Day 31 has drawn to a conclusion and I find myself in my present position, which is to say one of indulging – in so far as one conducts an indolent impulse - in yet another interloculatory episode with you, my one true friend.
When I use the term ‘friend’, I of course am utilising it in no more or less a manner than if I were to avail myself of the opportunity to borrow – in the sense of making use of - the complementary yet essentially parallel term ‘confederate’.
Further to that, and let me just say this, diary, it has not escaped the attention of my powers of self-awareness that you are increasingly – if not indeed to a greater extent - assuming the role of a reflective apparatus. A reflective apparatus into which I can direct my ocular attentions and be assured that I can safely assume that the role of one which, if not say who, accepts that it’s station is to be that of one who returns such gazes of self-adoration without question is one to which you acquiesce, if not to say – in so far as such things can be expressed – return willingly, wholeheartedly and with an air of devotion which is touching. If you know what I mean.
You, diary, are me. This is why I love you so much, why I feel such comfort in your adoring gaze, why I take such comfort from the knowledge that you accept my words; indeed, you accept whatever I give you, with not just enjoyment, but positive relish at being the recipient.
But having said that dearest Ke … diary, let me say this: why is that the legion of fuckwits I am apparently surrounded by can’t see what you see?
You would not believe the bitchin’ day I have had today, diary.
It all started with that evil AbbottAbbottAbbott fool daring to release a policy. A POLICY! As if he has the right to drop shit like that on moi unannounced!
Do you know what he has promised, diary? A 1.5% company tax cut, that’s what.
As if he didn’t know that I promised a 2% company tax cut in 2007 and forgot the whole thing after I was crowne … elected.
Oh, he remembered all right. I warned the people about this sort of dirty politics, but do they listen to me diary? No, of course they don’t.
I was calm, naturally. I was unfazed, naturally. I said to Bruce: “well, two can play at that game. We’ll steal his policy and promise a 2% cut – it worked last time, it’ll work again”.
I know that you will agree with me, dearest diary, but do you know what my minion said?
“You can’t afford it,” is what he said. Just like that AND in front of everybody.
Apparently, according to Bruce, I can’t afford it because I have to keep all of the money I’m going to borrow from the Ratfuckers to bribe individual electorates later in the campaign.
Oh, I was angry diary. Mostly, I was angry that a minion had dared contradict me publicly, but I was cool too. Oh yes diary, one doesn’t stand on the brink of greatness without the ability to remain cool.
“Fine,” I said, dismissively. “We’ll just make up some lies about a $70 billion black hole and then we’ll make up some more lies about how the swine is planning to raise the GST.”
Bruce saw the wisdom in my thinking, obviously, and set some minions to carry out my bidding.
Unfortunately, one of the minions was that cretin Bradbury. Honestly, I don’t know why I kept him on – something to do with his connections to the NSW Right or some such nonsense – but my judgement was, usual correct.
That Ju … Ju … Jul … you know who I mean-loving
fucker gives fuckwits a bad name. Sydney
Sigh. Oh diary, when I am Ki … PM I will be free of these morons. I forced them to sign their own death warrants when they agreed to elect me leader for life and rest assured, diary, the warrants will be issued.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, you wouldn’t believe what happened with the school kid.
How hard can it be? Organise some school kids, make their teachers understand that if there were any fuck-ups their school’s primary funding stream for the next 50 years would be from cutting out petrol coupons, get the camera’s rolling and Bob’s your uncle: wall to wall evening news coverage of Kindly Kev being loved by the kiddies.
You wouldn’t believe what happened. There I was, sitting with the fricken little rug rats, putting on that fake Bert Newton-smile the morons just lap up, and what was going on behind me?
Some smartarse little shit had got off the leash and was taking the piss, that’s what! Pulling faces and shit. I got him after, don’t you worry about that, diary. I pretended to high-five him and just about twisted the little turd's fingers off. I’ll teach these little pricks to take the piss out of me!
Anyway, I told a minion to take his name. When I am proclaim … elected, I’ll legislate to send his sorry arse to PNG.
The day got a bit better after that. I still had that Abbott-turd and his company tax cut following me around like a bad smell, but apart from Bradbury being a dick the old $70b black hole was going ok – though I’m going to have make sure some of these so-called journalists get the chop when I am Fuh … PM. I don’t know where they get off asking me for facts and shit. Facts? This is an election campaign for fuck’s sake.
I was calm, diary. After I flew around a bit on taxpayer’s expense, which always soothes my soul; I made a few minions cry and made up some policies I was back in the groove.
Until that bloody 7.30 report interview with bloody Leigh Sales. I did everything right diary. I deigned to appear on her little TV programme after all. I mean, what more does she want?
Do you know what she did? Do you have any idea what she did? She INTERRUPTED me! She actually dared to QUESTION me!
She actually DARED to take the side of Rupert-the-grizzly-fucking-bear Murdoch! She works for the A-fucking-B-fucking-C for fuck’s sake. How can she work for the Always Bashing Conservatives and treat me like I’m somebody who should be questioned?
Said that his newspapers backed me in 2007. As if she didn’t know how much I had to suck up to get that.
I tell you diary, I don’t know what Mark Scott thinks he’s playing at, but if he doesn’t lift his game he’s going to find out that life under Preside … PM Rudd isn’t all beer and funding increases.
And then. And then afterwards, the minion with the porn star moustache says to me “stop flicking your hair so much, Adolph Hitler always played with his hair when he was speaking”.
Adolph Hitler! I ask you? There are times, diary, oh there are times when I wonder why I put up with him as my informationen director, but als ich komplette Macht haben wird er die erste gegen die Wand. Dann unter meiner glorreichen Führung wird das australische Volk die Welt regieren!! … oh, oh dear, sorry diary, I got a little, um, excited, there.
Now finally when I am abed and gazing into your ar … pages, dear diary, I’m told that not only has that sleazy little turd Albo been busted getting on the piss with Craig Thomson while they stitch up some deal, but Peter Beattie has been pre-selected for a Federal seat in Queensland.
If “Mr-I’m-sorry-I-fucked-up, vote-for-me-again-so-I-can-fuck-up-some-more (Why does that sound familiar, diary? I can’t think why, but it nags at me.) thinks he can weasel into the leadership he’s got another think coming.
I must abed now, dear diary. Fuck knows what the Murdoch scum are going to make of Albo’s fuck-up tomorrow.
Never mind, it’ll be fine. They dare not cross me now after I put them to the metaphorical sword to that Sales woman.
Note to self: Stop flicking hair; Lick lips less on camera; Get minion to draft legislation to send that little shit’s sorry arse to PNG; ring Rupert and tell him its just politics, you know.