facts are plain to see. All you have to do is imagine the innocent burning in their beds at the hands of fanatics.
Not all fanatics are a threat. But all threats are issued by fanatics.
"Keep your eyes peeled for fanatics," says Ian.
"Go and talk to him."
"We both will."
I reach into my shirt pocket and feel for my pen-knife. It gives me strength. It has 28 blades as well as scissors, nail clippers and razors. It's the only thing that stands between me and bad grooming. I hold on to it tight. I'm covered in blood as we approach the suspected terrorist.
His skin is dark. His hair is black. The twin evils of diversity and multiculturalism swirl around him like smoke, and smell like cooked meat.
He says, "Gidday. What can I get you guys?" We both order kebabs.
Ian and I publish our findings in his magazine It's A Conspiracy Let Me Out Of Here, and all hell breaks loose.
It doesn't faze us. We fully expected the PC brigade to purse its lips and shout us down from the ledge of their morally superior rooftops for daring to want to open up serious debate.
We stand by our claim - based on hard evidence, and readings from the Book of Leviticus - that the kebab we ate was either camel, rock-badger, vulture, hawk, stork, osprey or hoopoe.
We stand a little bit further away from our claims but not much.
Am forced to eat my words. They leave a bitter taste in my mouth but it's not too much of a hassle because that taste has been there for years and years and years.
Dateline: Wogistan. The stench of kebabs - they're either buzzard, raven, ostrich, snake, bat, or human - follow us down the whole length of Auckland's Dominion Rd.
It mingles with the smell of hate and fear and stupidity, as well as ethnic cooking.
I hold on to my pen-knife and bleed like Christ's stigmata as we walk past Indian restaurants, Chinese restaurants, Japanese restaurants, Thai restaurants, and Korean restaurants.
"Dear God," whispers Winston, "it's even worse than you said."
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