In response to the following quote, taken from Unleashed/the Drum:

 realist :
04 Apr 2010 3:24:48pm
This is not a debate, this is two different side being totally unaccepting of the other, neither of which is willing or able to see the othersides view. With a debate you have rational thinking on both sides and one side tries to have the other accept their view. That will never happen here, what you have here is a bunch of biased people on either side unable to bend at all, basically yelling at each other.

A Theist

Well, it were them wot started it weren’t it? There I was, scratchin’ me arse and reachin’ fer me third tinnie of the mornin’ when all of a sudden there’s a knock at me bloody front door and wouldn’t you bloodly know it, it’s them bloody Jehovah’s Witlesses on the ear’ole again!

“Sure mate,” they sez, “jest believe wot we tells yer and give us ten percent of yer income an’ after ya die ya’ll go to Heaven and get all the goodies you missed out on in this world!”

“Well,” says I, “Listen mate, why not gimme Heaven on credit now, then I’ll be able to afford to give a ten percent which would be a dammsight bigger than the ten percent I can give you now…”

“Nope!” ‘e sez, “Dun’t work that way!”

“I’ll just bloody well bet it dun’t” sez I, and slammed the door on ’em!

😉

For some strange reason these words of wisdom from Mr Albert Theist were not accepted as worthy of being posted on one of the anti-atheist blogs over at Unleashed this weekend; a pity; I think he’s onto something! So, I’ve decided to post them here as another ‘blog that got away’!

Fishus cattus bronzarse

The possibly missing fish problem grew slowly but inexorably in the old man’s mind.  Each morning he surveyed the tank and conducted his icytheological inventory.  Some months had passed and it was not unexpected that there might be the occasional casualty.  How long are fish supposed to live ?  Does it differ much amongst the species ?  Is the span of a fish’s life more or less in a home aquarium than in open water ?  Had the boy’s neglect thrown the schools into a downward spiral ?

He grew suspicious at first, but then certain by degrees that death by natural causes was sharing the tank with murder.

As the number of fish declined, the looks of apprehension on their fishy eyes grew palpable.  The Angels looked implacable.  Then, from careful observation of the diminutive Angel Fish, the old man thought he could see fear writ large even in her eyes.

The catfish were unperturbed and went about their gravelly perusals.

The old man noticed that the Gouramis – the next largest fish in this captives’ world – had started to command the better defensive positions in the Halong Bay style acrylic faux rock.  What was this aqua-terror ?

In the morning, as the grey light of day spread itself over his preparations for another shift on Cannery Row, the old man went to feed the fish.  The tank reminded him of Tombstone – where the streets are deserted because all the townsfolk know there is bloodshed afoot and they are staying out of sight indoors.  The Angel Fish swam by, avoiding eye contact with the old man.

There was only ONE Angel Fish; the larger.  The diminutive Angel Fish was nowhere to be seen.

The catfish went about their job of hoovering the bottom.  They were saying nothing.

The old man began his forensic search for evidence – and there it was.  Floating on its side, hidden amongst the plants, on the other side of the heater.  The female Angel Fish; its eye grown cloudy.

The old man knew that was important to remove dead fish to stop disease spreading and fish have few qualms about eating each other alive, let alone dead.  Dead is easier.  Less chasing needed for a feed.

The old man stood in the kitchen and studied the dead Angel Fish in the palm of his hand.  Was there a mark on its portside flank ?  Was that the telltale mark of a fatal blow or just a mark ?  The boy came into the kitchen and saw the old man ruefully staring at a handful of something.  “Where are the Coco Pops ?” he asked, oblivious to the present carnage.

The old man slipped the dead Angel Fish into the kitchen tidy, closed the cupboard door and washed his hands in the sink. “Where would you expect to find them ?” he said.  “In the laundry ?”

The old man began to feel a sadness he associated with the keeping of captive creatures and he grew tired of the ceaseless pressure to clean the tank, remove the chlorine from the fresh tap water first and then balance the pH and replace a good part of the water, week after week.  It was a burdensome piece of chemistry and he was growing sick of making the effort for so little acknowledgement or interest from the boy.

The fish ate the plants.  The old man preplaced them and sometimes bought plastic ones that offered some visual interest and protection for the dwindling numbers of small fish.  By now the last of the Zebra Danios had disappeared.  Not found floating under mysterious circumstances, just vanished.  The Angel Fish maintained a stentorian aloofness.  The catfish hoovered, avoiding making any comment.

Easter; the season had turned and the daylight saving ceased.  There were only six fish left in the tank.  After the death of an expensive (and apprehensive from the outset) Moonfish – purchased under coercion from the aquarium keeper and the old man’s First Mate, the old man decided that it was high noon for the Angel Fish.

In his boyhood, the old man had learnt that it was unkind to see any creature suffer and his fish keeping guide had said that the most efficient and “kindest” way to kill a fish was to drop it into a tin of boiling water.  The boy was at his cousin’s house for the Easter break.  Now was the time.  The old man put a pot of water on the stove and lit the gas.  He took out the small net and lifted the lid on the tank.

The doorbell rang.  The old man placed the net on the top of the tank and paced down the hallway.  There was an Indian girl wanting to discuss whether he might purchase a subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald.  He had done so in the past, and his name was on their database, she said.  It was a very good deal and in fact the old man thought about how inexpensive the offer was, but he still felt that the quality of the paper had fallen dramatically and that journalism had given way to trite opinion pieces from writers of doubtful knowledge and indeterminate ability.

The old man thanked the girl for her kind offer but declined, closing the door gently so as to not offend.  He returned to the tank and picked up the net.  The Angel Fish sailed off to the other end of the tank behind the Halong Bay replica rock.  His patience wearing thin, the old man went into the laundry and took a plastic tub and brought it back to where the tank was placed on its stand in the family room.  The old man removed the tank light and lid, took out the Halong Bay replica rock, removed all the plants and placed all these things into the plastic tub.  He confronted the Angel Fish who, despite having no cover at all, was not giving up for anyone.

It was a lopsided contest.  The fish struggled briefly and was poached quickly.  The old man lifted the seat on the toilet in the laundry, deposited the dead Angel Fish and dispatched it into the South East Australian current, Nemo style.

The old man replaced the tank contents and the lid and light and contemplated the fates of the five surviving fish.  He knew that the boy would not miss the Angel Fish.

The Bronze Catfish hoovered the bottom of the tank without looking up.

Angel Fish with temporary Neon Tetras

It was not a choice the old man wanted to make, but the child stayed at school and met his obligations to complete another deskbound year indoors.  The old man knew that the aquarium had to be purchased and he and the young boy made the arduous trek to FiveDock and acquired through the exchange of money and knowing looks, one 75 litre tank, light, filter, heater, flat box stand, some water plants and two or three plastic bags of washed quartz gravel.

He loaded the burden in the back of his old Subaru cart and set off some five kilometres to his house on the road that bordered the golf course.  The man was poor and could only afford to live on the side of the road that did not back onto the links.

He set the tank in the corner of the old man’s family room.  It was filled with surprisingly alkaline tap water.  The old man added water ager to remove the chlorine he knew would be toxic to the fish – peeling off their slime coats and allowing the dreaded fin rot to take hold.  He added a few caps-full of cloudy liquid alleged by the aquarium keeper to contain the bacteria necessary to turn fish waste nitrites into plant food nitrates.

The old man balanced the pH, sat down heavily in his Jason Recliner, carefully unscrewed the top from a stubbie of Boag’s Light beer and surveyed his handiwork with some small amount of pride.

They would wait a week for the tank to settle down, the plants to adjust to their new environment and they would take the time to survey the catalogue of tropical fish exotica to satisfy the boy’s insatiable and transient thirst for the novel.

The old man had been here before in his own youth.  He knew the mysteries of domestic recreational aquaculture and he felt in the pit of his stomach the anticipated dread of sharing his family room with the life and death struggle about to overtake their lives.  The boy scanned the catalogue and selected his fish.  The old man fingered where his beard had been and began to plan his escape.

The boy wanted more fish than could fit in the confines of 75 litres, less room for gravel, plants, the heater and a late purchase of a Halong Bay style polymer rock intended to offer sanctuary for the weaker fish who were about to dance the dance of the liquid jungle.  Death in the afternoon.

The old man encouraged the boy to consider smaller fish with bright colours, to allow them to school in the confines of the tank.  The boy insisted on variety of shape and form.  Across the old man’s weather beaten face flickered a look of knowing apprehension.

They agreed that a couple of Bronze Catfish would provide the colony with a useful garbage collection service.  The boy compromised on small schools of Neon Tetras and, Zebra Danios.  The old man allowed a few Swords and a pair of Gouramis.  The boy agreed to a few Mollies and Guppies.

The fish were introduced into the tank in the time-honoured way of floating the sealed plastic bags in the water to allow the temperatures to equilibrate and then the tank and bag waters were allowed to mix slowly so that the fish would not be shocked.  The boy knew that the old man was wise in the ways of home aquaria since the days of his own youth.

For a moment the boy gazed as the fish began to explore the reaches of the tank, but soon he was distracted and turned his attention to the Nintendo game paying itself on the large screen LCD.  That was his last engagement with the aquatic domain.

The old man grew weary of the boy’s indifference to the demands of maintaining the tank.  The pH began to fall.  There was the occasional dead fish to be scooped out.  The algae began to cast its verdant hue over the Perspex.  The old man grew restive with the boy’s indifference and confronted him one morning over a breakfast of cereal.  The old man’s weather-beaten hand stirred and poked the Weetbix with low fat soy milk over sliced banana and one or two strawberries the old man had found in a plastic punnet in the fridge.  He baited the boy by asking him whether he had totally lost interest in the living creatures in the family room.

“They’re fucking boring”, said the boy.”They’re all the same.  Boring little fish.  I want something bigger and more interesting”.

The old man was forced to admit to himself that the boy had a point.  There was a sameness about the little fish that, in the absence of acute observation of the different species’ forms and behaviours, could lead the boy to that conclusion.  They agreed to go back to the aquarium specialist and seek his advice.

The old man should have foreseen this as the thin edge of the wedge.

The old man acceded to the boy’s relentless demands and bought a pair of Angel Fish.  Not an exact pair.  The male was slightly bigger than the female.

The Angels were larger than all the other fish in the home aquarium.  They had a stately bearing and hovered regally about the tank, navigating like submarine sailing boats.  The old man thought they had settled into their new home well.

Some days later the old man wondered whether there were as many Neons as he had purchased.  He was not sure.  It was difficult to tell.  They were hard to count.  Was there nineteen or twenty ?  Was it his imagination ?