Hanging Out With The Wacky Gang!

Were you there?

From the Rodney City Council website:

A fundraising function (in association with Muriel Newman’s NZCPR) will be held on Sunday February 28th 2010 at Alan Gibbs’ Farm, north of Auckland. 

For those who don’t know The Farm, it is a 1,000 acre sculpture park bordering on the Kaipara Harbour, featuring original works by local and internationally renowned artists.

In addition, there are lots of animals on the farm including giraffes, zebras, water buffalo, alpaca and yaks.

It will be a fun day with a line-up of luncheon speakers – including Alan Gibbs, Don Brash, Roger Douglas, Muriel Newman and Owen McShane  – tasked with explaining what we would do if we were dictator of New Zealand for a year!

A fun day all-right! With Muriel, Owen, Don, Roger and their wacky crew, I’ll bet it was laugh a minute hijinks!

THRILL! as Alan describes how the crunching of proletariat bones sounds beneath the wheels of his aquatic car.

DELIGHT! as Owen proves that the only qualification you need to understand climate science is a degree in town planning.

GROAN! as Muriel incites her crowd of plutocrats, bankers and robber-barons to shudder at the horror of Maori privilege and entitlement.

HOWL! as Roger tells a spooky tale of the underworld, where the undead come to life, just in time for the next ACT caucus meeting.

SCREAM! as the doors lock, just as you realise the face of that pig on the spit reminds you of someone you once knew.

On thrones around with downy coverings graced,
With semblance fair, the unhappy men she placed.
Milk newly press’d, the sacred flour of wheat,
And honey fresh, and Pramnian wines the treat:
But venom’d was the bread, and mix’d the bowl,
With drugs of force to darken all the soul:
Soon in the luscious feast themselves they lost,
And drank oblivion of their native coast.
Instant her circling wand the goddess waves,
To hogs transforms them, and the sty receives.
No more was seen the human form divine;
Head, face, and members, bristle into swine:
Still cursed with sense, their minds remain alone,
And their own voice affrights them when they groan.
Meanwhile the goddess in disdain bestows
The mast and acorn, brutal food! and strows
The fruits and cornel, as their feast, around;
Now prone and grovelling on unsavoury ground.

And if you’re still not done with the crazy fun…

WEEP! when you find out which good causes your money went to.