Uncle Len Meets the Buddha By Uncle Len, Who is Not at Peace

     Really, incidents like the one I am about to describe make one lose all faith in the belief of the goodness of the human race. I type this with my one good finger, not crippled with arthritis, in anger, sweat dripping onto the computer key board. I hope that I don’t get electrocuted before finishing. So, here I was in Rundle Mall, in a far away land called “Adelaide,” outside a shopping centre and this Buddhist monk approaches me and gives me a Buddhist card for peace, and puts a thingy of beads around my wrist. Thank you I say in my most friendly, love ‘n’ peace voice.

     Then he asks me for $30 and writes my name in a note book. I had previously told him my name. What, I said, where is the religion of poverty and humbleness! I am the poorest person in Adelaide, and am bin shopping at the moment. I can give you 50 cents. He was offended at this, so I said: “here, have your junk back. I prefer war anyway.” Then I walked off to leave him to try his luck with the wealthy Asian students living along North Terrace, while I searched the bins to survive. Yes, it is a metaphor for the plight of the dispossessed Anglo Saxon. I am a living metaphor for dispossessed (too many S’s) Anglo Saxons. It’s my day job.