Election guessing, wish fulfilment and JB’s feels

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I had an invite the other day to what should be a really kickin’ party, election night in Sydney, with a hard-hitting crew of top shelf degenerates. I said no. I’m still traumatised from my last election party. I don’t have the same, sick doom-struck feeling of impending negation and absolute suckage that came over me about forty-eight hours out last time. But ...

I don’t feel anything except a sort of vague, free-floating anxiety and preemptive nausea.

This isn’t a warning, though. It’s just me and my feels.

As William Goldman said of the movie business, back when it was a legitimate business, “Nobody knows anything.” He embiggened this thought by adding that not a single person in the entire motion picture industry knew for sure what was going to work. Everything was a guess. An educated one if you were lucky, but still a guess.

That’s where we are now, in the realm of guessing, wish fulfilment and JB’s feels.

That’s why I said no to a party I hope will turn into an epic debauch, with everyone drunk as lords and charging into the street to crash-tackle turfed out Liberal cabinet ministers like eight hundred pound gorillas falling on some poor Under-7s soccer munchkin.

But nobody knows nothing in this lousy business and don’t let them tell you otherwise.

All I have now is hope.

Hope that people remember what it was like when half the continent burned and the population of whole towns ran into the sea to save themselves under apocalyptic blood fire skies.

Hope that enough of them remember this gurning dodgewanker with his artfully lacquered lump of coal, and that some significant percentage of them can draw a short straight line from one back to the other.

I hope that at least some people filling out their ballots tomorrow ponder the way we have tumbled down the global corruption and transparency rankings to hang out with that renowned beacon of virtuous governance, our new bestie… Uruguay!

I wonder if anyone will think about what it means that 40% of the appointments to the Administrative Appeals Tribunal are now purely political; literally, mates of Scotty who scored a well paid gig rubber-stamping his shittest decisions.

Gonna guess not, but.

Honestly, who fucking knows what goes through most people’s minds when they get into the booth?

A fair number of them are probably already thinking more about the burned, greasy offal tube on slightly stale white bread they’re gonna inhale afterwards. That, or Anna-Spargo Ryan’s Mars Bar slice.

It’s possible, I suppose, that there’s plenty who could knowingly and rationally cast a vote for a corrupt, incompetent and morally fucknuckulated government; rich people who really like not paying tax; the religious bigot community; forty percent of the Administrative Appeals Tribunal. They’ve all got good reason to vote LNP.

For everyone else, however, Magic Eight Ball says, ‘Are you fucking crazy?’

Setting aside policy, because fuck knows Smoko has, this guy, this fucking guy, is not fit for office. It’s not just that he always leaves everything until it’s too late and then decides to jump in with both left feet and fuck it all up six ways from Sunday—think fires, floods, vaccines, quarantine, aged care, the housing market and geostrategic competition. It’s not just that he’s a compulsive liar with a psychopath’s self belief that he can convince you 2+2=5. It’s not that his path to power alway seems to rely on setting one group of people against another, creating just enough wiggle room for him to squeeze his worthless arse through. It’s not simply his weird default to abuser language — ‘I’m sorry I’m a bulldozer but I just loves you so much I can’t help meself’…

It’s That He Is Not Worthy Of The Job.

Every Prime Minister in living memory was a flawed man or woman who nonetheless tried to bring the best of themselves and their understanding of the world to the job we gave them. Most of them failed in some ways and succeeded in others. They all had some vision for a better future, even though the paths to such futures veered off in wildly different directions and led to very different places. Even crazy Tony Abbott believed in what he was doing.

But this guy?

This fucking guy?

He believes in nothing beyond his own entitlement to a cushy gig he mostly can’t be fucked doing, and the deference he thinks himself owed because, as he will tell you at the drop of a fucking hat, “I am the Prime Minister.”

I really, really, really hope he’s not able to say that anymore come Sunday morning.

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