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Are we there yet?
We are all waiting on this man. We are always waiting on this man. There is a too taut, apprehensive ill temper to everything as we tarry at his convenience. His own satraps and collaborators seem the worst tempered of us all with more of them turning on him every day. Which is fun. Still, everybody just wants it to be over, one way or another, but mostly one way. With him gone.
Or maybe that’s just you and me.
Scott Morrison got himself coat-hangered in Newcastle’s Edgeworth Tavern the other day, fronted by an angry disability pensioner who went the full, raging sickopath on him. Smarmy gits with punchable faces getting tuned up in a pub, in Newcastle, wouldn’t normally make the news, unless the press gallery was there and the owner of said punchable mug was the Prime Minister of Vegemiteland. No doubt this was all another brilliant piece of advance work from those galaxy brain marketing mavens in Smoko’s office, the same ones who tossed him a ukulele for his 60 Minutes gig, just to remind us of that time he secretly pissed off to Hawaii while half the continent was on fire.
Less well reported from his trip to the front bar of the Edgy was the young woman who asked a desperately grateful PM for a selfie, got one, and thanked him because, she said, she’d really wanted a picture of herself with the worst Prime Minister in Australian history.
So yeah, it feels like he’s going. It feels like the sand is rushing out from beneath his feet at the edge of the ocean. It feels like all we need is for this grinning, glad-handing sack of shit to call the election and our long national nightmare will be over.
But will it?
Will it really?
Bill Shorten was a red hot favourite to bury Morrison right up until the moment we all got trapped in that toilet at Engadine Maccas for three years. The polls going into that last election were shitfuckingly ugsome and muntedly direful for the government, but the result when the actual fucking votes were tallied was worse for us.
There is still more than forty percent of the adult population who look at this fucking guy and go, “Hell Yeah! Gimme some more”. There are whole legions of fickle mushheads who haven’t yet made up their minds, who’ve watched him blunderfuck his way through fire, flood and plague, who know for a righteous certainty that he is a liar, a bully and a lazy fucking chodesack into the bargain, but who are still all…
And of course there is Murdoch, who will comp the government at least a hundred million dollars worth of advertorial fanwanking on the understanding that Lord Rupert’s maximum assessable tax bill will remain well south of zero, and if he needs a little help with those ruffians from the tech sector, he can always call upon the formidable power of the state.
Oops. Nek Minit…
I wish I could tell you its all good. I would totally have y’all around to my place for the election night party, except that didn’t go so well last time.
And maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just too traumatised by that Saturday night goat rodeo to have any sense of complacency about this one. I’m not surprised that there are voters rusted on to this government. If Smoko and Dutts had given me a lazy one and a half billion dollarydoos with no due diligence, oversight, or inconvenient questions from the auditors – I totally… probably… would think about voting for the pricks again.
But they didn’t, did they? That was just one of their mates, who returned the favour with eleven separate donations to the Liberal National Party. Nice work if you can get it, but most of us can’t, making the continued support for these bastards reason enough for responsible pollsters to add a line to their standard list of voter questions.
☑ Are you fucking high?
Soon enough we’ll know.
And I’ll curse myself for doing this, but I’m thinking about stepping up to a couple of columns a week for the duration of the campaign.
Maybe I should run my own poll for that?
☐ Yes, JB, I would be all over that like a cheap suit.
☐ No, JB, you have too many deadlines to meet and it would irresponsible to take on the extra work.
☑ Are you fucking high?
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