Economic growth! So important to the world. Wealth creation has been the prime directive for much of the world for the last couple of centuries, after most European powers abandoned zero-sum beggar-thy-neighbour bullshit like Mercantilism. Most states realised that the amount of wealth in the world was far from constant, and that you could amass great towering mountains of wealth far more easily from profiteering and commerce, than you could from looting and pillaging, so beloved of nomadic raiders for millennia.
Time zones, eh? They’re a gigantic pain in the arse. For most of prehistory we’ve never needed them – people never really strayed much from their home villages, and anyone who did travel around the world fast enough to induce jetlag usually put it down to side-effects of being whisked away by the colossal dragon they’d clearly just met.
Time zones were first invented because a few of the more sport-mad of the ancient Greek city-states had introduced the Hundred Thousand Stadia Swim, and wanted to train up an athlete who could swim this distance in roughly no seconds, so they used a bit of artificial selection to breed an athlete with an arm-reach of twenty thousand kilometres. Read the rest of this entry
In 1974, NZ was in crisis. Not a single drop of rain had fallen over the entire country for the last five years. Most farmland had crumbled into desert, and native bush was emigrating to much more lush and fertile areas of the world, like the Atacama Desert.
Drinking water ran out three years earlier; this wasn’t a problem for the populace, as they’d switched to absinthe for bathing purposes, and for thirst-quenching, tomato sauce. It became a common sight in the late 70s for marathon runners to stagger gasping to the end of a particularly gruelling stage in sweltering mid-afternoon sun, then thankfully glug down several bottles of Extra-Spicy Fire-Brew sauce. Read the rest of this entry
In 1952, the third Conservative Party government kicked off. Refugees swarmed here from the Flower Power military junta in the UK, where hippie geneticists had engineered Venus Fly Traps designed to live exclusively on deep-fried Tories, to the point where each plant had its own oil-generating bonsai olive grove tucked discreetly away behind it, in a sort of domestic hydrocarbon symbiosis. These Fly Traps also had the cunning ability of being able to camouflage themselves as almost perfect replicas of roses. When protest groups like the English Defence League festooned themselves with the English national flower, the Rose, then within minutes of a protest kicking off, protestors would find the flowers they’d been holding aloft would twist around and attack them, like a fragrant snake held by the tail, and before they knew it they’d find themselves slathered in butter, crumbed, battered, dunked into boiling olive oil, diced, and served with salad on a bed of rice. Clearly not a very welcoming political environment. Unless your constituency was stomachs.
In the waning weeks of 1949, the world was in one hell of a mess. The entirety of World War 2 had come to a rather abrupt halt some weeks prior, after the internationally appointed referee team from the League of Nations redcarded Nazi Germany’s Wehrmacht Weetbix team one too many times, due to them refusing to take to the field unless the refs were all members of the Black Panthers. The ref team therefore disqualified every last member, and ordered Germany to return the territories it’d so enthusiastically conquered in Mexico, Venezuela, the Oval Office, Bermuda, Gondor, Madagascar, Burma, Narnia, Mayfair and Hawaii back to their original owners. Read the rest of this entry
In Monday 2019, the office and white collar workers of New Zealand woke up, exited bed, ate breakfast, then poured water and shoveled several hundred kilograms of finest Greymouth coal into their steam-powered traction engines for the start of a standard week’s commuting. Columns of thick black smoke poured from their vehicles and joined with the omnipresent gritty pall above every major road in the country. Office workers chatted to each other and swapped jokes as their traction engines trundled along at their usual walking pace, belching smoke and deafeningly clanking. Things bustled along nicely.
Then! A strange shining metal object whizzed down the highway shoulder! Quickly. Silently. Sexily. Read the rest of this entry
The noble art of Rugby! The Beautifuller Game! For so long it’s been a mighty pillar of New Zealand society, for so long one of our greatest strengths. Who can forget the extraterrestrial invasion of 1879, when the attacking aliens had an extremely odd ceremonial warfare style involving fifteen players and a ball? For some weeks they invaded and occupied half the country, but the occupied populace quickly picked up the rules, and upon facing hordes of determined and highly skilled resistance at every turn, and upon having to face down enemy teams of defiant, fanatical players, the aliens eventually said to each other “screw this for a lark”, and retreated back to their ships in disarray, slumped in defeat. Read the rest of this entry