by Ross Sharp
A bunch of trucks are on their way to Canberra.
Upon arriving, their drivers will alight and hold a pow-wow.
This pow-wow will also be attended by some angry villagers and their pitchforks.
They’re all of a mind to have a squeal and a pant-squirt about the “carbon tax” or something, I don’t fucking know.
Me, I know fuck-all about the “carbon tax”, but if I never hear those two words again in my entire life, I will die a happy man.
I know fuck-all about the carbon tax because I didn’t listen to Gillard’s announcement about it back when she announced it, I didn’t listen to Tony Abbott’s response, and I keep flicking past articles about it in newspapers and the web and hitting the mute button on the television and the radio when somebody’s talking about it, because mostly, people don’t talk about it, they yell at me and they shout and they wave their arms about a lot and they shout some more and then they tell me that the end of the world is nigh and they’re all fucked and I’m fucked too, we’re all fucked together, and all it does is give me a fucking headache, I don’t like having a fucking headache, I don’t like being yelled at, so I’m not paying attention to any of it, not a word, not a fucking syllable, you can all fuck off.
I couldn’t give a rats’ arse about the carbon tax.
Christ’s sake, I have a life.
I had a curry for tea last night.
It was nice.