Carnivorous Cow

The Cow was grumpy that her return coincided with a snap of cold weather, and the start of the second semester, resulting in interminable queues for the strained ablution facilities.

Gramsci, on the other hand, struggled to see what all the fuss was about.

"Gmf!" muttered the Cow. "That's Reason 1 why men's toilets are better than women's! There's hardly ever a queue for the men's!"

Gramsci admitted that this was consistent with his experience, but was curious about the other reasons.

"Well," began the Cow. "Reason 2 is that there are seldom children in the men's. And if there are, it's usually a no-fuss, business-like activity with minimum pain all round.

"Reason 3 is that - unless one is at a certain gay club in Green Point - men's toilets don't have a phalanx of make-up touchers-up crowding the mirrors and - in the process - blocking access to the wash-basins. Or the hand-towels. Or the exit door.

"Reason 4 is that fewer than half of the toilets in the men's are likely to be blocked by acres of rainforest, in the form of tissues, failing in their attempt at being flushed. Or whatever else it is that women, or their accompanying children, try unsuccessfully to flush, backing up the entire plumbing system."

Gramsci really didn't want to know. He was already terrified that the Cow might mention the presence, in the women's, of those euphemistically named "feminine hygeine" bins which festered in the corners of the cubicles. While their purpose remained opaque to him, he suspected that it was related to the Kotex industry's equivalent of the nuclear waste disposal problem, and was terrified that he might be correct.

But the Cow steamrollered on. "Reason 5," she continued, "is probably the most compelling of all. In the men's, you're far, far less likely to have to endure subjection to a teary, blow-by-blow cellphone conversation - or half of it - of some hysterical female recounting her break-up with her boyfriend to her best friend."

Gramsci had to admit that this, too, was true. Men's conversations post-break-up with their best friends tended to be beery, rather than teary, and men's toilets weren't the best venue for beer in its undigested form.

"Sydney," the Cow informed Gramsci, "is a city stuck in a time warp. Well, much of Oz is, generally, but Sydney is definitely a city of the 70s. I've never seen so much tie-dye, so much brown, so much retro fashion. Or so many smokers!"

Gramsci shrugged - which, given 8 arms, produced a Mexican wave. "Well," he suggested, "surfer culture was a big thing in the 70s, and all the big surfer brands are Australian. You can't blame them for wanting to keep that on life support, if only for economic reasons!"

"Gmf!" snorted the Cow. "Pushing local industry is one thing, but surely there's been some advance since the 70s? After all, Sydney doesn't stop at Bondi or Coogee?"

Gramsci chuckled. "Surferwear is probably the least embarrassing of their exports," he pointed out. "I doubt they'd get much tourism if the windows were all full of Rolf Harris CDs or Paul Hogan videos..."

Which reminded the Cow of the frightening things she had seen in almost every shop window in Oz....

 (More)

The Cow had some time to kill in Seednee Airport before being sent back home, and was enjoying the free internet access one of the local cellphone networks provided in the departures terminal. A rather sleepy Gramsci hovered on the other end of GTalk in that in-between-sleep-and-waking state, faking the latter and longing for the former.

"So how was Oz?" he asked gamely. Or lamely, depending on one's perspective.

The Cow wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. "Well..." she began. "It's a really big place, and we saw only a couple of bits of it, and even between those bits it's hard to generalise."

Gramsci grunted what he hoped passed for an appropriate response.

"Seednee, for example," continued the Cow, "commemorates it's literary nobility - including some it purloined from elsewhere like Josef Conrad - with plaques on Circular Quay. I did recognise some of the names - Germaine Greer, Peter Carey, and a couple of others - and of course it's all overshadowed by the scallops of the Opera House. Highly cultured, Seednee is."

The penny dropped for Gramsci. Sydney, of course. Right.

"Adelaide, on the other hand... Now who gets commemorated there? Cricketers! There's a statue up on the hill in North Adelaide, and the highway leading to the airport - which had a perfectly serviceable name before - has been renamed the Donald Bradman Highway! Can you imagine! And this, with a Prime Minister who asserts that sport is the marker of a true civilisation..."

And sends troops to Iraq, thought Gramsci. But wisely said nothing.

"Queensland, by contrast..." Gramsci could swear he heard a note of smugness creeping into the Cow's tone. "Queensland has other priorities. Besides being 'The Sunshine State', its licence plates also peg it as 'The Smart State', and they sure are! Besides having the best climate, they also have the best sense! Who do you see commemorated from Cairns all the way up?"

Gramsci shuddered at the thought.

"C' est moi!" trumpeted the Cow triumphantly. "There's a Cow Bay, and every second restaurant or coffee shop is called Funky Cow, Cool Cow, or some such!"

Gramsci rolled his eight eyes in horror. No wonder global warming was being so adversely affected by bovine hot air....