New Zealand will host the Rugby World Cup in 2011.
I know, I know. I’m just as excited as you are.
Especially because this means that Rand McNally has finally agreed to include New Zealand in all its future world atlases.
And also because Auckland stands to gain a “party central” venue, a place where rugby fans from every nation can beat the shit out of one another in the name of friendly competition and excessive inebriation.
“Party central” was originally slated for Queens Wharf.
The plan was scrapped after some people opposed the razing of two old cargo sheds––having some historical value––to make room for the venue.
I was curious about the sheds. I left the house on Sunday to check out the waterfront and see what the controversy was about.
But the biggest jerk in the world, my neighbor Dabney Von Troll was blocking my path.
“Do you have a minute?” he said.
“Oh, uh, I was just on my way to, um, to have something removed…to have my….self removed…from here.”
“I promise to make this quick.”
“Ugh. OK. If you have to.”
“I had to go to hospital the other day. I was having terrible chest pains.”
“Is this story going to take much longer?”
“At first the doctor thought it was a heart attack. But as it turned out I was going into labor.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. With a gas baby. I had no idea I was even pregnant with a gas baby. But there I was in my gown, worried about my heart, when all of a sudden I start going into labor. The proctologist came to see me and confirmed that I was dilated: I was definitely ready to fart. Just then, I let rip a big one and out came my beautiful gas baby. Good thing I was already in the hospital, otherwise I might have had my gas baby in an elevator or on a bus or something. Well, it wasn’t an ideal gas baby birth. I prefer to have my gas babies in a heated swimming pool or a warm bath. It’s much less strenuous that way and it eases the gas baby’s transition into the world by recreating the conditions the gas baby enjoyed while inside me. Well, anyway, it was a quick labor in the end, so to speak. I had triplets. They’re resting comfortably inside. You want to meet them?”
“Good. Now you know exactly how I feel every time you and your wife blow a fart.”
“Look, man. Let me make this clear. The walls between our flats are very thin and very porous and every time you and your wife pass gas, not only can my family hear the disgusting sounds you make, but the smell drifts through the walls. Until you came along, I had no idea that ‘flat’ was short for ‘flatulence.’ So do me a favor, buddy. If you have gas, blow it out your ass. Someplace else. Or you’ll be sorry.”
“Uh…ok,” I said.
“Great,” Dabney said, smiling. “She’ll stop by tomorrow. Thanks.”
He dashed into his house and closed the door behind him.
I realized then that the preceding dialog was not actually what had transpired between us but what I had WISHED had transpired between us and that I had completely blanked out what Dabney REALLY had said. All I knew for certain was that a girl or a woman was going to stop by my flat on Monday for reasons that were completely lost to me.
I walked down to the waterfront in a confused state, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
I’d been walking for hours. What had I agreed to do for Dabney? Had I committed myself to walking up and down the stairs with his wife, Daphne, in her daily Happy Troll Exercise Hour routine? Had I obliged myself to a recital of the young Polly-Anastasia Von Troll gargling, or whatever it was she did in the morning before heading off to study music at school, without the benefit of earplugs? The possibilities were gruesome.
I left the waterfront and walked past the old Auckland Railway Station.
I went inside. It cheered me up.
Standing in the old station was the next best thing to being shrunken down to 1:87 scale and placed in my idea of the perfect world (and yours), a world where the trains always run on time and everyone is made of plastic. A world where nobody ever heard of the Von Troll family. A world called Miniatur Wunderland. (Check out their official video here.)
Then I left, ready to face whatever it was the Von Trolls had in store for me.
A stranger knocked on the door the next day. She was about the same age as Polly-Anastasia. She explained to me that Dabney had said I’d be willing to give a donation.
“What a relief,” I said. “I thought the Von Trolls were going to make me do something heinous, like listen to them sing. Anyway, you don’t care about all that. You just want to get this over with don’t you? You’re a sweetheart. God bless, God bless. Now, what is this donation for again?”
“It’s for UNICEF, the international children’s charity.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. No. No way.”
“But, why not? Mr. Von Troll said you would.”
“Yeah, but that’s before I knew what it was. Sorry. No, uh. I have to, uh, go now. It’s kind of an emergency, I have to, um, have my…self…removed…from…you know.”
“But why wouldn’t you give to UNICEF?”
“Why?” I said. “Are you kidding? U-NI-CEF. LU-CI-FER. Get it? Do I have to draw you a picture?”