Slow News Day

I held a crisis meeting of this blog's senior management the other day.  Present were myself, my Tasmanian correspondent and my Belarusian tech support who have recently surprised me by revealing they own 64% of my blog and my immortal soul.  It's still better than relying on the NBN.  The reason for the meeting was the sudden lack of material coming in from Tasmania.

"What do you mean there's nothing to report?" I demanded.

"This is Tasmania," she replied.  "Nothing can happen here for years at a time."

"That's true," said my tech support, "our intelligence dossier on Tasmania is written on the back of a postcard.  With plenty of room for the stamp and our address."

"There must be something," I said trying not to let the desperation show.  "I ran out of ideas for this blog three years ago.  It's only after action reports and wacky stories from Tasmania keeping the whole thing afloat."

"I've been bushwalking," said my correspondent under the mistaken impression that she was helping.  "Oh yes, and Hobart hospital is falling down even more."

"Boring," I snorted, "we've done all that before."

"We know Hobart hospital," said my tech support.  "We accidentally released a genetically engineered smallpox virus there a few years ago.  Nobody noticed."

We sat there in silence for several minutes bereft of ideas.  To pass the time my tech support engineered a coup in a small African country.

"Well," said my correspondent hesitantly, "there is the election."

My eyes rolled back so far they almost fell down my throat.

"Oh dear god not the election," I muttered.

This is the thing about Tasmanian elections.  There are three parties in Tasmania.  One purports to be the party of business which basically involves wasting taxpayers money propping up failing enterprises so that their CEOs can still afford to move somewhere else.  The next is the party of the workers which basically involves wasting taxpayers money propping up failing enterprises so they can continue to employ a small handful of not particularly efficient workers.  The final one is an environment party which basically wants to sweep the human plague from the surface of the earth but in the mean time settles for wasting taxpayers money on antisocial programs and national parks.  The people of Tasmania periodically go to the polls to see which pack of clowns is going to mismanage the state's future for the next few years.

"I don't want to hear a single word about your damn election.  The ones I have to vote in are bad enough."

"What's an election?" asked my tech support.

"How about the Tasmanian tiger?" asked my correspondent, suddenly hopeful.

"I thought they were all dead."

"They are but scientists are planning to bring them back."

Excitement gripped me, "Really?  Have they been successful?"

"No," replied my tech support, "and there are packs of eight foot tall, stripy, six legged wolves roaming the streets of Minsk to prove it."

"That's terrible," I said, "are the people worried?"

"No they're grateful for the extra protein."

"So much for that.  No Tasmanian tigers, no exciting events in our southern state and even the mutated wolf issue in Belarus seems to be solving itself.  OK meeting adjourned.  I'll just cobble together some rubbish from the minutes and hope nobody notices."

"So I can go then?" asked my correspondent.

"Yes, yes off you go,"  I signalled my tech support to remove the restraints.

"That's good, I should get home.  One of my daughters got beaten up by a wombat over the weekend."

"Wait, what?"

But she was already gone.