by Ross Sharp
Since 1972, when I was thirteen years old, I have observed Prime Ministers from the late Gough Whitlam through Paul Keating through to the shambolic dysfunction and shrill, shrieking chaos of the Rudd-Gillard-Rudd years, but of the current incumbent, Tony Abbott, I have now come to the sad, but somewhat predictable, one could say inevitable, conclusion that Our Prime Minister’s Brain Is Missing.
In its place, an organ of purely intuitive compulsion, which, when prodded or stroked, no matter how strongly or gently, spawns an instantaneous stream of insensate gibberish, his words like spores from a brooding coral, jerkingly spat into the wider atmosphere layering everything beneath it with a thin, cream layer of oozing slime which, rather than reproduce, suffocates and destroys all that lay before it.
This organ, if it were donated to science, would probably reveal itself to comprise something resembling a lone, mushy pea atop a small, grey ball of gnarly gristle.
Our Prime Idiot of Team Australia, the Proud and Defiant Captain Courageous at the helm of the HMAS Cretinism, is revealed (again) to be but a simple-celled base organism whose incurious mind, absence of intellect, intelligence, understanding or empathy, has once more caused him to beach firmly on the scummy bog of the sandbar, the tide is out, and it must be coming up almost 18 months now, and the poor batty pillock still hasn’t managed to pull out of the fucking harbor.
Threatened by the mere whiff of criticism, it sniffs at the air, senses only danger from enemies both seen and unseen, and it sprays its territory with involuntary squirts of poisoned perfumed panic, proceeds to snarl at shadows, and lunges in for the kill, a-hollerin’ and a-bellowin’ and full of piss ‘n’ vinegar, a Warner Bros. cartoon hybrid of Yosemite Sam, The Tasmanian Devil and Marvin the Martian, spinning, shouting and blowing shit up just for the fun of it.
One of the latest grains of sand that has lodged itself in the bony arse-crack of Our Dear Leader has been thoughtfully provided by the kind folk and gentle people of the United Nations who have had less than praiseworthy things to say about Australia’s treatment of refugees … oh, pardon me – ILLEGAL, QUEUE-JUMPING, ECONOMICALLY OPPORTUNISTIC, BABY-DROWNING, MOTHER-FUCKING, BOMB-THROWING, SPEAR-CHUCKING, KEBAB-MUNCHING SAND-NIGGERS FROM TERRORSTANOVSKLOVIA FUCK OFF WE’RE FULL IF YOU DON’T LOVE IT LEAVE IT YOU BUNCHA DARKIE CUNTS LEAVE OUR VEGEMITE ALONE! – and Tony has ever-so-maturely responded by saying “Australians are sick of being lectured by the United Nations”, which essentially, boiled down to basics, means “Fuck off”. I do not recall having ever been “lectured” by the United Nations about anything, but perhaps my invitation got lost in the mail. Tony’s spastic jerk-spit of the dummy has drawn a response from the United Nations’ Special Rapporteur, Juan Mendez, which one could easily summarise as a rather surprised and somewhat forlorn, “Really?”
I do suppose the Prime Minister’s swaggering pose of macho bluster shall go down well with the tabloid-reading, Andrew Bolt loving, foreigner-afearin’ folk out there in Fuckyomama Flats – here’s a shout-out to the Rattail family, onya Jethro, Sheila, how’re the kids? – but speaking purely for myself, as I can speak for no others and will not claim to, I find it fucking embarrassing.
“Sick of being lectured?”
Oh my, it is to laugh.
I am sick of forever being lectured by the political classes that I do not, and have not, and the same goes for you all, worked hard enough, and we should all work harder, and for longer and for less. For much, much less. Because we’re shit.
I am sick of forever hearing the political classes speak of the aged and the elderly as a challenge that must be conquered, a problem for which there must be found a solution, a burden to be offloaded.
I am sick of the endless assaults upon the hard-working men and women at the frontlines of our essential public services – the nurse who wakes you at 4.00am in the morning to change your drip and hand out the painkillers, the cops and the medics who are called to attend an incident at a ramshackle and run-down fibro-house in Shitsville where the walls are stuffed with crack and needles and trash litter the floor and a guy on a four-day ice binge has just shot a hole through his girlfriend’s vagina and the face off his twelve-month old son – and these men and women should accede to lower wages, no penalty rates, and fewer entitlements because … it’s for the good of the fucking country, you know? Suck it up, boys and girls and DO. YOUR. DUTY.
I am sick of the hollow-words and fraught handwringing from the political classes about the plights of the underprivileged, the bruised and the battered, the broken, the spent souls of violent struggle, oppression and abuse, the ones with their shoes full of blood, minds destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, and how we, as a nation, should do more to alleviate their circumstances by the provision of services, whilst at the same time, existing services are defunded, terminated, ripped, shredded and torn into non-existence.
I am sick of being expected to take people like Peter Dutton seriously. Or Christopher Pyne. Or Joe Hockey.
Or Bill Shorten.
I am sick of listening to the political classes dismiss science as an irrelevance, climate change as a “cult”, and who will then bleat to us, all doe-eyed with modest sincerity, about their devotion to a religious “faith”, a “faith” which preaches tolerance, charity and understanding, whilst at the same time they give the impression they’d willingly fuck a baby in the arse with the blunt end of a Coke bottle for a buck or a vote or a happy headline and hearty endorsement from their media brethren.
I am sick of being part of nation where 60% of the population think asylum seekers should be treated far more harshly than they already are (perhaps beaten to death with an ivory pick-axe and their corpses delivered into a pit and covered with cow excrement), and where a Government willingly obliges by further institutionalising obscene rites of torture, dismissing as fantasies tales of sexual abuse and physical assault, dismissing as exaggerated claims of grievous mental illness, deprivation, neglect, and all for no other reason than to prove a pathetic political point … “We’re tough.”
So thinks the average 14 year old adolescent psychopath getting its “don’t fuck with me” kicks from dousing kittens with hydrochloric acid.
I am sick of a loutish and boorish, thuggish pig of a Prime Minister who persists with the nescient delusion that poverty, homelessness, drug abuse, sexual abuse, and those born to, and who remain in remote communities because it is their culture, their environment, their land, is somehow evidence of a “lifestyle choice” being freely made.
As for the United Nations, they have produced a report, a report about which we will do nothing, and are obliged to do nothing, perhaps we will shrug sheepishly and say, “Yeah …. but, but, awwwwww”, but it is not exactly as if we are all about to be beaten about our heads with a wooden spoon and sent off to bed without our supper.
I am sick.
Sick of all this.
And of much, much more.
Mostly, I am sick of Tony Abbott.
And Bill Shorten.
Look what you’ve made me do …