Dear Diary,
How dare they? How DARE
they? HOW DARE THEY?
I won’t
have it, I tell you. I wont, I won’t, I WON'T. I’ll hand them their heads on
platters, their jobs on a plate and their balls in egg cups!
They will
pay, diary. By all that I hold holy – yes, diary, I am invoking myself I am so
angry – they will pay and Rupert will learn the folly of enraging Kevin.
The
FUCKERS!
I … I’m
sorry diary, I … I’m calm now. I know it is not your fault meine Liebe, but I
have had to hide my feelings until I am with you again.
And what, I
hear you ask, is the cause of my angst?
That is a
very pertinent enquiry. Indeed it is a query that, if I may be so bold as to
enunciate, requires a reasoned response which has been arrived at by a determined
effort to engender, in the initial instance upon receiving said enquiry, a full
and robust examinations of whatever facts of the matter are to hand; further to
that point, the importance of the question calls on us to not only peruse the
available pertinent information, but to also avail ourselves of any and all
ancillary data as may be necessary to ensure that our response, delivered in
the fullness of time and after exhaustive consultation with such cabinet
colleagues who’s areas of ministerial responsibility encompass the gamut of the
enquiry, is not only commensurate with the facts of the matter, but addresses
the main thrust of the enquiry, but delivered in such a manner as to not
inculcate a discombobulatory reaction in the mind of our interlocutor.
The answer, dearest diary, is that that fucking Murdoch is at it again.
You will
remember, dearest diary, that I recounted to you how I put Murdoch to the
sword yesterday, despite that Sales woman’s efforts to muddy the waters with FACTS and
INTERRUPTIONS.
You may also recall my intimation to you that my dear greasy little Albo
had been caught out on the piss with Thommo, though I myself thought nothing of
it.
Imagine my,
surprise; my anger, nay, my fury, when I awoke this morning to find that the Murdoch
minions at that despicable DT rag had mocked up a front page casting Albo as
Sgt Schultz, Thommo as Hogan and myself as Colonel Klink.
Now do you
see, diary? Now do you understand my fury? Those bastards had the temerity to
give me the paltry fucking rank of COLONEL!
Me? A
colonel? Oh, the insult. Albo as an idiotic sergeant I could understand, but to
be portrayed as a mere COLONEL is a fucking insult beyond measure.
I should
have been a reich marshal at the very least, with oak leaves and clusters. Oh diary, they didn't even give me a baton.
Sigh,
though it may hurt, such can wait until I rule alo … am re-elected.
Perhaps,
diary, it is not an insult from such mere bagatelles as the Murdoch minions
that has disturbed my normally equilibrious state of mind.
No, in truth, I am upset because there is a
usurper in my midst, diary. A usurper.
Beatty has
been foisted upon me. I was taken unawares by the usurper’s secret plans – he
even turned one of my trusted advisors against me, using such advisor as a
Trojan horse to further his evil plot – but I was left with no choice, but to
publicly embrace him.
Beatty,
Beatty, Beatty.
Yes, yes,
of course I took a selfie of myself with the properly endorsed candidate for
Forde; yes, yes, I made a big song and dance about ‘the members’ choosing their
candidates, but none of that matters.
After all,
what are endorsed candidates, but mindless pawns to be used or discarded at my
whim. What are party members but drones serving the quee … er, king of the
hive.
What boils
my britches is that I was not only obliged to appear on stage with the
clown-faced prick, but to pretend that I had ASKED him to run for the good of
the party.
As if,
diary, as if I would ASK a man who has dared publicly criticise ME, as if I would
think that the good of the party could be served by lauding ANYBODY BUT ME?
He even has
the same colour hair as me! And he is from Queensland Queensland
Gott im
Himmel, diary, aber diese unwürdige Abschaum lernen die Strafe der Untreue,
wenn ich in das herrliche Sonnenlicht unbestrittener Macht hervorgehen!!
I will bide
my time, diary. The usurper Beatty swears that should he win the day he will be
happy to live his life as a humble backbencher.
He must
think I’ve spent too much time sucking on the sauce bottle to believe that!
No, diary,
I may have been forced to embrace the usurper, but I have plans for him. I will
bring him into my ministry; I will embrace him from behind, hugging him close
to myself so as to render it so much easier to slide the dagger
between his ribs.
I shall
appoint him Assistant Shadow Minister Assisting the Shadow Minister Assisting
the Minister Without Portfolio!
Why, diary,
I do believe I lost myself for a short while there.
Enough of
these problems. There was good news today, diary.
My nemesis
… my opponent The Abbott has elected to visit Tasmania
Let him
waste his time there. Little does he know that when I am Fuh … when my party
wins Government, I will sell that insignificant atoll to my Ratfucker friends
in Beijing
His
promises will prove as worthless as a promise not to tinker a jot with the
superannuation system!
Goodnight,
dear diary.
Notes to
self: Am in Victoria tomorrow: tell that ‘advisor’ with the 70s porn star
mullet that if he wants to parachute Bracks, Brumby or Kirner into a seat he
can go fuck himself; find the public servant who released the figures stating
that Queensland, under the Newman Government, had the best unemployment/job
creation rate in the nation and make him cry – how the fuck am I supposed to
run a “Newman austerity” scare campaign with that sort of shit coming out?;
despatch minion to buy baton.
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