Climate Change = Water Views For Everybody!

Redundant jobs in the post-climate-change future: changing faulty tap-washers.

I would like to take a few special moments to personally tea-bag, with my massive hairy sack, every nimrod from Senator Bob Brown on down who frots themselves into a hissy-frenzy over "climate-change".

See, NOW you understand that the Prime Minister, Saint KRudd, is only the Patron Saint of Working Families and doesn't really actually give an increasing-temperature f*ck about you and the raging 800-degree inferno that will be the summer of 2009. Which is going to make the coin-toss in the Boxing Day test even more crucial, as that pitch is going to be hotter than George Foreman's f*cken steak-griddle.

Now I don't like the term "climate-change denier". I don't even like "climate-change skeptic".

I prefer "climate-change PAGAN", or even "climate-change LAUGHER".

So you would think that, upon reading Saint KRudd's laughable little emissions target announcement I would be welcoming him into the ranks of People Who Don't F*cken Believe Everything A F*cken Failed American Vice-President Says About $hit He Doesn't Even F*cking Know About.

But, no, f*ck Saint KRudd, the f*cken little sly conniving f*ck.

Because, lacking The Chov's decisiveness, the little turd-sniffer tries an each way bet.

He's like a hooker who fell asleep on her shift and woke up with 5 minutes to go to discover a massive, impatient lineup of erections and is frantically trying to blow every one of them before she gets pimp-slapped for not bringing in enough cash-money.

The targets are well below what all the climate-change hysterics wanted, meaning we shall all perish in either an instantaneous f*cking ice-age or by turning into the f*cking surface of the sun (whichever one the climate-changers think applies at the time) - and it's all because the f*cken plants won't eat all the f*cken carbon because we didn't turn off our fridges or something.

But that's KRudd's point - it isn't much but at least he's done 'something'. And all the self-frotters can cry me a f*cken river now, dumbwanks.

Of course industry cries and moans, but that's for show. Any taxes they will pay for exceeding industry targets will get passed on to consumers, meaning everyone using electricity gets hosed.

So at this rate a few ferals from Byron Bay would be the only ones happy, only they can't f*cken read the newspaper because they rolled their last "happy-plants" up in it and smoked it.

So now all the same people whinging about climate-change can NOW whinge that their power bills are through the f*cken roof and how about KRudd do something about THAT because petrol is expensive, caviar is expensive and the 5 bedroom beachfront house I insist on living in is also expensive and I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO F*CKING WELL PAY FOR IT ALL DO I because I am a WORKING FAMILY, ME!

Never fear, KRudd has an answer.

He's going to 'subsidise' a cross-section of morons across society for the increased cost of power, which just happens to be f*cking well pretty much essential to modern life.

Bottom line: all the nimrods can keep on f*cking well driving their f*cking four-wheel drives to drop the kids off at school, leaving on all the f*cking lights, burning their f*cken plasma screen TVs 24-7 and generally seeing how many different new-gen gaming consoles they can have going at one time before the power-grid $hits itself.

AND KRUDD WILL HELP THEM PAY FOR IT.

So if you ARE a f*cken climate-change pants-wetter, how exactly does this help?

Aren't we SUPPOSED to feel the pain, so that we f*cking well TURN OFF THE LIGHTS EVERY NOW AND THEN? (Because, as I understand it, polar bears die when you leave the lights on because it reflects off the hole in the ozone and burns their retinas and then their retinas get hot and the mosquito-hordes will come further south because of the cold or the heat I can't remember which and eat the retinas of the polar bears, which can only happen when there are more cyclones and there will be more cyclones because of the global warming see innit and so the polar bears well they die see because they can't read because their retinas are burned and so they can't read the signs that say "no swimming" and so they go swimming because all the icebergs are now melted into swimming pools and the polar bears get bored and stop swimming because they're sick of swimming and they can't have sex with seals so they die. Or something. And all the dead polar bears make it hotter, or colder, or something, because they are white and all the whiteyness of the bears reflects the sun's rays, so without them we all get hit with solar rays and we'll all turn into the Fantastic Four or something, and then die. See?)

Awesomeness.

KRudd has actually achieved bureaucratic-idiot-nirvana - he's formalised a proposal that actually has a built in mechanism to defeat itself. Reduce emissions by introducing an incentive for people not to reduce emissions!

And where's the punctuation-challenged Treasurer during all this?

Busy sending out Christmas cards that read "Seasons Greeting's".

http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,24810824-952,00.html

That "Education Revolution" is a bit late for some people, I guess...

What's smarter? The Prime Minister or a Vermicious Knid?

Geezus H Titty-F*cking Christ.

Regular readers of this blog have commented on the lack of Chov-rage being directed at politics here in recent times.

Well that was because KRudd, Patron Saint of Working Families, has done so many f*cking moronic things recently that my eyeballs had f*cking well LIQUEFIED in RAGE at his overall galactic level of F*CKWITTERY and I was rendered temporarily unable to type.

But here we go with the straw that smashed the f*cken spine of the dromedary.

KRudd the Imbecile decided to gift $1000 to a completely f*cking random selection of society in a time of economic chaos. Somewhere in his f*cking peanut brain that made sense as a strategy to save the World and single-handedly overturn the woes of AIG, Lehman Bros and Jimity J. F*ckwit down at the Wagga RSL.

At the time it was meant to be some sort of safety net for lower income earners against rising petrol prices, inflationary pressure and interest rates.

It never occurred to him that f*ckwits doing stupid $hit with other people's money caused the f*cken problem in the first place.

But why would it?

After all, this is the f*cken moron who has a beer in the middle of a strip club and then is F*CKEN INSTANTANEOUSLY STRUCK BLIND, DEAF and DUMB for a short period of time (normally corresponding to the precise length of time it takes for the conversation to move onto another topic).

Either that, or when medical science discovers the nature of SELECTIVE INVISIBLE NAKED BREAST SYNDROME they can name if after this f*cking moron.

And this week we had the man himself take a break from flying a A380 Airbus DOWN THE F*CKEN STREET FOR MILK AND A NEWSPAPER for the ELEVENTH TIME SINCE THURSDAY to tell the great unwashed masses that they should take their freshly granted cash-wad and moan loudly whilst they blow it all over the face of retail assistants across the country in time for Xmas.

Never mind it takes a cash turnover of about 1% of GDP to make any sort of f*cken difference. And never mind that a few thousand pensioners buying another f*cken X-Box is NOT GOING TO F*CKEN STIMULATE INVESTMENT nor will it suddenly imbue the Treasurer Wayne Swan with a F*CKEN CLUE ABOUT KEYNESIAN ECONOMIC THEORY.

See the reason KRudd himself came out to make the announcement is mainly because it wasn't a f*ck-up (which he gets others front and centre for) but also because the illustrious Treasurer was busy at the time, puffing away hard on the pedals as he runs the Great PedalTasticF*cktacularDiscopoplepticEconomulatorMobile!

That is ripped off directly from the Wonkamobile, and I admit it.

But it also allows me to shoe-horn this quote* in:

Charlie: Grandpa, is this thing going to go fast?
Grandpa Joe: It f*cking well should, Charlie, it's got more gas in it than the f*cken Treasurer AND the Prime Minister.

*Warning: May be slightly different from original movie quote.

Wayne "Daddy Warbucks" Swan thinks the economic crisis actually started because he took a break and stopped pedalling when Romper Room came on the TV and he wanted to be a flower blooming in the morning with all the other kids. It wasn't until Mr Doobee came on with the music that Wayne realised his error and that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac weren't that old couple he talked to in the shopping mall in Revesby when he was back on the campaign trail.

These people run our country, for f*ck's sake.

What KRudd needs is a good f*cken hour or so in the taffy-pulling machine.

Claytons - The Drink I Have When I'm Too Drunk To Keep Drinking

Sadly, we must today mourn the passing into history of a watershed moment in Australian politics - Claytons Parliament Friday, or "The Government We're Having When We're Not Having Government".

Remember the ad?

(Scene: The Holy Grail Bar, Civic, Canberra. Drunken, binge-drinking politicians are sprawled everywhere. A forlorn Brendan Nelson pole-dances, dressed only in a feather boa, to an empty dance-floor. Saint Kevin the Infallible, Patron Saint of Working Families, approaches the barman...)

"Claytons Parliament, thanks, Brian..."

"On the wagon, Kevin?"

"F*ck no, just a f*cken stupid idea I came up with on the crapper. Still, a few more hot young lefty socialist chicks at Universities around the country will want to suck my d1ck, so it can't be all bad!"

"Well, now we can all get some sleep!"
(cue: uproarious laughter...)

You remember when our beloved Prime Minister, Saint Kevin the Infallible, Patron Saint of Working Families, ascended to the golden throne? Of course you f*cken do, you all voted for him twice and saw God's own hand anoint the f*cken poindexter at about 8.15 pm, with trumpets and all sorts of God-ish $hit happening. Kerry O'Brien almost spontaneously combusted in orgasmic rapture at the time. Who could forget that?

Well anyway, Saint Kevin ascended to the heavenly throne, pausing only to thunderously announce that Parliament would 'sit' on Fridays from now on, by the power of his mighty, erect, Golden Staff of CRudd!

A tremendous thunder shook the very earth at these words as he smote the floor of the chamber with his Golden Staff!

F*ck me dead, exclaimed the masses, the politicians are going to be working harder than ever before to deliver Working Families unto the Garden of Eden! They're going to be working on Fridays instead of f*cking off to Manuka and Kingston and Barton swank eateries and cafe-bars! It's a new Golden Era!

Yeah, like f*ck it is you morons, or, as I prefer to say: WRONG AGAIN DIP$HITS!!

See, unlike Moses, when Saint Kevin trundles on down from the mountain with stone tablets, you better read the f*cken fine print the smarmy little pr1ck chiseled on there really quickly while everyone was busy laughing at Brendan Nelson trying to limbo beneath his latest approval rating.

On a side note, the reason I don't slag off the Good Doctor much on this ridiculous f*cken blog here is not because I am a right wing Liberal Party sycophant - I f*cken hate those f*cken dip$hits, too - it's more because kicking the Good Doctor while he's down (down at about 9% last I heard) is pretty f*cken lame. I ought to steal some Chupa-Chups from kids while I'm at it. I mean, f*ck, Mike Tyson has a higher approval rating than f*cken 9% with Domestic Violence Support Groups. F*ck, Paul McCartney has a higher approval rating with his ex-wife than F*CKEN 9%!! A f*cken AMOEBA could get more than 9% approval from a typical Australian electorate by f*cken showing up and sub-dividing a few cells! (and maybe then downing a schooner of VB in under 3.5 seconds...)

So there's no comedy there, just f*cken mediocrity. Which would be funny if it was, you know, Jose Mourinho or something, but it isn't. Alas.

So while all the f*cktards that worship Saint Kevin were smearing themselves in honey and faeces and frotting each other furiously at this latest stroke of genius from the hard-working, committed PM, the fine print went undetected. Orgiastic denial is a hell of a thing.

Except f*cken Chov was onto it like a f*cken pensioner onto a virgin poker machine at the RSL. BANG!!

The banner headline read, somewhat:

"SAINT KEVIN MAKES PARLIAMENT WORK ON FRIDAYS* - NO MORE F*CKEN BLUDGERS NOW THAT SAINT KEVIN IS IN CHARGE!!"

The fine print read, loosely:

"* except for the Prime Minister himself, who actually won't be there on Fridays at all, oh no, he'll be off fishing or avoiding lunches with Brian Burke..also there won't actually be any questions asked by any member, nor answered....also there won't actually be any debate of legislation.....and...err...what else....oh yeah, no votes to be taken either. And finally, the Friday sitting also can't be used by any member to put in his or her footy tips for the f*cken weekend either. You can pick your nose, though. Maybe."

And see the reason Chov was onto this with more fury than f*cken Pablo Escobar onto a constipated drug-mule was because I adopted the very same concept and applied to my own workplace.

I notified my boss, pursuant to section 4, sub-clause 14 (c), (iii), that henceforth I intended to "work" on Fridays, with "work" to be defined as "staying the f*ck home, casually rubbing one out after breakfast, having 3 beers for lunch and writing angry comments to the Daily Telegraph for the duration, or watching mid-week replays of the NRL on Foxtel" and defining "Fridays" as "any day I deem to be Friday".

However I kindly offered to provide a life-size blow-up sex-doll of myself to sit in my chair in case anyone felt the need to discuss some work-related matter with me by proxy - or should they simply wish to sit on my massive rod for sexual gratification.

Obviously the Opposition heard of my brilliant sarcasm on an epic scale and stole my f*cken idea. They took a cardboard-cutout of Saint Kevin into Parliament on the first Friday that this stupid $hit was put into practice and f*cken ruined it for everybody, didn't they?

That's right. One single f*cken Friday and it's all over because some bad apples had to go and ruin it for the whole f*cken bunch didn't they. Do you know how many more rants I could have f*cken posted on this stupid $hit?

But Saint Kevin dropped the idea because, basically, ALL ALONG IT WAS F*CKEN STUPID, however good luck getting the pompous little turd to admit it. But everyone knew, in terms if f*cktosity, this was SPECIAL, and, alas, kiddies we may not live to see breathtaking f*cktardation of this ilk again.

Unless somehow Wayne "The Ugly Fuckling" Swan gets to be PM, in which case he'll introduce "Come to Parliament Dressed As Your Favourite Sesame Street Character Tuesday".

You'll know him, he'll be the a$$ of Snuffleupagus.

And then Skippy the Bush Kangaroo got f*cken blasted with a shotgun. The End. Now go to sleep Timmy.

I have to admit I like it when two sides go to war and I give neither a "flying" nor a "f*ck" either way.

It enables me to sit back and give both sides of the rant equal air-time.

Or I can just point and laugh at everybody; i.e f*ck the lot of 'em.

In the latter category would fall two of my favourite groups of recalcitrant f*cktards - the A.C.T. Government (a local council on steroids) and mincing, whining animal liberationist-type wankers.

Not that I hate animals. And you know I *love* the idiots in politics. It's just that I am a laaaaaazy man. Waaaaaay too lazy to give a "flying" or a "f*ck", as I mentioned, and certainly not to the rabid extent these two sub-species of humanity do anyway.

So what's got them all angried up and looking to come out of their corners swinging (girlish) haymakers?

Well, apparently there is a mob of some 400 or so kangaroos that have taken up residence in northern A.C.T climes. And not only are the dirty foreigners not assimilating with the Osstrayn way of life, roight, they aren't paying stamp duty or land rates to the A.C.T government.

Which means they get what all other A.C.T rate-payers get when they're late with rate-payments - pursued to the death by hired yokels with f*cken shotguns, hooning around in the back of Holden utes with f*cken enormous bullbars and 32 different spot-lights on the roof.

The usual, you know.

But enter the federal Defence Department, whose land, technically, the roos are inhabiting and filling with roo-pellets on a daily basis.

Haunted by the ghost of Steve Irwin (who still won't shut the f*ck up), the Department sought instead to evict the roos and, in the typical bipartisan fashion for which Australian governance is known, basically boot their fat lazy hoppity-hop f*cken ar$es over the border into N.S.W and let THEM deal with the overgrown f*cken jumping-rats.

Now this must have upset the contracted roo-shooters, who had driven their utes all the way from the insignificant $hit-splat on the map called Bull's Turd in remote QLD and had already purchased "vital equipment" (152 cases x Victoria Bitter, 50 bags x crushed ice, 12 x eskies, 14 boxes x Four'n'Twenty party pies, 3 x Bonds blue singlets) in anticipation of the cull.

So Comrade John Stanhopeless, Party Commissar for the A.C.T government, decided "f*ck that" and put a stop to any kangaroo migrations over the border.

Now how did he do that? Build a f*cken fence? Issue a writ? Raise one eyebrow menacingly?

Well, actually, he refused to issue "export permits".

So apparently the kangaroos MARKED FOR F*CKEN DEATH are a civic-minded sort, and wouldn't dare contradict any bureaucratic contrivances designed to keep them where they are for easy targeting - after all, yokels find it hard to hold the shotgun straight after 26 stubbies so the roos better stay the f*ck still dammit.

Now it's the animal-lover type fairies who are getting upset and peppering Comrade Stanhopeless with questions. And, as is always the case when this happens, the good Comrade squirms and writhes like a f*cken cornered rat looking for an out.

"Errr.....," he bul$hitted quickly,"...well, see, a smart smart man called a science-test, wearing a white lab coat, and glasses so he must be real clever because only smart people wear glasses (it's from all the reading they do get it) told me that it traumatizes the Skippys to get moved."

Yes, it's much better for them to be chased around by squealin', pig-fellatin' bumpkins firing shot-gun pellets at the rate of 26 every 5 seconds from the back of a bouncing ute being driven at about 500 kilometres an hour.

F*ck that's calming. Nine out of ten kangaroos nominated that image as their preferred "happy place" in a recent Morgan survey. On the other hand, showing them footage of "moving" made most of them wet their pouch or cry "mummy" which is f*cken significant because kangaroos can't f*cken talk. Or answer surveys.

Also, Comrade Stanhopeless said that he's tried moving them before and it didn't work, so there.

I think he's recalling the time he drove out to Googong Dam and got out of his BMW when he spotted some roos, running and waving his arms and yelling "Gwan! GIT! GWAAAAN! GIT!! GIT! GWAAN! YA MONGRELS! GWAAN! " for about 3 minutes, at which point at least 1 of the roos gazed over at him disinterestedly. And then returned to $hitting contentedly in the grass, which, as I understand it, is all that kangaroos actually do, besides occasionally committing spectacular suicide by jumping into speeding cars on the Federal Highway.

"Well I'm out of ideas" remarked the good Comrade, and that was that.

The next day, crack teams of specially trained inbred hicks blasted some 900 roos into red spray-paint and used the word "yeeehaaaw!" about 5000000000000000 times in only 24 hours.

Comrade Stanhopeless claimed at the time that this Duke Nukem-esque bloodbath was necessary, because the roos were "threatening Canberra's water supply", so obviously he had either uncovered a sinister terrorist plot by the kangaroo community to detonate a dirty bomb and blow up the dam, or else they were planning to COMPLETELY IGNORE the STAGE IV WATER RESTRICTIONS and water their lawns WITH UNTIMED SPRINKLER SYSTEMS!! Egad! F*cken roos! Lil' bit of f*cken KABLAMMMO too good for 'em I say!

Of course, Comrade Stanhopeless got caught out on that one, too.

"Documents obtained by The Canberra Times...showed the cull was opposed by senior government scientists and had been ordered as a result of complaints by neighouring farmers."

Now that just f*cken irks me, because I complain about MY neighbours all the f*cken time and I haven't seen THEM get shot yet. What are my f*cken land rates FOR, anyway?

"They claimed kangaroos were evading professional shooters on their properties by fleeing into the foreshores reserve."

Well I'm not f*cken surprised, considering even a f*cken kangaroo can probably hear the hee-haws playing their Lee Kernaghan CD at f*cken flight-path volume from about 25 kilometres away.

See I can just imagine ole Clem, chewing on a grass stem and complaining to gathered reporters "Well, yeh, them roos is jes gettin away now isnt they?" and shaking his head sadly, before heading inside to have 3 minutes of 'relations' with ole Merle, 'cos it's Sat'dee after all and there ain't been this much fussin' and fartin' in these here parts since young Johnny McJohnston got caught with his d1ck in Nana Thompson's show-winning blue-ribbon 36 kilo pumpkin - and thinkin' 'bout that gets me a bit hot 'n bovvered, Merle me good ole girl, so whip down the britches and git riddy.

Yet again the entire A.C.T government, the legion of imported roo-shootin', sheep-shaggin' good ole' boys and Clem are outwitted by kangaroos that, er, don't stand f*cken still.

So denying the roos the ability to 'export' themselves over the border, as well as canceling ALL A.C.T LIBRARY PRIVILEGES, will obviously make sure the crafty little f*ckers have no choice but to stand still and take a .22 round right in the pouch.

Now the very thought of that brings tears to the eyes of Mr Pat O'Brien, who happens to be President of the Wildlife Protection Association, and also happens to boycott merry-go-rounds because they are an "offensive and unrealistic portrayal of horses". Pat also has an not-unimpressive collection of photos of horse-penises, which he likes to get out at BBQs to impress guests with.

Now Patty, who has a girl's name, is riled up. Sadly, he isn't threatening to run naked in front of the roo-shooter's bullets in order to protect the roos. However, he is threatening to have an almighty sook.

"The Rudd Government and ACT Chief Minister John Stanhope will face SIGNIFICANT PROTEST ACTION."

Presumably this will involve the impressively terrifying MASS PUBLIC TYING OF KNICKERS INTO REALLY REALLY TIGHT COMPLICATED F*CKEN KNOTS.

But then, most fairy-airy types are presently too preoccupied by lobbing acid onto Japanese whaling boats and trying to shag unshaven hippy-chicks to f*cken care.

How to make the banks wet their pants. By Kevin Rudd aged 50 and 1/2.

Well I would apologise about yet another post on politics - if I cared. Which I don't. So I won't.

Come the f*ck on, when there's this much good material how can I be expected to let it pass through to the keeper without a rant on it as it whizzes by?

Saint Kevin the Infallible, Patron Saint of Working Families, is at it again.

And by "at it again" I mean taking time out from preparing his specialty signature-dish "(description courtesy of the Michelin Guide 2008)...pan-seared Ear-Wax medallions accompanied by a red-wine and ear-wax jus, served with an ear-wax and porcini mushroom emulsion..." to rock my world with yet more F*CKWITosity.

Now didn't I just finish explaining to you that Saint Kevin is, in fact, just another lying, cheating, smarmy f*cking politician? I did, didn't I?

Well here's what I'm talking about. PAY F*CKING ATTENTION.

Whilst on the campaign trail for last year's federal election, Saint Kevin The Then-Unascended lost no f*cken opportunity to recite this f*cken boring mantra in relation to rising interest rates, or something like it anyway:

"Five, no wait, six, hold on, seven broken promises"

See what he did there? Oh it was so f*cken clever. He counted the number of times interest rates had risen under the Dirty F*cken Arrogant Liberal Party and called them "broken promises". Oh it's so so deliciously clever isn't it? Oh, I say, Beatrice, doesn't it just make one want to read Dickens and quote Keats so that one may appear as clever as Saint Kevin?

OF COURSE IT F*CKEN DOESN'T.

Fast forward to today and Saint Kevin is now the big boss, because everyone voted for him twice and, by the beard of f*cken ODIN THE MOTHERLESS AVENGER, ye olde SAINT KEVIN will show them f*cken banks who's boss alright, won't he? He'll have them bitch-slapped down to their f*cken knees, begging to kiss his Imperial Ring and whimpering like the F*CKEN quivering miserable sycophants they are, right!?

Oh yes, oh yes, oh he will, ye great unwashed masses, for that is what he spake from atop the mountain did he not? That ye, oh poor Working Families, suffering art thou, open thy hands unto Saint Kevin, and he shall pi$$ upon thy hands and thou shalt drink of the pi$$ and call it sweet wine!! Oh joy! Rapture!! Frot me, Saint Kevin, frot me for I am aroused by the very thought of you pimp-f*cking those banks into submission!!

So what happened now to get Chov's arterial-feed to his brain THUMPING against his f*cken forehead in RAGE, threatening to EXPLODE?

Well, see, the Reserve Bank board meets tomorrow and, if we are to believe nerdy-corporate types, apparently way smarter than you and me, it will raise interest rates again.

Also, it will vote for some better Danish pastries for the next meeting, and plunger coffee not that instant $hit. Seconded. Passed. Etc. Then they will all pi$$ off to play squash and slam the north shore party circuit trying to root horny socialites with loose morals until next month.

So here's where Saint Kevin the Infallible becomes Saint Kevin the Hard-Ar$ed Liberator, right?

I mean, that's how the legend goes - the one they'll be teaching in all public schools next year in the National Curriculum - right?

Oh, you can bet on it. Watch him, now, he has fired up! He is wearing armour! He is on his white charger! He brandishes a f*cken great sword and a lance and other weapony-type $hit for smoting! Grrrr!

"When it comes to the individual decisions of the commercial banks, they make those."

Err....what? But....but....YOU'RE the Prime Minister! YOU'RE SAINT KEVIN THE LIBERATOR!! Speak to us, oh Saint Kevin! Spank us if need be! Spank us! But let us not fall to the dust of the earth in despair!

A hush befalls the crowd. Presumably they are munching on some loaves and fish that Saint Kevin has passed around because the f*cken caterers are late. As usual.

He speaks again! Hark! Here shall spring the words of VENGEANCE! A Rallying Cry in the Dark! Hark! Hark again I say! His very words will shake the mountains and CRUSH THE BANKS!

"And if they move outside official interest rate settings, then, mindful of the general circumstances of financial markets at the time," and here his testicles SWELL TO TWICE THE SIZE OF A MAN'S FIST, AND HIS DEEP AND MIGHTY VOICE RAISES, "I'm sure the government won't be RESTRAINED FROM MAKING APPROPRIATE COMMENT."

GRRRRR!!!! ROAARRRRRR!!

And if you f*cken try any of that $hit again, banks, he'll be back, and next time he'll f*cken WAG HIS FINGER AS WELL!

Eeeeek!

The more things change, the more they F*CKEN WHAT? STAY THE F*CKEN SAME!

See this is what happens when you f*cken pinheads out there treat politics like it's a sport.

An election is not a "grand final". True, it is one lot of crooked, lying, self-indulgent, cheating, overpaid, snivelling, whining, immoral, misogynistic, turds going up against another, so there's a similarity there to the Broncos-Storm grand final, I admit, but you people are missing something.

See, unlike a grand final, the result is not worth f*cking cheering and partying over, believe me.

Understand this: politicians are more like the referees of the grand final than the players. Nobody liked them in school, they aren't good enough to actually play, they misinterpret the rules, apply them inconsistently and get all the f*cken major decisions wrong so we're all f*cked over in the end.

So all you f*cken twerps who were out engaging in spontaneous mass-masturbation-parties when Saint Kevin the Infallible (Patron Saint of Working Families) became Prime Minister - LISTEN CAREFULLY because I am about to shatter the masturbatory-fantasy you have of Kevin 07 and render him NO F*CKEN DIFFERENT to any other lying, snivelling turd of a politician.

And I do it because I CARE.

But first, ok I can understand a bit of the joy at seeing the previous Govt thrown the hell out.

Yeah they were arrogant little f*cks alright. I mean, not just "swerve into your parking spot, even though you've got your indicator on and are obviously waiting for the spot" arrogant, either.

No, those pr1cks were so arrogant that, if you caught them with their pants down and d1cks buried all 2-and-a-half-inches into a pig, they would have said "What pig? Where? Me? Pig? Rooting? No, you're mistaken, I've never even seen a pig in my life," without ever once stopping their rhythmic thrusting.

AND THEN they would have had the arrogance to finish and throw YOU a box of tissues to CLEAN THEM UP WITH. AND THEN CRITICISED THE JOB YOU WERE DOING, WHILE STILL DENYING THE EXISTENCE OF ANY SMOKED HAM IN THE VICINITY.

But do you know WHY they get this way?

It's simple.

They get this arrogant because THEY THINK THEY CAN GET AWAY WITH IT.

And, thanks to dip$hits who vote like it's a Grand Final BBQ, THEY MOSTLY DO.

Governments use their first term in office to continuously gloat, break a few of the favourite toys of the previous government and generally start f*cking things up - but not too much, not so that pinheads notice.

So they win the first re-election because all you pin-heads are still in post-coital bliss and haven't caught on yet to all the little things they're f*cking up and laughing about while you're still having a drag on the post-root ciggy.

By the second re-election, about 6-8 years after getting into power, they're into full-blown F*CK-UP mode but you pin-heads vote 'em back in anway, because now you're scared the other lot might be even WORSE.

By the third re-election, now some 8-12 years after wedging their corpulent ar$es into Parliament House, they're into chronic F*CK-UPism, but they're STILL A GOOD CHANCE to be re-elected, providing they haven't sided with the U.S in a war.

So they have this security-blanket backing them up. They know, no matter what they do, they're likely to be around for a DECADE before you f*cks realise all the stupid $hit they've been pulling right in front of you, and EVEN THEN they may get away with it.

I mean, if *I* could get away with it, I would have a porno collection SO F*CKING HUGE it would be seen from OUTER SPACE. But I can't get away with it, so I don't even try, because retribution for my sinful ways from The Samazon would be swift and painful, and she would not be waiting for the counting of postal votes in marginal ballots to decide the outcome.

See, the last Government introduced AWAs, and talked up nuclear power stations, and f*cked over stem-cell research and day-after pills, and sucked George Dubya's d1ck all the way to Baghdad because they thought they could get away with it! They thought, F*CK IT - we can do what we like and the pinheads will vote us back in anyway.

Only the pinheads didn't, although it was the THIRD time they got the opportunity to proverbially get Johnny plastered and shave his eyebrows.

But they couldn't stop there, the pinheads. No, they had to go and party over the corpse and think that, in their own deluded way, they had MADE A DIFFERENCE. That, somehow, Saint Kevin would be DIFFERENT.

WRONG AGAIN DIP$HITS!

So the pinheads turned into f*cktards in the tightening of a sphincter. See, f*cktards are inherently and geneticaly f*ckwitted, so if you give them a fact that they can actually shoe-horn into their f*cktard heads they get all GIDDY and start getting delusions of OPINION which they inevitably feel the need to SHARE with the rest of us.

So they cheered and partied and heralded Saint Kevin's Ascension as though it was the next f*cken Renaissance, because, see, someone "clever" on the radio told them that the reason they couldn't afford their mortgage repayments was because Johnny the PM personally used his PITCHFORK to raise the SATANIC INTEREST-RATES DIAL in his office, all the way up to "MWUHAHAHAH TAKE THIS F*CKERS!"-setting. And only Saint Kevin could exorcise the demons to bring interest-rates down, fix global warming and mount a crusade to rid the ENTIRE WORLD of capital punishment. (I'm not making up that last one, either.)

Only it isn't the great Antipodean Renaissance of the early 21st century, and here's BLAZING F*CKING PROOF WHY....

"The Barcaldine Mayor has defended the $5 MILLION in GOVERNMENT FUNDING that has been secured for a MONUMENT to the Labor Party icon, the Tree of Knowledge."

I didn't even know there was a f*ckhole called "Barcaldine", let alone know that it has a f*cken MAYOR, but then I suppose the tumbleweeds and sheep get all f*cken rowdy and revolutionary without proper government representation for "local issues".

How, in the name of everything in the f*cken universe, does building a 5 MILLION DOLLAR MONUMENT TO A TREE WITH PUBLIC FUNDS make a f*cking drop of sense?

My brain is numbed at how simply fucktastically stupid that is.

Geezus, plant a REAL F*CKING TREE and it won't cost that much and will probably live longer. And, hey, it's the ALP "Tree of Knowledge" so, f*ck, a POT PLANT will probably suffice.

I mean, how f*cking presumptuous is it to call a Labor Party icon the "Tree of Knowledge"?? Presumably it's where GOD appeared to Saint Kevin (back when he was only an acolyte) and told him that he was the ONE, beloved of Jehovah / Muhammad / Baal / Gough Whitlam, and chosen to lead Working Families into a new era of HOME-OWNING UTOPIA, free from the scourge of SATANIC interest-rate rises!

Apparently someone poisoned the real tree last year - probably by burying beneath it the transcripts of emails between Kevin 07's office and Brian Burke. The tree's roots subsequently choked on the bull$hit and it f*cking well died.

But here's Treasurer Wayne "The Ugly F*ckling" Swan trying to polish a turd so that it shines:

"Government spending will have to be cut drastically in the budget to try and ease inflationary pressure."

Woops, wrong speech! Memo to Chief of Staff - don't let the f*cking intern prepare the speech folder!

*Ahem*

"It's a legitimate grant [of FIVE MILLION DOLLARS FOR A MONUMENT TO A TREE], that is a legitimate tourist attraction."

A dead f*cken tree is a tourist attraction? Then why do we need a f*cken MONUMENT!?

Oh, here we go, while I was busy venting, Google has located "Barcaldine" for me....

"Barcaldine is in the MARGINAL LABOR ELECTORATE of Flynn."

So put the f*cken corks back into the champagne bottles, dip$hits, and save them for REAL grand final win celebrations.

In the meantime, in Parliament, there's going to be about 9 years and 250 odd more days LIKE THIS ONE.

Your Tax Dollars At Work!

Most normal people wouldn't give two-thirds of a flying f*ck about the Parliament of Australia's Senate Standing Committee on Finance and Public Administration.

And they would be right not to.

Happily for readers of this preposterous blog, Angry Chov is not most normal people.

You see, this FaP Commitee, according to its web-page at http://www.aph.gov.au/Senate/committee/fapa_ctte/ctte_info/index.htm "maintains oversight over three portfolios..." which is Government-speak for "meets a few times a year for sandwiches and to grill senior public servants like its the f*cken Star Chamber over absurd items nobody else cares about".

Unfortunately, we all pay for this exercise in fecund Machiavellinism, in more ways than one.

See, in THEORY, the Committee is supposed to catch dirty f*cken public servants and arms of Government who are up to NO-GOOD DIRTY F*CKEN TRICKS with public money.

In THEORY, it does this by asking questions thusly:

"You, sir, *pointing at senior public servant*, are you up to NO-GOOD DIRTY F*CKEN TRICKS with public money?!" (Subtlety is hard to guage in writing isn't it?)

Now only a f*ckwit of galactic proportions would answer this question in any way resembling "f*ck yeah, of course" and so the entire procedure becomes a wily dance wherein f*cktards from all sides of politics twist themselves up in ever increasing webs of intrigue and bull$hit as they either strive to avoid giving a "yes" answer or strive to catch someone unawares in a "yes" answer - in flagrante delicto, as it were. Except not the saucy, INTERESTING kind of flagrante delicto, just the regular, why-is-this-movie-3-f*cken-hours-long-boring kind.

After two days of this f*cken crap, nobody has slipped up and they all pack up the circus tent and go back to doing whatever it is that Senators and senior public servants do in between Committee hearings.

My personal theories are: For 25 marks, Express Yourself As A Turd, Through Interpretive Dance - suggested time, 5 minutes (for the former); and running a vast, multimillion dollar criminal international underground cock-fighting network (for the latter). But as yet I lack proof.

Now this post is essentially a public service that I am devoting to you, because there is simply nothing I want more in this world than to elevate your faith in our elected parliament. I want you to cast away your rags, forget your buried weapons caches, abandon your plans for revolution and Oklahoma City bombings and cease referring to Canberra as "the f*ckin Gu'mment" and instead gaze in wonder at those who serve the people, fearlessly and forthrightly elevating administrative f*ckwitosity to breathtaking new levels, on our behalf.

See, of all the wondrous and devious potential misappropriations that the Committee could have sought out and brought to light for us to scorn, your elected Senators instead focused on (and I'm not f*cken making this $hit up)....

...whether or not the illustrious Saint Kevin the Infallible's (i.e the Proym Ministah's) f*cken DOG and f*cken CAT pi$$ and $hit inside or outside The Lodge (i.e that house what the Proym Ministah lives in, hey), and in executing the functions of said f*cken pi$$ing and $hitting, whether they are supervised personally by suitably qualified members of Kevin 07's staff, and pursuant to the actions of said pi$$ing and $hitting, precisely whom is paying, and how much, for the repair of potential damage caused by said pi$$ing and $hitting in the Lodge and surrounds.

Now don't feel ashamed if, in fact, you missed this in the news and on the front page of every national newspaper. Because SURELY it was there, and you only missed it because other, more pressing, matters distracted you.

So allow me to whip you up a highlights package of Our Nation, Your Government, For All Australians!

The impressively capitalised and hyphenated, but cranially vacuous, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS: "...Given that at the Lodge we now have the new residents (and see at this point you're thinking well, yeah, the PM and his family....WRONG AGAIN DIP$HITS!) Abby, the golden retriever...and the pet cat, Jasper, there is probably likely to be added costs for lawn restoration at the Lodge. Is there going to be a budget for that?"

Senator Faulkner responds, in a brief and sadly unheralded victory for common sense over f*cktardness everywhere, "Why would there need to be?" only I think the transcript has omitted the "...you stupid f*cktard" from the end of that retort, but I can't be entirely certain.

Now, put aside, for the moment, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS's obvious disregard for national security by PUBLICALLY NAMING both the Prime Ministerial dog AND cat without due regard to their safety and security.

The good Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS shall not be stopped there!!

Oh, no, Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS cannot rest while there is potential GOVERNMENT CORRUPTION yet to be ROOTED OUT!! She is nothing if not a CHAMPION OF THE PEOPLE!! HEAR HER ROAR!!!

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS (displaying the sharp-as-a-F*CKEN-TACK insightfulness that characterises her contribution to Parliament): "Having myself had cats and dogs in the past, and lawns, I just make the observation."

Thank you, Senator, for letting us know you haven't, all this time, been living in the f*cken International Space Station. It is a real relief. What a curriculum vitae, though.

"Current employment: Senator. Former experience: Once owned n x dog and n x cat (where n > 1). Oh, also once had n x lawn as well, don't leave that out."

Somewhere they are looking for volunteers for experimental pharmaceutical testing, and sadly the prolifically F*CKWITTED Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS is being wasted here instead.

Senator Faulkner: "I think the Prime Minister, in fact, has commented that the Rudd family has restrained their dog...from digging up the garden. He also described that as a big challenge."

Now I bet you had your doubts that a Prime Minister who eats his own ear-wax could run a democratic nation of some 20 million. Well fear not, kids, because this intellectual GIANT is currently locked in a f*cken BATTLE OF WILLS with his DOG, and the BATTLEGROUND for this EPIC ENCOUNTER is not Afghanistan, Iraq or East Timor; it's the proverbial BACKYARD OF THE NATION.

That's right, folks, stopping the f*cken dog from digging up the garden is a....(wait for the actual quotation marks)..."BIG CHALLENGE" for Saint Kevin, Patron Saint of Working Families.

But SLEEP WELL, Australia, because Senator Faulkner informs us that, SO FAR, the PRIME MINISTER IS AHEAD ON POINTS..."I am advised that Abby the dog (lucky you clarified that Senator, because I was having trouble keeping up with the cast list of ONE CAT AND ONE DOG so far) has not caused any damage to the gardens or grounds."

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS: "That is very good to hear."

Senator FIERRAVANTI-WELLS sleeps soundly every night, knowing she has performed her duty for her nation. Sadly, she is a little confused, some would say even a little hurt by the fact that this sterling effort has gone largely un-noticed in the anals of history. No, that was not a typo.

Senator Faulkner: "I knew you would be pleased to be so informed."

At this point the public gallery had to subdued with pepper-spray, presumably, such was their level of disquiet.

Senator Faulkner (skipping forward several PAGES): "Would you like to hear about Abby's brief toilet trips outside, for example?"

Oh goody, yes, clap clap....OF COURSE F*CKING NOT.

Mind you, I am happy to hear that Abby the PM's Dog is "brief" in her business. It would be a bit unnerving to see Abby grab the day's copy of The Canberra Times broadsheet and a can of air-freshener on her way out, remarking "Don't wait up, this could take a while," to the family.

And so follows PAGES of exchanges regarding the general "making toilet" habits of the PM's cat and dog. Which, even edited, would make your f*cken head explode at the inanity of it all.

No, let's instead end this now the only reasonable way it could end - with the sure-to-be-IMMORTAL-words of Senator Faulkner....: "I know there is a lot of interest...about the PM's dog and the PM's cat, but I suspect, to be honest with you, THAT IT IS NOT A MAJOR ISSUE BEYOND THIS SENATE ESTIMATES COMMITTEE."

And you thought nobody was talking any sense around here, didn't you?

Au Pair at The Lodge?

You may have missed this in the news the other week, but our Prime Minister the Hon Kevin 07 (who prefers to be addressed as Saint Kevin the Infallible, unless he's in shape-shifting mood and is appearing in Parliament as a cardboard cut-out - usually on Fridays) was being harangued somewhat for dipping into the public purse and hiring a nanny to look after his offspring at The Lodge.

Well, one of the Rudd Rugrats anyway.

Yes, it seems, from my 3 minutes of research on the internet (and how could the www ever be wrong I ask you?) that it was only Saint Kevin's 14 year old son who required Au Pair servicing after school. I couldn't discover his name (or couldn't be ar$ed reading that far into the article) so I made it up. The PM's son goes by the name of Poncey McPonce from Poncetown.

Now if I recall myself at 14, all pimply-faced and peach-fuzzed balls, I would have been thrilled at the thought of a nanny giving me a right good "looking after" every afternoon after school.

Sadly, my hetero pubescent fantasies probably don't translate to the hero of our tale, the young Poncey, given his Dad is an ear-wax devouring poindexter.

But come the f*ck on, who, at 14, needs a professional nanny to oversee your after-school shenanigans? Although I suppose with a name like Poncey it's largely self-evident.

"Now, Poncey, you know that having an extra spoon-full of Milo only leads to chronic wind-pain and excessively fragrant flatulation, and we all know how unpleasantly that turned out when we were entertaining the Grand Duke of Fucktard and his attache, don't we hmmm?"

See, Poncey obviously needs to be protected from himself. Hence the nanny.

Quite obviously the little twerp can't be trusted to come home from school and sit the f*ck down to watch ABC Kids all on his lonesome without taking advantage of the lack of supervision to strip down and start humping the imported Italian-leather lounge suite like a f*cken Bonobo monkey on heat, or succumbing to his rampant and compulsive Onanism all over the house.

I can only imagine that Kevin 07 has grown tired of arriving home at The Lodge after a hard day crushing Brendan Nelson's tiny nuts in a vice and pimp-slapping Wayne Swan until-slap-he-slap-f*ckin-slap-does-slap-know-slap-what the-slap-f*ckin-slap-non-accelerating-inflation-rate-of-unemployment-SLAP-actually-slap-f*ckin is, only to discover that young Poncey has been left unattended again and has been manipulating himself furiously all afternoon around the house, jizzing and splooging with gay abandon all over the imported Turkish bathroom tiles and Persian hall-way runner.

I can see his point.

Enter the nanny, presumably a 7 foot tall Siberian "woman" called Borisya Ballsinajarovitch, who doesn't believe in 'happy endings' and will zap the living f*ck out of the game little chap with a cattle-prod whenever he so much as LOOKS like he might be contemplating a bit of the old "self-pollution".

Which, if he looks like his dad, could be almost all the time. Oh, wait, that was the card-board cut-out I was looking at, where our nation's brave and fearless Leader has BOTH hands THRUST DEEP, DEEP, DEEEEEP into his pockets - and who knows what mysterious joys lurk down there that would require so DEEP an EXPLORATION!?

Perhaps he was simply doing his bit to dampen INFLATION.

*boom-TISH*...here all week, try the veal etc etc...