by Ross Sharp

This won’t take long.

For reasons that elude me, and for purposes I cannot fathom, a “writer” has decided to piss a sizable chunk of her life up against a wall by writing a “biography” of former breakfast television personality and current Federal Treasurer, Joeboy Hockey.

Coming soon to a remainder bin near you for $0.95, I have not read it, nor will I. Even for $0.95.

Joeboy is a gaping arsehole. A twat. A buffoon. A fool. A liar and a fraud. A fake. A fuckwit. A douche. A puffed-up, preening, narcissistic, smug, self-righteous sook. A bulging flab-bucket of skanky ho’ thrush. An unseemly crusty yellow cum stain on this, the hand towel of life.

Here, for example, is why Joeboy got into politics (my emphasis)…

“… it was simply a movie ticket he was seeking. He’d popped down to the [University of Sydney’s] Student Representative Council, where the woman at the front counter had dismissed his query. He thought she was rude. She probably thought he was an upstart, but Joe was furious. His fees were paying her salary and that meant SHE WAS IN HIS SERVICE. ‘I would have liked her to be nice to me,’ Joe says, ‘so I thought I should give politics a go.’”

Where people are nice to you.

It was Joeboy’s cash, and Joeboy’s alone, that was financing this callow, uppity cunt whore’s lifestyle, her extravagant two-dollar instant noodle gourmet extravaganzas. Her bus tickets, goddammit. Her super-absorbent mouse-pillows. Did she not understand that?

How long, one wonders, has Joeboy carried this traumatic psychological scar, this primal hurt, deep within his tender, gentle soul?

Hockey’s biographer, Madonna King, had previously written a biography of Professor Ian Frazer, “the man who saved a million lives”, and a most deserving and worthy subject, for Professor Frazer is a man who has achieved very significant things in the course of his life, significant things of benefit to humankind worldwide.

Hockey, on the other hand, has achieved two-fifths of fuck-all in his.

He whines, he whinges, he bellows and blusters, he nags and lectures and points his chubby little digits at those who do not live up to his lofty standards of Randian superiority, and he casts his thumbs to the ground like a gonorrhea-riddled Roman Emperor in a tunic shabby with grape-stains and flecks of tobacco, damning them to the lions. The sick, the aged, the disabled, the young, the unemployed, the disadvantaged, the poor, to purgatory with you, he hollers, “You do not please me. You do not show me the respect I so richly deserve, you do not shower me with attention and adoration, and if you will not prostrate yourself before me, if you do not submit to my decrees, I will grind you into this earth”.

Here, again from the biography, is Joeboy complaining to Rupert Murdoch that his “End of the Age of Entitlement” speech was not sufficiently lauded and endorsed by Murdoch’s rags and the crusty old fartleberries who “write” for them …

“The criticism was swift and fast, including from within his own party over the timing of his speech, and certainly sections of the media, including The Australian, which didn’t show the enthusiasm Joe expected. Later he ran into Rupert Murdoch. “I said, ‘What the hell is The Australian doing?’ He was appalled,” Joe says. But the speech also wrapped up a new image of Joe. He was now seen as a hard-head. Avuncular Joe was gone.”

To be replaced by a petulant, foot-stamping, ill-tempered child. With a sense of entitlement.

He talks of “crises”, of “emergencies”, all of it nothing more than fictions, bullshit dribbling from the mouth of this walking human cloaca.

“But what about the man behind the politician?”, the publisher’s blurb asks.


Good luck with that.

Joe Hockey is not a “man” in any sense but gender.

He’s just your average fuckwit, and a fuckwit far below average at that.