The Going Postal Camper Van

Selina’s Mezuzah Microbus

Doxie, Going Postal
Selina’s Mezuzah Microbus

One of my heroes, Judas Was Paid, suggested I make a camper van. So, obedient old girl that I am, I made a camper van. But because, like most on here, I am nasty, twisted and contrary, my camper van is nasty, twisted and contrary.

Let me state outright that it is not a far right Nazi wayciss camper van. No. My nasty, twisted and contrary camper van is an insult. I shall refrain from using “abuse”, the poor word having recently been so, well, abused, one has to feel sorry for it.

Doxie, Going Postal

My camper van is an insult, first of all, to the foul piece of human carrion who terrorises Germany, a creature so morally repulsive that if I wrote her vile name I would have to wash my hands with bleach.

My camper van is also an insult to the latest indignity inflicted upon us, miserable sinners, by our betters: Grotta, the false prophet of doom who daily enjoins us to repent, abjure, and quake in our (unheated) cottages and is now crossing the Atlantic on a cardboard raft powered by quinoa farts. Sorry, Grotta. Charles Lindbergh was a far worthier role-model than you.

Doxie, Going Postal

My camper van pollutes; it pollutes with relish; it pollutes as much as it can for the sheer sadistic pleasure of triggering Grotta. It belches so much CO2 into the air that Grotta (who can see it, apparently) will soon go blind. Or, perhaps, filthy-minded Puffins will say it was her bad habits? My camper van is equipped with an old fridge full of Freon purely to annoy Grotta and the denizens of the Village of the Damned. Selina cooks long, elaborate meals on her gas ring for her genuine doll refugee neighbours and friends, spends half the night reading and luxuriates for hours in the bath in the (possibly vain) hope that outrage leads to self-combustion.

Doxie, Going Postal

My camper van loathes, hates, and detests a pseudo-elite so irredeemably rotten that it kisses the ground on which a monster like Shameless Bubblegum treads while treating ordinary, decent people like so much dog turd on the soles of their Louboutin or Manolo Blahnik shoes. My camper van, sincerely and remorselessly, curses and wishes that elite ill. And I can feel it in my old bones that ill is coming unto them. It is coming fast and in spades. That day, you Grotta will be the one doing the quaking.
 

© text & pictures Doxie 2019
 

The Goodnight Vienna Audio file