Hello there, our beloved and non paying listeners. This week the rats weave and wend their way around a world teetering on total shit fuckery (some would say we’re already there, or have been ever since the Iron Lady mainstreamed pillaging public infrastructure for the benefit of a ruling elite; tomay-toe toma-toe). In the rat’s shared world, which is still shared despite being separated by the Tasman sea, so much is going on that it’s difficult to put into words. Easier to put into a sustained note of primal screaming. In the undying spirit of the Avantgarde the rats offer a shaky middle ground with a near-hour of hyperbole and paranoia, with a dash of crowd-pleasing body horror. Like, the fact that Sam was recently grindr-catfished by Whangarei’s finest. Which would’ve been fine if it wasn’t for the upset stomach he got from swallowing A LOT of . . . well, you know. Add to this the whole block of Ghana he ate to get the taste and feel of hot white rancid lava out of his mouth/gut, and you might be able to guess how he’s finding his impromptu trip up north—familiar, bloating, and a little salty. This particular complaint leads Sam and Johanna down a nostalgic lane of old Whittaker’s campaigns. Specifically, the one where a biracial couple (for reference, a very hot svelte athletic couple; for the optics) dive into creamy vats of opposite blends; a white woman goes Ghana, a dark skinned man goes Milky Bar. The pair emerge as delectably coated racial cosplayers—roll branding. As if to say chocolate and eugenics go hand in hand—at least since (insert whatever year Whittakers was established). Also, we’d be remiss if we didn’t temper our id-fuelled verbal bricolage with some general pessimism about the approaching race/class/water wars. Which we do here. Enjoy (and see you in the thunder dome).
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