Last night the largest solar storm in decades resulted in Aurorae being seen across Aotearoa, causing many to ask why?
Why was the sky pink? What was all this stuff about the power grid? Have we, as so many have wondered since the election, reached the end of days?
I had a theory myself.
Rand responded with a piece he’d written called “Signal of Virtue”.
I woke up woke this morning, I was woke all afternoon.
I’ll be woke again this evening, don’t see that ending soon.
When you believe in fairness and kindness, they treat it like a joke
But I’ll take it as a compliment, I’m happy being woke.
They like to call us liberals, or commies as a slur,
but some will always have a way, on that you can be sure.
Of trying to make the others feel as small as they.
So woke it is, and bless their hearts. For the new word of the day.
I’m woke, no joke, a real woke bloke. So you can spare me your little poke.
And put it where the sun don’t shine, then kiss me woke behind.
Others searched for different meanings, and some did not like what they saw…
In a modest apartment overlooking the domain Brooke van Velden looked out of the window. Across the room David Seymour sat on a white leather couch and massaged Ruth Richardson’s feet. Next to Ruth sat Roger Douglas who was being fed peeled grapes alternately by Jordan Williams and Matthew Hooton.
Ruth was ranting and raving about Nicola Willis, “how dare that silly little girl equate her pathetic plan with my mother of all budgets, my masterpiece. She’s going to piss everyone off, make nobody happy, and I just hate to see the poor suffer unnecessarily.”
“Sounds like granny’s had a bit much to drink,” muttered Douglas. “The mighty Ruth-enasia soft in her old age, lost the stomach for the kill have you?”
“You’d better come and see this David,” said Brooke, ignoring the others and beckoning him to the window.
Seymour moaned, “It better not be those bloody protesters, what do they want now?”
Brooke shook her head, “no, it’s not them - the whole sky is blood red. Like a raw steak.”
David went pale and retched a little.
“Kind of ironic”, smirked Brooke, “that the guy who’s telling everyone which food is woke gets all squeamish over a rare steak. Surely that’s the least woke of all food - a bloody great hunk of raw meat?”
A green David Seymour replied, “I suppose you enjoy blood?”
Brooke licked her lips, ran her tongue over her teeth, and said, “it’s not a bad drop.”
At the other end of the North Island Labour leader Chris Hipkins was also staring out of the window.
He gazed out at the sky and thought - why couldn’t this have happened before the election? It would’ve been symbolic having the sky go red. National got blue sky in the day time - what about a bit of equal air for the red team? Who knows what might’ve happened?
At the same time up in Northland two cantankerous, and possibly a little drunk, men were arguing about the colour of the sky.
Shane Jones raised himself up into his full oration stance, although he staggered a little, over balancing when he put his hand on his hip. “The shky ish pink”, he slurred, before say it again. “I’m the most red blooded bloke in all of Aotearoa, and I know the difference between red and pink.”
Winston exhaled a great plume of bluish smoke before inhaling again immediately. “This will be about the bathrooms. God must be angry about those… what do you call them?”
“Chicks with dicks”, declared Jones roaring with laughter. Then he repeated it suggestively as if he’d just invented the greatest thing since sliced bread.
“That’s what the supporters will say,” said Peters, extinguishing his cigarette before lighting another. “They’ll demand we put an end to it. Back in the good old days everyone knew which toilet to use and there was no pink sky.”
“I don’t know”, swayed Jones, “I reckon, shit what do I reckon? Oh yeah, I reckon they’ll say it was the chemtrails.”
“Yeah, that’s a good point”, said Winston, “let’s go big on that instead. To be honest I wasn’t looking forward to having to explain who could use which toilet and how we were going to check people.”
Jones looked a bit stumped by this idea, either that or he was constipated. It was sometimes hard to tell from the noises and faces he made. “You’d need some sort of a threshold”, he said, and then he fell off his chair and onto the ground.
Back in Tamaki Makaurau, in a small inner city flat, Chlöe Swarbrick was speaking enthusiastically to co-leader Marama Davidson.
“Isn’t this incredible, the sky has gone pink. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Marama looked out the window and sighed. “It’s the colour of white men”, she said. “Gammon pink. Isn’t it bad enough that they own the world without having the sky coloured in their honour too?”
“It would be more inclusive if it had all the colours,” consoled Chlöe, and then laughed, “can you imagine Brian Tamaki’s small mind exploding if the whole sky became a rainbow?”
Marama grinned and joked, “he’ll probably tell his followers that God’s unhappy about all of these rainbow people and he has to increase the tithing rate.”
Unbeknownst to the Green co-leaders pretty much that exact conversation had just taken place at the Density compound. Hannah was already looking at new cars online.
In a more upmarket part of Auckland Nicola Willis stood at a window watching, she turned to the Prime Minister and hissed “you’d better come and see what’s outside.”
Reluctantly Christopher pulled himself up, “what now, it’s not Audrey Young is it? She’s left me eleven messages so far asking what I thought of her article in the Herald. I mean it was very flattering but I’m just not her type.”
“Actually,” said Nicola, “you’re exactly her type. Don’t get me wrong I appreciate all the support we get from the Herald, but that was a bit much. Tell me, when she rings you does she refer to you by the name of a favourite childhood toy she had, by any chance?”
Christopher looked a bit mystified, although this was a more common phenomenon that what was occurring above them.
“Look out the window, the sky has gone pink - do you know what that means?”, Nicola asked.
Luxon thought about it, but he really couldn’t come up with anything. Then he remembered what Nicola always said when she brought him problems.
“I know, it’s all Labour’s fault - they did this and now we have to clean up their mess.”
Nicola looked at him and wondered for the millionth time how it was possible that he was in charge, rather than her. She hoped the pinkness in the sky was a sign and that her time was coming.
In any case it made for a nice distraction. Lately she’d had a highlight reel playing constantly in her head of all the tax cut promises she’d made before the election. She kept imagining them being played time and again on the evening news, juxtaposed against what she would actually deliver in the budget.
She looked at Luxon, his gormless face looking up at her hopefully for praise and she said, “yes, this is all Labour’s fault.”
Christopher smiled, he loved being right.
This is so funny. But on a more serious note, for one night people came out and looked at the sky. And marvelled. A reminder that there are forces and power in our universe greater than we tiny group of humanoids can ever imagine or comprehend. (Ever tried to get your head around infinity? ). We live on a planet that is just a little distant star and we are just mere dots in the universe. But a planet that could easily be lost to next generations. Puts Luxon, Willis, Seymour and Peters et al in their place.
How does Granny Herald stay in business with a panagyric to Luxon followed by confusing drivel about policy?