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May 31, 2010 | by  | in Opinion |
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New Zealand fantasy getaway holiday vacation, nice!

I went to Westport on a school trip when I was 16. I was inspired. The clock tower. The rain. The clock tower. The mini golf. The clock tower. The clock tower.

It’s getting on 10 o’clock. And it’s dark out y’all. I’m sure all the citizens of Westport are tucked up safely in bed to guard their souls from the evil Westport night-spirit. We saw this one guy there who was like 25 who looked like his soul had been eaten. We stumbled across him in the Westport pizza bar. The stench of urinal cakes hung thick in the air. Like a fog, never rising. Each breath drew it in, suffocating all other senses. He was in the corner staring sullenly into space out of dark, hollow eyes. Across the room to the television set where the dust had settled: a game of rugby. Does he even know what rugby is? What am I saying? He is part of Westport now. He arrived in his Volkswagen years ago. A glint in his eye, the wind in his hair, all the hope and promise in the world. Westport was his one mistake. It truly was, his downfall. He was warned, the locals thought he had taken heed, inhaled their Westportian wisdom, but the moment their backs were turned? The fatal exhalation: thick with the stench and foreboding of lost youth and young manhood. Hope was lost. For that night, after a beer at the local, he failed to take notice of the tolling bells in the magnificent Westport clock tower. The dark hour had come, but what was it to him? Dong! And his body felt heavy. Dong! And his breath was drawn out of him. Dong! And the glint in his eye was extinguished. Dong! Gone were his hopes. Dong! Gone were his dreams. Dong! And his world fell into never-ending darkness. Dong! And his penis fell off. Dong! And his soul was lost. Lost to the ever-hungry merciless man-beast-spirit which is Westport. And now he stares with his deep, dark, sombre eyes, deep as space. Across the room to the television set, which is showing him something lost to him—something he will never again know. It’s too late. We can’t go back for him. So take heed ma’fuckaz. You should pretty much never go to Westport if you like your soul the end. 

Bad punctuation, I know.

I want Westport to prove my sassy 16-year-old self wrong. Maybe I can plan a holiday that is so awful that it will be enjoyable. I’m going to get grabaseats and a pop tent and book myself in to the camping ground. I’ll eat baked beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Cold baked beans because the camp stove won’t work. Then I’ll go see the clock tower. Then I’ll do some skids on my bike. And wheelies, heaps of wheelies.

Bore-je Del-a-bored.

P.S. It is fun to answer “Yeah, me neither,” every time someone asks you a question. Then when they’re all like “Huh?!”, you say “Probably.”

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  1. Westport has a dolphin apparently. And Nelson used to have a retarded monkey.

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