
Recently as anyone with a TV, a computer, a subscription to Woman's Day, or a Centrelink card would know--- a young mother; Shweta Verma of picturesque Ashburton, VIC, failed to have the pram brake secured whilst she hitched up her pants "for a moment" and her young son and the pram popped onto the tracks at a train station where it was run over by an approaching train. Fortunately for Ms. Verma (or is it Vermin?) and her son the baby did not become a falafel roll but was rescued relatively unscatched by a teenager. Happy Ending. Especially for the other people at the station and subsequent stops who would have been held up for hours waiting for Connex to figure out how to put a new train on the tracks while wiping baby bits off the wheels of the offending train.
Well, before you can say "thank Vishnu and significantly high undercarriage clearances" Ms. Verma did the rounds on TV en route to her $100,000 exclusive sale of the story to the popular women's magazine. By popular, I mean that the print is big enough for it's core readership (woman who left school before Year 6 and have 3 or more children and dream of a Delfin home) to enjoy without getting bogged down with small pictures or challenging words.
This poses an interesting shred in the fabric of conventional workplace apprenticeships in Australia, with now an astonishing 96% of all Indian, Pakistani, and and Sri Lankan mothers residing in Australia claiming they will push their babies in front of a speeding train in order to gain $100,000 cash. Somewhat similar to the premise of THE BOX, but without Cameron Diaz and dropping the critical "person you do not know" catch to get the money. The same survey amongst Chinese and Korean mothers produced the same figures, but were only willing to sacrifice their female children. Japanese mothers surveyed said "only if my child resembled a dolphin" and it should be noted the Sri Lankan mothers wanted to sell the pram wreckage separately on eBAY, and it was predicated on them getting off the boat first and explaining to them just what the fuck a train was. But they liked the cash payment part and understood that without fail. Most of the skippy mothers said they'd rather wait until their kid was old enough to go backpacking in Croatia and get murdered or get totally fucking lost bushwalking and rescued because they'd rather be fucked than endure public transport in Melbourne for any amount of money. And I'm not against cash payments for great stories. Trisha Broadbridge deserved any amount of money for having to endure nothing but endless footy stories from new hubby Troy over and over and over for her entire honeymoon including during sex and must have thought all her Christmases had come at once (or Boxing Days to be more accurate) when the tsunami hit. And you had to feel for Stuart Diver, listening to his wife whining "it's cold Stuart...STUART...it's cold...I'm not a good swimmer and I didn't want to come skiing either this year you selfish bum!" for about 73 hours straight whilst he was freezing his ass off and wondering if the 4 Star Accommodation would have been worth the extra $10 per night; not including breakfast. "Okay honey, soon as I get these 43 tonnes of building materials off my face I'll make plans for a warmer holiday next year! FUCK!"
Think of the future? In twenty years there would be no taxi drivers in Australia and a virtual plague of funeral homes catering to tots springing up. Woman's Day would have the "Train Baby Calendar Centrefold" each year with the best-looking baby of each month that 'went training...so-to-speak". Videos of dead babies would be on YouTube with the music track (sic) "The Tracks of My Tears". It'll be worse than Australian Idol and I suspect even Rove will have a few baby carcasses on his desk to pick up ratings a bit.
It's a tough one. I believe we've really opened up a Pandora's Box here with cash payments for mini miracles that would normally be payment enough for the 'victim' just to have survived the ordeal. Maybe if Shweta hadn't purchased her pants from Omar the Tentmaker of Narre Warren or had thought of something preventative like maybe, a fucking belt---she wouldn't have emailed her kid to the bank.
I know the experience because I was a young father once. When young Gein 2.o was a baby, I used to sometimes get dialed out of my mind for days and come Mondays accidentally put him on the roof of my car and put my phone into the baby seat and drive off in subzero Midwestern winter weather to take him to the Phillip Garrido Childcare Centre in Northwest Eastern Sioux City, Iowa. I'd be driving down icy streets screaming at him to stop making 'ringing sounds' and realize it wasn't him but a large mobile phone brick ringing away in the back seat while the young bugger rolled off the roof screaming to high hell and trying to grab onto the trunk lid before sliding off into traffic. I knew it was him because I could recognize his little red face crying a river onto the back window en route to Pavement Land reflected in the rear view mirror. I despised that because not only did I miss important calls (voicemail not being common back then) but I had to stop and freeze my ass off to tippy toe back and get him from under whatever Buick he had slid under. Did I ever try and sell my story to the Sioux City Journal or Wisconsin Cheesefag Tribune? No fucking way! No harm no foul!
Today for some inordinate reason young Gein still cries when he boards the train from Federation Square to his humpy near St. Kilda where he moonlights as a Pixel Acquisition Consultant for Bit Torrent. He is saving up enough money to open up a Vampire Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe called BITE TORRENT (c) and he is focused and mature---but still cries alot around trains. It shits me no end.
So I'm going to take this beautiful Saturday off, since I don't feel like working and only have enough cash on me for a flutter or two, and head out to Flemington where I will wait amongst the rose bushes until I see a spectacularly drunk and heinously large and ugly female racegoer hanging out of an impossibly small skirt, and push her in front of the first goddamn train I can. This will not only make room for more suitably sized people and enable 24% more passengers travelling home from the Derby, but will also provide a bit of fun for members of the Montmorency Football Club as they clean up the tracks and find a near naked female torso---since they won't be going back to Phillip Island for some time...











