Weighing up all the ifs and butts

By Sheryl-Lee Kerr

slkx@hotmail.com

I AM told by an esteemed colleague, who swore he was sober at the

time, that wombats kill by sitting on animals. Their thick hide apparently

has all the force of a falling anvil on a cartoon coyote. However,

he failed to provide any written documentation, witnesses or serious

men in safari suits walking slowly towards us while speaking in deep

authoritative voices to substantiate his claims.

I will also admit this is the same bloke who convinced a busload of

gullible Americans that we have hoop snakes in Australia (they

slither up to the top of hills, put their tails in their mouth and roll down

the hills).

Hmmm. Slight credibility problems there - and what sort of an

intrepid columnist would I be if I did not scrutinise his wombat claims for

the sake of my readers? (Well, actually I’d be home from work by now,

curled up under my warm doona. But don’t feel guilty or anything.)

Thus, I consulted The Advertiser’s knowledgeable librarians, who

know many, many things, not the least of which is how to utilise the

Dewey Decimal System as a drinking game and working out how many Spanish pesetas you’d get to the Swiss franc if you were Christopher Skase.

(A: None. He’s bankrupt, remember.)

I explained my wombat conundrum to them. Unfortunately, it was hard

to make myself heard above the gales of laughter. I never quite caught

the reply of one librarian as she was by now weeping in mirth, her

half-hearted apologies for her condition being drowned by the sound

of disturbingly loud thigh slapping.

Undaunted, I then went forth to consult the Adelaide Zoo. A nice

expert there, while at least managing to keep his guffawing to the

inside, explained wombats eat grasses and the like, and any unlikely

wanton butt killings would be “purely accidental”.

He was pretty sceptical but I decided this was not exactly an

out-and-out denial. So I am hereby prepared to give Thommo’s killer

wombats the benefit of the doubt. Well, only because it’s too darned

funny not to.

So let us ponder this further: death by buttocks. Consider - the

last grisly thing some little critter would see in the world would be

hairy wombat hide turning out its lights. It’d be: “Gee, look ma, up in

the sky, it’s a ... what the heck is tha ... oomph.”

I know what you’re thinking: this is a dangerous theory to put about

because many human beings are now seriously wondering why they, too,

didn’t think of this themselves. And we know who you are, oh

corporate executives of the Dilbert breed.

They sit there, deeply thinking their expansive corporate thoughts,

such as “How can I get a bigger sign on my door?” and, right about

now, “How can I better maximise the use of my wombat-like thick

hide to instill terror into my underlings? Hey, I know ...”

Note: If you hear the sound of a palm being thunked to a human head

right about now and your boss is sitting with this very column in

front of him/her (and an inspired glint in their eye), might I

suggest you run very fast if you are suddenly called in to test a “new

office policy”.

If you did not run fast enough, don’t look at me. Blame it on

Thommo’s psycho wom-butts.

© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 7 July 1998.