It is now Day 33 of the campaign, or, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would have said: “Es ist jetzt Tag 33 der Kampagne”.
I suppose you may be wondering why I have referred to this day as ‘Day 33’?
Well, that is a very good question and one to which I will turn in a moment.
But let me say this, dear diary, that it is just one of many issues to be broached before this campaign is out, but in so much as time, I say again, time, moves inexorably forward, so do I.
In so far as that is an immutable fact, it is incumbent upon me, as the incumbent – the Prime Minister of Australia, in point of fact – to address these issues in the chronological fashion in which they have manifested themselves upon, not only my consciousness, but indeed the conscious thoughts of the good burghers of this country of Australia, a country of which I happen to be the Prime Minister.
Einstein, that great Labor supporter, once said, and I quote: “time is relative”.
Knowing that, it is essentially a simple matter to understand that I am counting DOWN the days to the election – dare I call it a ‘coronation’, dear diary? – rather than following the conformist agenda of counting UP. Therefore it should be clear to you, diary, that in so far as in so much that all sauce bottles are equal in the great scheme of things that we call life, to refer to this day as Day 33 is a simple acknowledgement that the sands of time wait for no man who measures his destiny in such a way as an oyster measures the size of its pearls by the accruation of grains of sand within the wholeness of its being.
Anyway, enough of that crap. I apologise, diary, I was just practicing for my next speech about the car industry.
Too much, do you think?
Went and saw Quentin yesterday and asked for an election on September 7.
Fuck it! I was pissed about that. There I was, all set to hang out with Vlad and the rest of the gang at the G-20, but can I do that now?
Noooo, I have to have a fricken election – like I’m just some fucking politician or something!
I’m so upset diary. I’d already got my people to get in touch with Vlad’s people for fuck’s sake. They’d booked the horse thingy and the rifle thingy, they’d even ordered the drugs for the ‘vicious’ tiger I was going to shoot to save the village of gay auto workers who desperately need a child-care service – luckily the KGB or whatever those arseholes call themselves these days – had some left over from dealing with that Snowden bloke (that’ll teach that Obama arsehole for bigging up that J .. Ju … no, I can’t say its name, but you know who I mean, diary), but do I get to go? No, I have to go and see Billy the Rat’s mother-in-law and ‘ask’ for an election.
I told them I wanted to wait until November. I had it all planned out, but no, I had to go now before the poll numbers dropped.
It was such a bitch of a day, diary. I was in Brissie dumping some lies on that Abbott shit, enjoying life you know.
I was kicking it big time but do they listen to the Fuh – leader? No. All I got all morning was Bruce telling me to do it now, do it now, do it now. Shoving internal polling numbers at me, nagging, nagging, nagging.
Then I had that sleazy little wop Albo on the phone telling me we had to have an election because Eddie was getting antsy and was going to spill his guts about the … well, you know, that other stuff.
I tried to tell them that we had to wait. Fair suck of the sauce bottle, I said, you guys are panicking for no reason.
I AM the CHOSEN ONE, I said, I see you Abbott and your Bishop and raise you a fucken Pope! But they are un-believers.
Why, diary? Why am I trapped with these underlings?
Anyway, never mind, best not to dwell on it.
At least I got to take another free flight, courtesy of John A. Taxpayer! Dumb schmucks. I’ve pinched enough stuff from the first-class dunnies to keep me in bog-roll for life.
Quenty was ok. She tried to pull that sisterhood crap on me, then I got the spiel about me driving a wedge thingy between her daughter and Billy the Rat, but I set her straight.
Either she plays it my way or there are no more free wardrobe upgrades and no more free flower arrangements. I’m pretty sure she got the message.
So, diary, now we are locked into September 7. It isn’t my choice, but it could be worse.
Bowen has taken the rap for the dog’s breakfast of a budget and the RBT tax change thingy – I don’t get all of the bitching about car rebates and whatever. I mean, what’s so hard? You tell a minion to order you a car and you have a car! - that spineless cretin Burke is taking the rap for my asylum seeker fuck-up and those union creeps are so scared of an Abbott royal commission into all of their scams they are all backing me!
It was a good presser calling the election. Nobody twigged that I’d been railroaded into it, none of those dumb-cunt journos asked me why I was promoting ‘positive’ politics while slagging off Abbott 157 times (thanks Laurie, Boy-journo) and I even got a bit from Therese.
Goodnight, dear diary.
Notes to self: Get a minion to ring that O’Neil character and tell him which side his bread is buttered; take selfie of me having a poo; put heat on Reserve Bank to drop interest rates.