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Finally! The last mile. And for you MOHAA freaks out there who like to cause electric storms in my PC and for the guy who only wants to play Omaha Beach (the triple W, you know who you are!), you'll enjoy this one. Because, we visit the Auckland Museum and its exciting, adrenaline-pumping, hellraising, supercalifragilisticexpialado... you get the idea... display of WORLD WAR 2 WEAPONRY!
First, shed a tear for the people who got shot in the mad chiong along the beaches of Normandy,
those who got headshoted by a grenade along the lines, those who got bayonetted up the ass while
shitting by a German hiding in the septic tank (yes, that really happened). The wall with the
names is still an example of unfair discrimination. They only cover people who lived in Auckland,
and have a total lack of punctuation.
"They whom the inscriptions on these walls commemorate are those from the Provincial District of Auckland who at the call of King and Country left all that was dear to them endured hardness faced danger and finally passed out of the sight of men by the path of duty and self sacrifice giving their lives that others might live in freedom Let those who come after see to it that their names be not forgotten" (Roman numbers are the years of World War 1, MCMXIV, or 1914, to MCMXVIII, or 1918)
Then you go into the main display area, where photography isn't allowed! Do those idiots think we're gonna photograph GUNS USED OVER 50 YEARS AGO and used it to make blueprints and then make Thompson SMGs from aluminum foil and then build our own army?!
There were a lot more weapons than appear in MOHAA. You probably already guessed that a Thompson SMG was on display, there also was a magazine for the Thompson which was taken apart to show the parts and long, long pieces of paper describing how the gun works. You don't really need to know... just pull the trigger and the guy on the business side dies. How hard can that be?
There were also artillery shells, and German weapons (Boy did those guys at 2015 do their
homework. The Springfield sniper rifle and the StG especially, look a lot like the real thing)
and a picture of a picture of the atomic bombs.
After that, it's a hall of stained glass windows, some of which were covered up, probably because the artist took "creative liberty" a bit too far. Then, you wander around pictures of dessicated corpses. How the people in the trench at Ypres and the guys dodging machine guns on Normandy beach found the time to take pictures, I'll never know.
"Sir! You're the only sniper! You gotta take out the guy with the machine gun now!!"
"Easy, Private, first I gotta take a picture of the artillery shell taking out the landing
transports... *click* there we are... Now for a picture of that dead guy..."
Likewise, how did they get the picture of the Japanese landing on Kranji beach? "OK OK. Now everyone look busy and gather round the boat like we just got off. Yes yes ok. What? Ahh forget the British snipers. We gotta get a picture of us landing on Singapore, Syonan-to or whatever Yamashita wants to call it. Now everyone hold your guns, suck in your flabby guts from drinking sake and swilling sushi and say cheese."
So now, it's to the airport. Ever since the World Trade Centre/Pentagon attacks, airlines have gotten extremely psychotic and paranoid about security. The queue was held up for 15 minutes to inspect an Indian tourist's perfume bottle!
*sniff* "You sure this isn't gasoline?"
"It's perfume!! I buy it for my girlfriend doing college in America!!"
"Smells like gasoline to me... This could really cause some damage you know."
"IT'S PERFUME!"
"Oh and what's this? 'Poison'??"
"THAT'S PERFUME TOO!!"
"I'm not so sure buddy. You drink it, then I can be sure it's perfume."
Gaack! I'm all for safer transportation, but there is a point where security grates on your nerves. If New Zealand was like that, I shudder to think what getting out of the US will be like. Well nothing more to say here, except there was this really hot English chick sitting across the aisle from me.
That's it! We're done. Wasn't that bad, was it? Goodbye, Sheepland!