Purgastralia

The spiders told me. Always spinning their shit where I walk like they know my times. Strong as 10 pound test line, across the path, feel it stretch then WRAP itself around your head. In the morning, or evening, across the doorway out the back where I smoke, on all my paths. In my car. Silken lines want to wrap me up and the spiders thereby told me

this isn’t Australia. It is a bizaro-world, alternate-reality, sun-drenched purgatory that looks like Australia.

I put this to Mrs. Joe, a (supposed) natural born Aussie, and she only shrugged and said “well. yeah.” and went back to sorting bills.

I mean, you get on a plane with a ticket to Australia, with stops in Hawaii and Fiji and you just sort of expect they’d tell you if it was actually a flight to Purgatory with stops in Hawaii and Fiji. “Attention passengers, please confirm your tickets are for Purgatory not Australia because a lot of people get them mixed up.”

I imagine they have the same wildlife. Hopping things, biting things, spiders. They both have enchanted forests and bauxite mines. They don’t like Paul Hogan much, they don’t know who Bob Barker is. You can’t explain Happy Gilmore to them.

So of course, they must be one and the same.

Purgastralia, where everything’s either poisonous or has a pouch, light switches go the wrong way, bills require sorting, and spiders have the ambitious aim of capturing humans for some seedy purpose not yet determined. I can only assume they wish to devour me, or make me their bitch. Their, uh, spider-bitch… oh dear, I don’t like the sound of that.

I hadn’t thought of that.

Woe, what hath become of me? How cometh I to be in this beguiling spider-land? Oh what foul sin have I committed? Where doth we keep yon bug spray? Also, who puteth the ice-creameth backeth empty excepteth for one dried-upeth spoonful?

Release me.