by Ross Sharp

Overheard last night in the queue at the Asian takeaway …

Man: “We’re gonna miss Masterchef.”
Woman: “Oh Stephen, who the fuck cares … ”

I understand a federal election is due in about four weeks, though I haven’t been paying a great deal of attention. Seems we have a choice, there’s a woman, and there’s a man.

The man gets easily spooked by gays and he can’t iron a shirt.

The woman likes a kid in a school uniform and her boyfriend does her hair.

There’s two things I hope happens in this next election –

1. Tony Abbott doesn’t become Prime Minister.
2. Steve Fielding gets turfed out of the Senate.

Beyond that, who the fuck cares?

“Moving forward” to what? “Direct action” on what? What am I, a fucking retard? Toss this facile bullshit about with wild abandon every opportunity available and we’re all supposed to think it effectively enunciates a political philosophy, a style of government, ideas of some kind, even (God forbid) an espousal of some ideology?

Fuck off.

On the one hand, we’ve got the woman, she wants to do some things, nothing too big, tinker about the edges a bit, make a lot of announcements, and on the really big issues, well, whatever you reckon, we’ll have a look-see and figure something out eventually if we get around to it.

On the other, there’s the man, he’s making a lot of announcements too, might do one or two things, but he’s definitely going to undo the things the other mob have done and not do much else unless something goes drastically wrong and he has to try to fix it but fucks it up instead and then has to find someone to blame. But he definitely won’t be spending any money on anything apparently, because God forbid you’d want an alternative government to invest money in something like public infrastructure, because, well, hell’s bells, what the fuck has public infrastructure ever done for anybody?

And “What are we going to do about all the boats?”, they both ask, furrowing their brows and looking terribly concerned at the prospect of the imminent overthrow of the country and its 22 million people by a bunch of soggy buggers in rags on leaky boats trying to escape from places where a bad shave might get you a bullet through the head.

I’m sorry, but this whole regufee/asylum seeker “issue” has been rattling about now for the better part of a decade and I’m no longer paying any fucking attention.

I don’t give a flying fuck about the boats, how many there are, or how many people are on them or where they come from. I simply don’t. Give. A. Fuck. I’m not alarmed, alerted, swamped, swarmed, invaded, attacked, bewitched, bothered or bewildered, and I don’t give a damn how many hysterically stupid headlines of dog-whistling innuendo and dire implications of doom get plastered hither and thither or what form they take, I’m just not buying.

At what point over the last several years was I supposed to devolve into a quivering, twitchy lump of hysterically anxious, cowardly and gutless wonderment?

And where did this other o’er-arching issue of great current import known as “sustainable population growth” all of a sudden spring from? Why has this suddenly become a “thing” that must be discussed and debated with great urgency in the immediate light of now?

It’s as if it just appeared from nowhere, because now that no one much is talking about climate change anymore for fear of fucking up in the polls and pissing off some mining barons, it seems we need a new “great moral challenge of our time” to worry our pretty little heads over.

Here’s a thing … The more people there are, the more people there eventually will be.

Our woman and our man need to get their heads around this, and not think of it as a strange new thing, and then present it to us as if it were a crisis in waiting. It’s not. It’s the way things work. The population will increase in size. And it will keep increasing in size over time unless some natural disaster wipes out half the planet’s population or some airborne disease that can infect a million people in a heartbeat goes wildfire and makes people spray blood from their rectums and gives them seizures that causes their eyes to melt down their faces in stringy white trickles while their skin blisters and pops oozing yellow pus and eventually their heads explode from the pressure and their brains turn to crumbly bits of oily mince.

That wouldn’t be pleasant.

Beyond these things, I’ve no idea what this election is going to be about because, as I said, I’m not really paying it a great deal of attention. I cannot remember a time in the 33 years I’ve been eligible to vote when I’ve been less interested in an election and less inclined to care.

We’ve got a woman who might do a couple things if they don’t cost too much, and then leave the rest up to us to figure out, and we’ve got the man who doesn’t want to do anything at all because that will cost money and spending money on stuff is bad.

Who the fuck cares?

One thing’s for certain, the “big picture” doesn’t get much of a look in these days and the “vision thing” is currently unplugged and out the back shed gathering dust in a soggy cardboard box with the eight-track cartridges and the Betamax player.

Whoever wins this election, we can be guaranteed of only one thing …


And who the fuck is Jason Akermanis?