I am success yet not just the best.
I am without failing yet I will pass.
I am celebrated yet often modest.
I am without chaperone yet driven.
I am scintillation yet sometimes dull.
I am without figure yet compelling.
I am majesty yet I am not a royal.
I am without senses yet emotional.
I am in rhyme with a tale yet do not.
I am without steps yet top a podium.
I am part vainglorious yet not that.
I am without end yet close to Gloria.
WHO AM I?
Last edition’s Fustigator: Injury
Around a week ago I received a daytime phone call where, as it turned out, I ought to have applied the universal ruling – the more ‘daytime’ the caller, the less important a response.
The caller was a delightful Asian woman who, in wonderfully broken English, introduced herself to me as Emily and who – through my comprehending every third or fourth word Emily spoke – was able to convey that not only was a survey in the offering, an ‘electronic music player’ would be given as appreciation for my time.
“Wonderful,” I recall muttering to Emily, “I acquired my first MP3 player at the last Christmas and it turns out that even those are about ten years behind the times, but seriously, you’ll give me a free one, just for answering your survey?”
“Yes, yes,” Emily pushed, seemingly unaware of my ridicule, “electronic music player – cost you nothing.”
“Oh wow, Emily, gee whiz, you guys are too much – go on then, let me at this survey, go on, Em.”
“Ah, come again..?” came the heavily accented, not unexpected response.
Five minutes, also a great deal of ear-straining on my part, later, and – quickly deciding no harm could come of it – after giving out my mailing address, I was told that I should be receiving my ‘free electronic music player’ in ‘three to four weeks’.
Few days ago I received a follow-up call regarding the ‘double confirmation of your mailing address’; to which I politely pointed out that this call should be considered simply a ‘confirmation’ as the first time I offered my address was the first time they had gleaned that particular piece of information therefore the second phone call to ascertain the aforementioned details was in fact the first time those details had been checked thus confirmed hence this was confirmation rather than double confirmation.
I think I lost her at confirmation.
Nevertheless Emily and her confounding array of broken English pressed on, informing me now of a ‘private function’, a ‘company introductory event’, in honour of the Li Bai corporation (pronounced, lie-bay), and indeed, I was invited! …
Obviously, I was overwhelmed; this was all happening so fast – I didn’t know whether to feel flattered that they’d selected me – or pissed off for the very same reason.
…Emily then gave me my ticket number which, remarkably, would double as a prize entry at the impending ‘function’…
“More prizes?” I exclaimed with (disingenuous) delight, “Surely not – not bigger than a piece-of-shit MP3 player..?”
…Emily advised me additionally that the Li Bai Corporation’s invite included a plus one, and in fact I would be expected to bring a date…
“Oh, gosh, Emily, the only person I could ever imagine taking to this thing would be you – will you go with me, will you be my plus one, Emily?”
“No, no,” she replied (I thought I could hear Emily blushing down the line), “no, I will be at the function – you may see me there.”
…So now all they needed was my email (or fax) address to send me my ticket.
“Alas,” I told Emily, now with (disingenuous) sincerity, “I don’t have my fax number on me – I think I left it back in the ‘90s.”
Powered now more by curiosity than any other emotion and again, quickly deciding that no real harm could come from divulging my email address (which, incidentally, was only recently returned to me after a prolonged period in which it was ‘compromised’, which I gathered was just another way of saying ‘this email account has been hacked by undesirables who are intent on stealing your personal information but if none of the above pith can be located – in fact I keep nothing of interest in my email account largely for this reason but also because little of interest is ever electronically mailed to me – you can have it back in a month’s time’), I soon received an, ostensibly credible, digital, cordial, invite to an evening with the Li Bai Corporation, in Wellington, at 4 – 9 p.m., on the 15th of August, 2016.
Giddy with excitement at the prospect I promptly transferred key words, dates and addresses to a Google address bar, to see what it might yield.
Imagine my despondence when before my eyes materialised multiple blogs – some well-composed, others manifesting great annoyance – all decrying the very function to which I had recently been so cordially invited.
I again checked the date of this supposed event; I then checked the current date. It was already late in the afternoon of Friday the 12th of August. No question, it was going to be a push.
If I was to make it to Wellington by 4 p.m. Monday for a company shindig along with the possibility of winning the prizes on offer and, of course most importantly, where I would have the opportunity to meet in person the glorious Emily, I had best make haste…
I took a moment to reread a few of the better written blogs elicited by the Li Bai name: I was aghast to find that apparently the first chap didn’t even receive his ‘electronic music player’; the second was told that he had won a car but because he was not present at the Li Bai Corporation’s introductory event on the 15th, he missed out; a third later received notification that he had won a $600,000 prize at the corporation’s function but was required to submit an ‘accounting fee’ before the money could be transferred to his account – he had prudently instructed them just to take this supposed accounting fee out of his total winnings but sadly, this was not possible therefore he never did see any of his ‘winnings’ either.
…Alternatively – as I conclude this piece shortly after 4 p.m., Monday the 15th of August – I’m sure the Li Bai Corporation will function just fine in my absence.
Besides, I doubt if the fabled ‘Emily’ has even been to New Zealand.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Fey Bold M’Lee
Photography by Con A Tempt
I am irresistible yet unwanted.
I am without logic yet force restraint.
I am affliction yet often self-imposed.
I am without prejudice yet disliked.
I am discomfort yet badge of honour.
I am without body yet I inhabit.
I am inflamed yet not slandered.
I am without opinion yet I dictate.
I am often exaggerated yet serious.
I am without compassion yet I feel.
I am in the jury yet not on the court.
I am without action yet instep perjury.
WHAT AM I?
Last edition’s Fustigator: Massacre
Convicted of 24 counts of rape, Malcolm Rewa will be eligible for parole in just two years.
This despite the widely accepted truth that it was Rewa who killed Susan Burdett in 1994.
As it happened, New Zealand Police only ever located enough evidence to convict Malcolm Rewa on rape charges, never for murder.
Instead, determined to secure a murder conviction on the Burdett case, Police neatly coerced a confession from another man.
Since this other man, Teina Pora, has now had those charges against him quashed, the Burdett murder case is back on.
Now Burdett’s family are the ones applying the pressure – they want Rewa tried and convicted of the murder they know he committed.
Alas Police maintain that as no further evidence on the Burdett case has come to light, there is still insufficient evidence to charge Rewa with the crime…
How about the fact that the only reason those two juries sitting for the Malcolm Rewa murder trial were unable to reach a conclusion, was because they knew Police had already secured a confession from 17-year-old Pora? How could the jury on the Rewa case realistically remain impartial when they knew another man had already taken the blame? How about now though, since the initial scapegoat has been acquitted, how about finding the truth?
…Essentially meaning that once Malcolm Rewa has served the remainder of his sentence, for the rape of 24 women, in the eyes of the New Zealand judicial system he’ll be a free man.
Never mind, hopefully they’ll be able to get him in a few years’ time, after he rapes and murders again.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Jude Ascil
Photography by Trav S Tay
“It doesn’t feel right to me, either.”
“Well why don’t you do something about it?”
“Huh … That’s amazing – how conversations with you always seem to go around in circles.”
“What – what are you on about?”
“Do you not recall? That was one of the first pieces of wisdom you offered to me at the start of this conversation..?”
“Oh … Yeah … So what? So are you gonna do something about it, or what?”
“Well, nothing more than I am currently doing…”
“Which is what?”
“Shit I don’t know – going with it, taking it as it comes, not being exasperated by shortcomings and such…?”
“Yeah but that’s your problem … You can’t just keep sitting back and waiting for something to happen – you’ve gotta make it happen.”
“Funny, I recall a few years back you berated me in a similar fashion with the exact opposite piece of advice – ‘it will happen for you’ you said in that delightfully accusatory tone of yours … ‘Probably when you least expect it’, you went on in your typically clichéd fashion, ‘you’ve just gotta be open to it’, you maintained – but then I guess it depends which is the more fashionable advice at the time, yeah?”
“…Yeah, must be…”
“Right, because I don’t know how much more ‘open to it’ I can be – I mean as far as that goes, I’ve been open to it since I was nineteen years old, it’s just the ones who are supposed to feel, I dunno, invited by my sense of openness, don’t seem to care for it … Honestly, it’s more than a smidgen frustrating…”
“And I’m sure those girls you nervously approach on the street are simply besotted by that sense of frustration, exuding all over their pretty faces…”
“But it’s their fucking fault! Honestly, how can they expect any different? Anyway, I wasn’t frustrated in the beginning – it was only after being so constantly and thoroughly shot down that I became the bitter and twisted representation of romantic despair you see before you.”
“Well, you do have a way with words, I’ll say that much…”
“…Which, when you’re speaking to the majority of Christchurch’s female population, is not a trait anyone considers at all beneficial.”
“I thought you said that last girl you had was into that – thought you said she was the same as you.”
“Hmm … Yeah, she was awesome … That was a shame.”
“So what’d you do wrong there?”
“I don’t believe I did anything wrong.”
“So where is she?”
“Last I knew, somewhere around Hillsborough.”
“Why is she not in your life, I mean?”
“You mean, before or after she gave me the STD..?”
“What? But I thought…”
“Yeah, turns out she dabbled in the art of lying compulsively.”
“Oh … As long as it was only dabbling … Oh, so how long ago did you say that was?”
“Ah, would’ve been, somewhere over three years ago.”
“And what about since then?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow … Really though? I mean that’s a really long time to go without, you know…”
“’To go without, you know’? Shit I thought we were grownups now..?”
“Well it is a pretty long time…”
“Yeah, and you know the worst thing? Even that STD was passed on outside the act of actual copulation.”
“Hah … What? You say it was without copulation..?”
“Hah, yeah, think it’s what they call an ‘immaculate transmission’.
“Never heard a venereal disease called ‘immaculate’ before – how did that go?”
“Oh, we were just fucking around in the spa, but without actually fucking around … You know building up some heat, some passion, some intensity…”
“So what, you got Chlamydia through foreplay..?”
“More or less – probably less though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well fair to say there was some penile/vaginal contact…”
“But not actually sex..?”
“In a word, no.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?! You didn’t even get to properly fuck her and you still caught her fucking diseases..? What a fucking rip!”
“Yeah, cool chick though – aside from that, I mean.”
“Yeah, plenty of other guys must’ve thought so, too.”
“It only takes one.”
“Still, what a fuckin’ slut.”
“Hang on, that’s hardly fair – I mean there had to have been a shitheaded guy in the first place to pass on his diseased genitalia to her…”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, calling her the slut – which, incidentally, is actually an antiquated term for ‘female dog’ thus ‘bitch’ hence ‘slut’ in whichever language – hardly seems fair.”
“Why not?”
“Well it hardly seems fair to label this girl a harlot when there is evidently a young man out there passing around the origin of this disease.”
“How do you know he’s the origin – probably came from another little slut somewhere else..?”
“Well … Obviously … I mean, that’s the basis of STDs – they are spread by transmission.”
“But you seriously didn’t even get to fuck her..?”
“Not really, I mean, not full penetration.”
“But, why not, I mean, she was obviously gagging for it..?”
“Like I said, I was building anticipation -”
“Hah, how’d you go anticipating this outcome?”
“Seriously, it would’ve been spectacular – I’d been studiously working on her, getting her so fucking wound up, I mean she was practically choking on her own desire -”
“Among other things, perhaps..?”
“- Obviously, but I hadn’t even intended to complete the transaction that weekend…”
“Are you serious – she was there totally gagging for it, you were all over her, she was dripping wet, you were everywhere but inside her, even though all she wanted was you inside her, and seriously, you were still planning to make her wait..?”
“Yeah man, would’ve been awesome.”
“My God, you really do love your ‘long games’ don’t you?”
“Honestly, anticipation is the essence of pleasure…”
“That is fucking incredible … If you are serious … I am actually in awe – your self control must be beyond belief…”
“Wouldn’t say it’s ‘self control’ really, I just make a plan, set a target, and stick to it … It’s not even particularly difficult – just following a plan…”
“You and your fucking ‘plans’ man – try being spontaneous.”
“Seriously..? I am spontaneous, you know I’m spontaneous – I just like to have a plan sometimes.”
“Yeah? So how did this plan work out for you?”
“This particular plan? Admittedly, not so well…”
“That’s right, ‘not so well’ … ‘Cause even with all your planning and your so called ‘long games’ and your ‘anticipation building’ and all your other OCD bullshit, you still didn’t get any.”
“Well, I did get an STD … I mean, that’s something, isn’t it?”
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Anne Ticha Paition
Photography by S Synch Plasure
I am fatal yet have less to do with fate.
I am poignant yet only to those who care.
I am deranged yet less to do with ranges.
I am a mess yet will not clean up for days.
I am bloodshed yet less to do with sheds.
I am amoral yet my executor cares not.
I am compassionless yet indeed less of it.
I am debilitating yet only to the living.
I am land measurement yet I am en mass.
I am an impassioned display yet less good.
I am in rhyme with brassica yet I end life.
I am part of murder mass a cretin attends.
WHAT AM I?
Last edition’s Fustigator: Absence
Labour MP Nanaia Mahuta is proudly flaunting her newest tattoo – a traditional moko on her chin.
The question some will now be asking: ‘Does this mean the skull and crossbones on my neck, and the barbed wire around my right biceps, is also socially acceptable?’
Despite facial tattoos throughout time being associated with motorcycle gangs and/or thuggery, Mahuta is of the belief that the cultural significance of her facial tattoo renders it nonthreatening.
Whether a tattoo is of significance to the bearer or is just the result of an ill-conceived whim, the negative connotations that come with any kind of personal inking – let alone facial inking – are undeniable.
In this time of over-the-top political correctness and increasingly rigorous workplace regulations – particularly regarding Public Relations – it seems that if someone can show up to their place of employment on Monday with an inoffensive but visible ink-stain and be unquestionably removed from the premises, to then allow a Member of Parliament to show their face in public with any kind of – facial – tattoo, is a massive double standard.
Of course public outcry surrounding this potentially inflammable situation is at a minimum because – while there is no question that if Prime Minister John Key showed up in parliament in a week’s time with a rusty old sea-anchor tattooed to his left cheek emblazoned with the word ‘MOTHER’ as a sixteen year remembrance of his dear mum’s passing, that his sanity would be called into question and indeed he would likely lose his illustrious title – in fairness few White folk are truly certain how to behave when someone claiming to be of Maori heritage starts throwing around terms such as ‘iwi’, ‘hapu’, ‘whanau’, ‘tangi’, ‘tapu’, ‘tangata whenua’, ‘treaty’ or the big one, ‘cultural significance’.
This leads us to the inevitable conclusion cum double standard that the pastier ones skin the less acceptable the tattoo, because there is no way anyone can claim that any variety of facial tattoo is nonthreatening.
Facial tattoos are barbaric and while the bearer might well claim there is great significance behind the smudge, at a glance, they are still barbaric.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Fey Shell-Tate
Photography by Murray Tate
I am not there yet I must be to be me.
I am without worry yet I cause just that.
I am deadbeat dads yet less deplorable.
I am without all things yet one thing I am.
I am lost mail yet am less of an annoyance.
I am without anything yet am something.
I am ditching at the altar yet less gutless.
I am without time management yet watch.
I am notable by omission yet I emit notes.
I am without consistency yet reliably not.
I am stomach yet I am then small money.
I am without occupancy yet nothing at all.
I am the end of presence yet start ably.
WHAT AM I?
Last edition’s Fustigator: Perfume
“So why don’t you try it that way?”
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s quite come to that, yet.”
“Well it’s better than being lonely..?”
“I’m not lonely.”
“But you just said you were lonely.”
“I said I was ‘still on my lonesome’, I never said I was lonely.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, one is being alone and feeling shit because of it, and the other, I guess is just being alone.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, you see, unlike how you seem to operate, I don’t actually need a significant other in my life to feel complete … I am quite comfortable with my own company.”
“What, you mean living inside your own head like a weirdo..?”
“I think you’d be surprised, the décor up there is rather plush…”
“What?”
“I’m saying the inside of my head, providing I stay clear of conflict, shit-storms, heated arguments and such, is a surprisingly favourable environment to be.”
“Right … Well whatever it is, it doesn’t have to be like that.”
“Like what? I just told you I was fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’ve given up.”
“I haven’t given up.”
“Well when was the last time you even asked a girl out?”
“Honestly? About an hour and a half ago.”
“What? You’re not serious..?”
“Of course I am … As I said I’ve just been in town, and it’s not as if making female contact is a big thing for me anymore … I am a grownup now, after all.”
“So what’s the problem then?”
“Ah, aha … What do you mean?”
“Well you said you’re still alone, but you seem to be doing alright with girls, so..?”
“Hah, yeah, ‘so’ is about right…”
“What are you on about?”
“Well in this modern world, in this age of consent -”
“Oh you haven’t..?”
“Haven’t what?”
“Oh my God have you been trying to chat up minors?”
“No, shit, no … I’m saying ‘in this age, where consent is important’ … No more can a caveman simply decide a woman is his before projecting a string of guttural tones, throwing her over his shoulder then taking her back to his grotto in the sun…”
“Are you sure about that? That’s what most guys do with me…”
“Yeah, much as I’m sure I’d like to, I have never actually encountered a woman with such a liberal mindset as yourself on my travels…”
“So what are the girls like, you speak to?”
“In a word, marvellous.”
“Even though they don’t go out with you..?”
“Sure, but I’m playing the long game.”
“With women you’ve never met before and are never likely to meet again..?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that ‘the long game’?”
“I dunno, I suppose, because it’s set to take a very long time.”
“Oh God … So, when was the last time you actually took a girl out, like, you know, when you last went on a date?”
“Hmm, tough one … In fact I don’t know if I have ever been on a ‘date’ per se…”
“Come on..?”
“No, sorry, fair call, I did go out with you that time a few years back.”
“What, you mean that time my mum took us to Robbies?”
“Oh fair enough, given she paid, guess that was more a date with your mum than it was with you…”
“Oh, don’t be disgusting … You must have gone out with other girls though – yes, like that time with me and Mum, but romantically..?”
“Never the mother/daughter combo like that, no.”
“Oh, don’t be crude – I mean a proper date..?”
“Alright, short answer, no.”
“What does ‘no’ mean?”
“It means, regarding your beloved ‘proper dates’, I have had none.”
“What? What about the girls you talk to?”
“Most of them are wonderful, but I feel as though we’ve already been here – believe the first time around you used the term ‘speak’ rather than ‘talk’ to, and I called them ‘marvellous’ instead of ‘wonderful’.
“Yeah, alright then smart guy, what happens to those wonderfully marvellous prospects when put under the scrutiny of your enigmatic charms?”
“Honestly dude, my ‘charms’ are a terrible lot less effective than you seem to believe they ought to be.”
“What – I don’t get it..?”
“What do you not get? Talking to you, the pretty chick I’ve known all my life and with whom I have never had relations, I’m great – shit man, a third party observer might even consider me a catch…”
“If I didn’t know you all my life I’d consider you a catch.”
“…Yet you do know me and you have known me which is why you understand that any ‘catchiness’ you might perceive is all front because realistically I am a timid little piss-ant.”
“No, I think it’s the other way … Realistically you are fine, so maybe it’s talking to girls you don’t already know where you are the nervous piss-ant..?”
“Yeah, of course, I mean that makes me nervous, sure, but it’s more of an excited nervous – as opposed to a terrified nervous I mean.”
“That’s good then … Isn’t it?”
“Not so much … Nerves are nerves and shaky bodies aside, nerves aren’t suave … Girls typically prefer suave to nerves…”
“Mm, girls do.”
“…Which illustrates my point..?”
“Sorry, you had a point..?”
“Unconventional of me I realise, but yes, in fact I was briefly explaining my being romantically bereft…”
“Oh yeah, and how was that going?”
“It started slow then it picked up for a bit, which was about the time your attention span spanned to the limit of its attention.”
“Yeah, it’ll do that.”
“The booze probably doesn’t help..?”
“Yeah, probably not, but whaddayagonnado?”
“Continue venting to this increasingly obtuse wall sitting before me … The point, I think, was that women can smell diffidence -”
“Yeah and it fucking stinks, but you don’t stink – in that regard I mean…”
“- As I was saying, they seem to be able to sense – even when it’s not manifested – I swear they can sense my nervousness … Also uncertainty, doubt, lack of self belief, esteem, confidence…”
“Hang on, no, I mean how can that be when, I mean, you’ve got those things like, self confidence and that … How could they possibly sense that you don’t?”
“Do you recall earlier when I said that my perceived ‘catchiness’ was all a front because ‘realistically’ I’m a timid little piss-ant?”
“Yeah, so..?”
“So I’m going to forgive your lapse on account of the years, also the distance, that has come between us yet I do feel it my duty to remind you, deep down, genuinely, innately, I am a timid little piss-ant.”
“Then why are you confident enough to go out and chat up strange girls?”
“As I said, I put on that charade of a façade of confidence which, evidently, is about as threadbare as your memory … Also, in those girls’ defence, they’re not that strange – some of them are terribly normal, dull and/or rather dreary.”
“Alright, I’ll go with that … Why, then … Why have you become such an innately diffident piss-ant?”
“It was innately ‘timid’, not diffident, and inherently, you don’t ‘become’ innately timid, you ‘are’ innately timid … By definition, you are born innately timid.”
“Oh, God, don’t do that … Why are you such a fucking annoying piss-ant, then?”
“Yes, that’s a good question … I suppose, put it down to rejection – too much rejection coupled with too few successes.”
“But you’re successful..?”
“Yeah? In what?”
“Well … OK, you’re pretty smart, for one.”
“For two, erudition doesn’t measure in success.”
“Well you’re good with words, so turn that around to make it sound successful.”
“Yes … In life’s challenge to know good England and to speak in sentences proper and to not use run-on sentences and to make sure sentences aren’t guilty of word overuse in sentences, shit man, I am a rollicking success.”
“Awesome … So who rejects you?”
“Ah, shit … Anyone … Everyone … You-for-one…”
“What? When did I reject you?”
“Once when I was sixteen, then again when I was eighteen, and once more when I was nineteen, then I either took the hint, or you lost appeal…”
“Oh, yeah, but we were just kids then..?”
“How does that make a difference? Shit I’m not sore about it, I was just answering your question so you know, you can see how someone might go about rejecting me.”
“Yeah but I mean from nineteen ‘til now you must have moved on..?”
“’Moved on’? Yes, of course I’ve moved on, like I said, that shit’s nothing, it was an example … That said, my ratio has not improved…”
“Ratio..?”
“Success to rejection ratio.”
“Oh my God, why are you even counting them?”
“I’m not counting them – I just know because it won’t be difficult to detect the anomaly when a success story appears amid the line of uninterrupted failure.”
“What? Are you serious? No, you can’t be … What about that last girl I saw you with?”
“Last time I saw you, over three years ago..? Yup, by the ratio that stood at that time, there ought to be another coming on in a month or two.”
“What?”
“Law of averages … Three-and-a-half years is about it.”
“God, sounds like you’re being too picky.”
“In fact I am the quintessential opposite of picky – I’m easy as they come … They just never seem to come – unless of course I have a hand in making them come, then they come freely…”
“Oh, no, don’t be crude.”
“Right, then three-and-a-half is about right.”
“That’s not right…”
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by Nessa Weak
Photography by Thirby Mora
I am rather light yet am heavier than air.
I am of a heavenly body yet am not a god.
I am known to drift yet am not snowstorm.
I am fragrant yet invariably this will vary.
I am made of moisture yet am not wetting.
I am typically costly yet I am also symbolic.
I am elegant yet so too they who use me.
I am sometimes overpowering yet I am me.
I am worn on the outside yet I am felt inside.
I am in rhyme with a nightly time restriction.
I am at times intoxicating yet am not booze.
I am a bit perfect yet need some fumigation.
WHAT AM I?
Last edition’s Fustigator: Compassion