by Ross Sharp


Andy Angry Pants Bolt is Angry.

Angry Andy, The Angryman, who can take any sunrise and sprinkle it with spew, is well and truly Angry today, Angry that his political party and government of choice, under the stewardship of Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull, went to an election, and sorta-kinda-maybe-maybe not fucked it up royally, leaving the country “damned”, “ungovernable”, and in a “catastrophic” state, Turnbull “destroyed” and “devastated”, “humiliated, “temperamentally unsuited” to leadership, a “disaster”, who had the temerity, the vicious temerity to treat people such as Angry Pants like “dirt”, “pathetic”, Malcolm don’t know how to play the game, he cheats, he lies, he makes Andy wanna cry, and if you wanna know what that sound is, darlin’, it’s the sound of his tears fallin’.

Who can take a rainbow, colour it with bile, soak it in a sewer and call it something vile, The Angryman can.

Veins popping, throbbing, and apoplectic with incandescent fury, Andy Angry Pants, Queen Bitch of Thundering Bluster and Bombast, imperious, delirious, and, forever true to his deform’d form, did rail and rage against the dying of the Right, and did issue a most stern ultimatum to its nemesis …


God’s blood, this bumptious kvetch has been pissing and moaning, whining and whingeing, screaming at mirrors and screeching at clouds, night and day, day and night, ever since Tony Abbott, Captain Clownshoes, was unceremoniously pissed off from his brief stint as Prime Minister for being an embarrassing fucking idiot, yet Andy’s longing for Tony has yet to quit, oh no, oh no, it follows wherever he goes, like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom, there’s oh such a hungry yearnin’ burnin’, and its torment won’t be through, there’s a voice within him keeps repeatin’, you, you, you.

“I’s tired of not havin’ me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we’s comin’ from or goin’ to, or why”, bewails Andy Angry Pants, in bitter lamentations of woe, dire prophecies of downfall and moral decay, but fear not Andy, the ranks of The Sore Losers Club hath swollen today …

Miranda Devine’s face don’t move no more, Piers Akerman’s lost his drool-bucket, Gerard Henderson has phoned Philip Nitschke on account Lifeline’s too busy to take his calls, Paul Sheehan’s back on the magic water, slumped in a gutter somewhere singing “Sweet Adeline”, wishing someone would give him a job so he could tell people what to think again, Alan Jones is retiring to write a Lonely Planet guide to the public toilets of London, Eric Abetz wishes his ol’ Uncle Otto were here to sort this shit out, Cory Bernardi’s locked himself in the bathroom again and you don’t wanna go there, and Lyle Shelton’s reading Ambrose Bierce and watching “Cruising”, thinkin’ ‘bout leather.

And Malcolm?

Malcolm Turnbull’s been musing (again) on why his mother left him when he was just a wee lad, and he’s only just now figured out the answer.