F*ckwits of the Animal Kingdom #1

"Tickles" the cat about to discover, THE F*CKEN HARD WAY, that bird is not a chicken.

Get your SHOULDER off my CHEST, you damn dirty APE!!

Every now and then, some f*cktard comes out with something that is so f*cktacularly stupid that it almost gives me a f*cken aneurysm just thinking about it.

It takes me into a zone that is beyond ranting, where all I can actually see are colour explosions and the video montage that Alex DeLarge was subjected to as part of the f*cken Ludovico Technique.

With some considerable effort I can finally bring myself back into a state that sort of resembles "shaking with rage", which is how I am 90% of the time anyway, so it registers as "normal" on the patented Chov RAGEometer (TM).

Then I have to re-write this blog about fifteen f*cken times, because every time I start writing about the incident that got me angry in the first place I get a RENEWED urge to start "Singin' In The Rain", my droogs and brothers, or having your humble narrator listen to "Beethoven's Ninth" and KICK THE F*CKWIT-NESS out of F*CKWITS who need it. Desperately.

See what happened was some drunk tosser at the cricket last night threw off his clothes and decided to "streak" - that is, advertise his under-sized torkler to the world by getting nude and then sprinting onto the field faster than a Frenchman who heard the word "Achtung!"

Now it's amusing when my youngest brother ruins the Street Xmas Party Annual Backyard Cricket Challenge by doing it, but that's because all the neighbours are d1ckheads anyway, and the only fun thing about it is belting the 9 year old from no.32 for 112 runs off one over.

But there is a time and place for streaking and the cricket, no matter how funny you think it is whilst drunk, isn't it. It's at a mate's wedding, for instance, or at the kids' school Xmas pantomime, where it's funny and ought to be encouraged: or, holiest of holies, when ample-breasted girls decide to streak. In which case praise be to God, we humbly thank thee for the beauty of the world and your infinite wisdom in creating boobs etc etc.

But, I know, this donger-dangling sausage-fest streaking $hit will happen so I deal with it. The streaking itself isn't the problem that has exploded several blood vessels in my rage-filled eyeball.

See, what befell the streaker was not, as he envisaged, tripping over the end of his one-and-a-half-foot schlong in a final, glorious dive through the stumps to thunderous applause from the crowd.

What he got was a Andrew Symonds-sized dose of "toughen-the-f*ck-up, bitch", instead.

Symonds simply dropped the shoulder as the nude moron skipped nearby and F*CKING DECKED THE STUPID PR1CK, who woke up later in the comforting surrounds of a holding cell, catered by the QLD constabulary, and asked for the tattoo of Symonds' shoulder to be removed from his chest, please. And a hot Milo. And perhaps if anyone saw his spleen lying around, that might be handy if that could be returned, too. Last seen erupting from his anus after he ran into a f*cken wall. Ta muchly for that.

For this action alone, Symonds should have scored 1000000000 points towards next year's Allan Border Australian Cricketer of the Year medal, and I will be watching the f*cken vote count carefully to check that justice is, in fact, done in this regard.

Now this morning I was hoping, despite Australia's loss in the match overall, to see front page headlines announcing a one-man ticker-tape parade and book-signing extravaganza, with possible TV sitcom pilot, visiting every single Australian city, starring Andrew Symonds, hero of the people. And, at each event, you could pose for photos alongside Andrew's balls, which would tower over you and cast a shadow across the crowd.

And, if you happened to be the f*cken incompetent mong who was in charge of "security" at last night's event, you could get a free spot on the tour and your job would be to close each day's festivities at the Carnevale de Symonds by KISSING HIS F*CKEN HAIRY BEANBAG in THANKS for doing YOUR F*CKEN JOB FOR YOU, and PROPERLY.

So can you imagine my dismay, nay, F*CKEN GARGANTUAN ANTI-F*CKTARD APOPLEXY, when instead of these glorious headlines I am forced to read, with my own eyes:

"Cricket officials have said Symonds will not face a penalty, but the burly all-rounder may find himself in strife if the man makes an assault complaint to police."

Words fail me.

Let me get this straight - f*cktard of galactic proportions runs onto field, naked and drunk and against the law, gets shoulder-charged into next week (he's going to be early for his court appearance), but if the poor put-upon f*cktard COMPLAINS, then Andrew Symonds could be charged?!?!?!?!?!!??!?!?!?!?!?

Let me express me incredulity a little more by simply typing a bit more punctuation.

?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!!!!?!?!??!?!?!!?!?!!?!?!?!??!!?!?

There, that ought to do it.

Allow me to play the sub-editor for a moment, and re-write the quote AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED:

"Cricket officials have said Symonds will be rewarded with an Ambassadorial role on Australia's behalf to the UNITED F*CKEN NATIONS, and, if the man makes an assault complaint to police, the burly all-rounder will get to smash the STUPID F*CKTARD repeatedly with a cricket bat for FIFTEEN MINUTES at the direct invitation of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The event has already attracted interest from Foxtel's Pay-TV arm, who have expressed a desire to televise it live on a pay-per-view basis. Experts agree that it has the potential to become the most-watched event in Australian television history."

Not to mention that any number of NRL clubs ought to be talking to Symonds this morning, especially clubs that have paper-bag tacklers like Preston Campbell on their roster.

But even if this outrageous piece of F*CKTARDITY wasn't sufficient to almost invert my colon in ANGER, good old "Reg of Sydney" had to utilise the f*cken "comments" facility, didn't he?

Thanks for f*cken nothing, INTERNET.

Yes, he f*cken well did, and in doing so made me want to f*cken euthanase him with a F*CKEN 40,000 FOOT LASER that would have obliterated, with PRECISION and in the most F*CKEN AGONISING MANNER POSSIBLE, not only every fabric of matter that contributes to Reg being the f*cken waste of carbon and oxygen that he is, it would also have destroyed all evidence that Reg ever existed and stained the Universe with his breathtaking f*ckwittosity.

Allow Reg to express himself:

"All i (sic) saw was the Adelaide man running pass (sic) Andrew Symonds, what Andrew Symonds did was wrong."

Who the f*ck is "Adelaide Man", Reg you f*cktocious 'tard? A new discovery by archaeologists? Like f*cken "Java Man", only less intelligent and with a forehead that slopes 3 degrees more? And what was he doing, running "pass"? What, some sort of f*cken rugby league decoy set-piece? It was the CRICKET you stupid f*cken craptacularly f*cktastic MORON.

But there's more!

"He had no right to shoulder the sticker (sic). He should have left it to the cops that was already after the sticker (sic sic sic f*cken sic)."

At this point I realise I am rising above my station and taking on a F*CKEN INTELLECTUAL GIANT. With f*cken grammar like that, I can't understand why Saint Kevin the PM even NEEDS to improve EDUCATION. Where do YOU think Reg falls on the A to E scale? Note: A is the best, and E is f*cken waste of time, and Reg is a new letter all his own, somewhere about 50 clicks past Z.

And "sticker"? What the f*ck? I can understand if Reg's galactic intellect had maybe mistyped "stricker" to at least get it ALMOST phonetically correct, if he were from New Zealand (which would explain a lot of things, right there).

But even that LOW LOW LOW f*cken standard was TOO MUCH TO EXPECT FROM REG.

"Again, we see his mates saying it was OK. Sorry it was not OK"

Well, Reg, that's where we finally agree.

It was, indeed, NOT OK for you to somehow think it necessary to SHARE YOUR F*CKWITACIOUSNESS with the rest of us in this world.

And, yes, I too am SORRY YOU DID.

There, now I feel better.

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.