Pink Satin and Black Velvet

We've been invited to a fancy dress party. You cannot begin to imagine how ridiculously exciting this is. It's not even being held by racist, beer swilling miners! It's being held by a group of our potential new best friends. 

We procured this invitation at last Saturday's anti-uranium mining rally. Many of the town's concerned citizens gathered on the council lawns to register their outrage over the mining site

 Angela Pamela (personally I prefer calling it Pamela Anderson, but it's up to the individual.) Many a cruel word was spat at my love god, Peter Garrett. I found it extremely distressing.

I feel the same way about Peter Garrett that my mum feels about me committing violent crime. She always says to me, "Even if you murdered someone, I'd still love you." This is usually a preamble aimed at tricking me into confessing the smoking of illegal substances or the acquisition of body art. I'm not trying to trick Peter Garrett into confessing multiple nipple piercings or anything, but the point remains that the affection I feel for him is so strong, so true, it cannot be shaken. Not even by a group of my potential new best friends shaking their fists and dreadlock-ridden heads at him.

But the point is, that I'm going to an extremely cool fancy dress party tomorrow night. The theme is "Escape from the Circus." I have spent the majority of my weekly budget (which in this case constitutes sixty bad boys) on the most fabulous outfit of all time. I may have to be shoe-horned into my pink satin negligee, and I may explode out of it unceremoniously at the party after eating one too many cheezels, but my god, it will be worth it.

Halleluiah

The mystery has been officially resolved. We have discovered the non-racist population of Alice Springs. They have elluded us for some time but this weekend gone by, we finally tracked them down. We came across this unique sub-species in the wilderness at Ross River.

They were congregating at what is called a "Desert Doof," headlining such bands as "Combat Wombat" and "Urth Boy." The Non-Racists adorn themselves in multi-coloured felt bead necklaces, their hair is often matted into thick strings and many of them carry dirty, naked screaming children around where ever they go. They often shout phrases such as "Fuck Bush."

Having discovered the Non-Racists, our next task was to infiltrate their ranks. On Saturday night we decided that if we were to blend in, we would have to take some extreme measures. These extreme measures took the form of wearing thermal underwear on the outside of our clothing and me pinning a half-finished hand crocheted beanie to my head (I prepared this earlier in the day, during a beanie making and bush tucker workshop, of course.)

Whilst our outfits seemed wild when we put them on, we were outdone almost immediately by three girls wearing cask wine bags as bikini tops with the nozzles over their nipples. Two of our team became dissuaded and headed back to the tent, defeated at 9p.m. But I stood my ground. I surveyed the crowd. I figured my best bet was the man in the black Betty Boop wig, who was foaming at the mouth. I successfully befriended him and procured myself an invitation to a vegan dinner party the following weekend. I congratulated myself on a job well done as I headed back to the tent at 3a.m. and was lulled into a restful slumber by the rhythmical hammering of trance music.