Replace the GDP with a Funk index.

Good evening my beery breathed brethren,

I've been looking around lately and I can't help but notice that flared trousers are pretty thin on the ground and there seems to be a lot of squares who are having trouble getting their groove on.
In fact I went down to the town hall funk gauge to check out our storage levels.
Low, baby, really low. I don't want to freak you lil' chickens out here but I'm telling you we are in the middle of a serious groove drought.

Now I'm hep to the fact were in 2010.
For sure we've got electric face straighteners and every child can translate the bible into wing dings a the touch of a monogrammed button.
But what grounds have we gained in genuine cool research?
For all our ability to order coffee off the television and meet red hot Russian dishwashers who are standing by to fold our tea towels, what steps have we made toward a hipper more laid back society of truly hep and beautiful cats?

If I'm to be frank, you can keep your space programs and your insistent billion dollar research whether or not poverty makes people grumpy.
To my mind it's just a ribald fact. The biggest threat to the World right now is not volcanos blasting cheap flights into our stratosphere or fish suddenly evolving guns in their eyes.
It's that humanity (or the bits of it I have to deal with) is seriously un-fucking-cool and way too fuckin' heavy.

Think about it cats.
When was the last time you came roaring down the street on some sort of hotted up custom painted motorbike, with your macramé top on and an Ankh around your gusset, to fall in the front door of your lush pot plant happy pad and be immediately handed a reefer while Doug Parkinson made a casserole that out fuzzed the band?

When was the last time some really way out cat came up to you with an independent newspaper printed on silken Egyptian trousers and explained in matter of a fact (yet strangely mellifluous tones) that you were being bent over a pickle barrel by some heavy jokers who were really bumming the Planet out?
And when was the last time that cat said "You got to fight the power man!" and then proceeded to crash down (in your bean bag full of tropical fish) and suggest the best way to deal with this bad scene was to drop some acid with pictures of Fruit Tingles on them?

Upon producing some excellent vintage speckledy acid and dropping it in the Pegasus room, when was the last time a really good looking sort then popped out from behind your faux wood bar with a bottle of Haigs whiskey and suggested you should both go and get cosmic in the spa?

Upon reaching the spa when was the last time you fell out of your clothes and writhed about in beautiful freaky jazz passion with some crazy bird or bloke (not a bird bloke unless that's your thing, man) and you just made beautiful deep surround sound love while your skull smashed laughing paint cans of ecstasy on and around your personal signed copy of Margaret Fultan's "Astrology. The Australian way"?

When was the last time you just sat there watching the tap drip into infinite time and space, getting sparkling head off some instant soul mate whose name was irrelevant and whose eyes kept writhing around you like serpents from Saturn, until your eight fingered hand reached out into the Orgone scented night and wrapped their mascara around your oblongata like a llama scarf from Love's own Op shop?

When was the last time you really boiled some lava in the lamp and told gravity that it would be a stone cold gas for it to have the night off, while the rest of the house lazily frugged to some wigged out guitar player who wrote the names of the Tibetan dead in feed back and the good old World just chugged along like a really big cool elephant that kept an amazing bar and told piss funny jokes?

When was the last time your best mate then stumbled into the room, where the sandalwood spa and the Galaga taps and the stunning head we're all just grooving along like a motorbike made out of kung fu and hamburgers, then leaned over the fuming waters of uterine bliss and handed you a hash joint that smelt like childhood Christmas?

A reefer so blissed out that when you drew back on it your muscles became some sort of litmus jelly that turned you blue, then pink, then orange, then gold so you could wander around the party like a crazy mood ring that gave of clear signals as to who was tripping balls?

And as you were lying there being frolicked and steamed and turned a delicate shade of peacock blue by some beautiful cat who learnt to play electric Mellotron while he was part of Australia's Wah pedal rescue squad in Morocco, when was the last time the Sun came as brilliant and magnificent as God's own footy team and you looked out over the field of 50 watt speaker grass and glistening snow globe sands and answered the ancient and timeless call to go back to where it all began baby?
So you just finned your way back to the Ocean, where the water smelt like salt and vinegar chips and there were Unicorn Dolphins that knew all the bass lines to the Best of Fat Albert.

And when you got back to the house shivering and reborn, covered with minute star boiled crystals that made you shine like Disco Jesus, there was some real grounded chick or bloke with her boobs out or his buttocks brazen as snuggly steel and you were given a big plate of bacon and eggs and you had a top feed before you went to rub the last of traces of Celestial funk off on someone else crazy and cool, because all the previous pairings got mixed up during the swim 'cause everyone was a bit off their heads?

When? Huh?
Go over to your IDiary and iDial up the IApp you use to iRemeber what it was like to be truly mellowed out and bursting with hopeful love and give me a date.

5 years ago? 10? 20? Just as I thought......

Your IPhone is just a small square of square so unhip it's a rectangle.
Every time you look at the prick of a thing it sucks a little more funk from your groove gland and turns you into a heavy uptight cat who freaks out coz you can't get freaky anymore.
Throw it away. I defy you to find a passage in the Bible or the Koran or Lau Tzu's celebrity cook book that says "And Lo the lord said unto the people "I'll txt u on Thrsdy".

Our country is in a groove drought so bad we are about to elect to the position of Prime Minister a man so filled with anti-funk he's liable to suggest the word "man" be replaced with "tax payer".
Our reserves of hip are so low our children will be born going straight from belly button to knee cap within the next to two generations.
Our cosmic love balance is so low we'll probably hit Zimbabwe up for a few new Christmas cracker gags just to get through it all.

I implore you all.
Don't save your funk in buckets and carefully tip it over electric daffodils to watch the sparks rip worm holes in the void twice a year.
Start splashing your funk. Just start lading that good shit all over the place.
Sell your shares in cancer and acne and buy something embroidered with stars and moons. Put some fringes on your chairs. Reclaim the casserole. Grow your hair or shave it into imaginary animal patterns.
Say to your boss "Man, I'm just a crazy cat trying to keep it real. Y'all can sit on it and sign language your bowels if you don't dig who I am."



Till next time kittens,

Mick " Damn your white goods to hell" Dog.