The price of liberty

“So…we can do you a Liberty for eternal vigilance, but if you want the underbody rust coating and the floor mats, you will need to refresh liberty with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”
Well he could hardly go with the Forrester could he? RSL 001 and all.  But surely a car of Teh Nippon is kind of betraying the Kokoda Trail dudes? A fuzzy wuzzy angel dies every time someone says “constant four wheel drive.” By HERB.

About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
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27 Responses to The price of liberty

  1. Subaru was formerly the Nakajima Aircraft Company and had a range of fighter planes used in WW11.
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nakajima_Aircraft_Company

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  2. Jack says:

    Fun Fact: The Subaru Liberty is called the Legacy in other countries, but was renamed to avert the possibility of controversy by naming a Japanese car the same as an organisation that cares for the families of veterans.

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  3. valerie woodruffe liberty mum says:

    Don’t take the piss, the fruit of my womb, my precious little boy, whose name and rank shall remain nameles for now, due to security reasons ;) is serving in the ADF for you liberty

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  4. skink says:

    more Wintoning:

    http://www.bsstc.com.au/the-2012-season/signs-of-life/

    appearing at the State Theatre Centre of Winton Australia

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    • rottobloggo says:

      “Signs of Life is a story about people with uncertain futures navigating with only shreds of the past to guide them.”

      It must be about Howard Sattler.

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    • Phwoar, he breathed. He was a bit off balance.
      It had been the longest wait. A good ten years, was his estimate – ten years since the rains had stopped, since those feisty squalls just whimpered off to their home beyond the breaks. For ten years he’d lain beached, tapping past aquifers, the frangipanis of his talent slowly withering under his own stagnant oxides. And as the petals dropped – oh! Such grateful mulch!
      But this was unlike him. It was, to put a name on it, uncharacteristic. Which, to be frank, was exactly how he felt these days. There was no sense in lingering on the ebb, he knew – but he’d been floundering, a flaccid foreshadowing of his own descent into debris, vacillating on the shifting spume of half-forgotten gravitas even as it bubbled away beneath him. And now: no longer. After this ignominious tumbling, as the froth receded, there he was, the hoary old bluebottle, crinkle-skinned and angry. And ready to embrace the new.
      It seemed so simple, in retrospect – clearer than a pearler’s hangnail, more transparent than a surfer’s wink, the kind they’d all used to give back on those late November afternoons out by the General Store when the wind had just picked up that warm Sargasso scent of chicken-salted chips and everything felt like coconut oil in the sun as you’d swagger off down the beach for the second time that day. Truth be told, it was too simple, it was bloody obvious – or, he had to concede, at least it would have been, anywhere else. But here, as always, it was genius.
      Menopause. How fucken sensitive was he. The august breeze – the shrivelling fruit. The dust, caked and sloughed with the tides of age. He could practically feel it settling in, dark and liquorous, but only as it oozed from his pen had he realised how effortless this would be. To coast on the wave – this had always been the secret to his punditry, and now, with the whole bloody school of them about to hit the breakers, all the wheezing and dribbling and pissfarting around in the world couldn’t slow him down. Time, itself, would be his currency. Time, and just a little pretension.

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  5. Snuff says:

    OT, but here’s another classic from Film Australia.

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