The Krud Diaries: Day 8

Dear Diary,

                   It is a balm to my sorely-tested heart to be back with you again, meine liebe.

However, having said that, I believe I have a responsibility to warn you that I am not in the best of moods tonight.

Even a preternatural being such as myself, possessed of an infinite reservoir or inner calm, cannot be expected to maintain an even keel when surrounded by incomPETENT FUCKING ARSEHOLES!

How the fuck, diary, am I expected to be a glorreichen Führer when I am assailed on all sides by inkompetent dickheads mit ihren Gehirnen in ihre verdammten Ärsche?

On one level, diary, I can understand the dummheit of minions and functionaries. We don’t select them for their brains, after all.

But what I don’t understand is the attitude of that Murdoch fucker!! I knew that trusting somebody called Rupert was a mistake.

What sort of stupid fucking name is fucking Rupert? Bears are called Rupert. Evil omniscient moguls who manipulate their multitude of minions to effect regime change are NOT CALLED FUCKING RUPERT!

He shook my hand. His minions loved me in 2007, so why has he turned on me, diary?

I haven’t changed. I am still the same incredibly popular, outrageously intelligent, calm, reflective fiscal conservative I have always been, so it can’t possibly be me.

The man is clearly unbalanced, wenn nicht ganz in den Kopf gefickt!

As for those other media morons? Diary, it is only my love for you - you being a reflection of myself – and my supreme self control, that prevents me from signing the excommunication orders.

If they were in FUCKING RUPERT’S thrall I could understand, but they have been MY lackeys and lickspittles for years!

All those years of leaking information to them about THAT WOMAN and what do I get in return?

I tell one little fib – in the national interest because I am the national interest – about The Abbott’s costings and I get questions.

I have been telling big lies for years and they have fallen over themselves to tell the world of the Gospel According to Krud without a problem, but I tell one little itty bitty lie now and they suddenly get all fucking OBJECTIVE on me.

And don’t even get me started on those backstabbing, turncoat weasel bureaucrats.

I know why they did it, diary. Oh yes, I know why. They think I’m going to lose and they are trying to suck up to The Abbott.

Well, they are fucking WRONG! Nobody tells Krud he is a loser. Niemand!!

The Treasury and Finance arschlöcher? They’ll keep. When I reign supreme they will be counting beans in the kitchen at the Enemies of Krud Re-education Camp No 1.

Bowen and Wong? They’ll keep, but not for very fucking long diary, I can guarantee that. I’m sick of being let down by inferiors.

Bowen will find himself treasurer of the Barcaldine Synchronised Swimming Association and as for Wong?

I forgave her for totally fucking up the Climate Change portfolio, but Kevin only forgives once. She’ll spend the rest of her days as book-keeper for the David Hicks’ Haemorrhoids Appreciation Society, WITHOUT authorisation to sign cheques!

What won’t keep is ficken RUPERT ficken MURDOCH and the ficken medien.

I gave the media fools fair warning today, diary. I let them know that Krud is displeased. Krud is disappointed. Krud is not fucking happy and Krud expects them to lift their game and put the blowtorch to The Abbott.

We shall see what we shall see, but I if I see any more of this objectivity shit the wrath of Krud will rain down.

After all, I wouldn’t have to lie my face off if my media drones had excoriated The Abbott as directed.

Do you see what I have done there, diary? I was angry, but my ice cool temperament and analytical mind have taken over and now I am calm.

Nothing can disturb my equanimity, nothing, that is, apart from that FUCKING moron Cameron.

How can he have a vote without ensuring the outcome first? The man is clearly a buffoon. Has he not heard of baksheesh? Has he not heard of Angst und Einschüchterung?!

Even That Woman was smart enough to throw enough Ratfucker money around to ensure that a bought vote stayed bought!

This Cameron fool has set a dangerous precedent. How can I run a malign dictatorship if he gives the little people in parliament ideas above their station?

A democratic VOTE? The man is mad!

Even worse, how the FUCK can I demonstrate my Save-The-World abilities without a Syrian fucking crisis?

Sigh. It is ok, diary. I am calm. My good friend Barry has backed himself into a corner and will look an even bigger fool if he doesn’t blast the shit out of something.

And my good friend Hollandaise, or whatever his name is, is itching to big-note himself. A good socialist, HE at least won’t fall for this democracy crap.

I must leave you now, meine Liebe. My campaign launch is just days away and I need to practice my cut, cut, cut and my jobs, jobs, jobs.

Notes to self: Find the cretin who suggested I use the word "fraud" and take appropriate action; sack the first person who so much as whispers the word 'Stalingrad'.  

The Krud Diaries: Day 9

G’day Diary,

                     Kruddy’s asleep and isn’t available at the minute, so I’m filling in for him. Well, when I say ‘asleep’ that isn’t strictly true. He’s unconscious, but it amounts to the same thing, I suppose.

He was a bit upset about a few things so we had to calm him down, which is a bit of a shame really, because he was having such a good day.

The ‘$10 billion black hole’ presser was terrific. Very prime ministerial, very serious and the “fraud on the Australian people” line was brilliant, if I do say so myself.

Of course he was a bit cranky at having to share the stage with Wong and Bowen, which was fair enough when you think about it. I mean, he’s the one dragging them out of the shit so he should get all the good lines and they should get all the crap jobs.

Then he did the boat thing in Melbourne, making up that bullshit promise to bring forward buying the swabbies some new boats to play with. The press luvvies ran with that big time, gullible morons.

He was really pleased that they swallowed that one. We were in the car afterwards and he said we’d need bigger boats for all the refos he was letting in.

Fuck, we laughed at that one. He’s brilliant at the one liners is Kruddy.

Everything was going fine until Treasury and Finance decided to throw in their 50 cents worth.

I couldn’t work that one out, to be honest. I mean, we’ve had these public service dweebs in our back pockets for years – whatever figures we dream up they always come to the party.

I dunno, they must have got on the turps or something. We’ll fix ‘em after we get back in.

Fuck, Kruddy was pissed off, though! You can hardly blame him, I mean, if I was him I be pissed too if everybody else kept letting me down.

You should have heard what he said to Bowen. Fuck me, he won’t sit down for a week, but he got off pretty lightly in the end. He’s only been in the job for a few weeks and it’s probably a bit much to expect him to have his department head whipped into shape.

I’ll tell you one thing for nothing though, diary. I wouldn’t want to have been Wong’s cat after Kruddy got through with her. Still, she deserves all she gets.

He gives her Climate Change and we all know what a clusterfuck she made of that. She gets Finance and not only does she blow $106 billion on crap, but she can’t even control her own department after years in the job!

We’ll probably shift her after we get back in. We only ever kept her around to keep the hairy-armpit brigade weak at the knees, but now that Kruddy has taken on the Gay Marriage Champion mantle we can probably cut her loose.

Anyway, after we managed to get him to take his pills, we sat down and workshopped a response. All we have to do – and this is a bloody good idea, if I do say so myself – is round up all the troops tomorrow morning, get ‘em out there and get ‘em say that its all The Abbott’s fault!

If any of the press bunnies who don’t piss in my pocket try and raise the Treasury and Finance thing, everybody will just say that The Abbott forced us to make shit up and lie through our teeth because he refused to release his costings.

It makes him look mean and makes us look like innocent victims. I tell you what, they don’t call me The Hedgehog for nothing.

I’ve got the boys printing up the script now.

Anyway, everything settled down: the boys were doing the rounds of the Fairfax and ABC dicks to make sure they get their lines right for tomorrow and Kruddy was in the dunny taking selfies, when the phone rings.

Turns out that it looks like Obama is going to squib on blasting the shit of Syria, so – Kruddy doesn’t get to save the world after all. He’s not fussed about the world, of course, but his bullshit excuse for jetting off to the G-20 to have his photo taken with Vlad just went out the window.

Well, that was all she wrote. I haven’t seen him like this since, oh, Wednesday, after O’Farrell gave him shit.

He went the full crying, foot-stamping, hair-tearing – I wish he wouldn’t do that, it’s costing me a packet in gel every day – door-kicking, phone-smashing Monty. He had Teddy on the floor and was punching the stuffing out of him, when one of the boys finally managed to cosh him.

With a bit of luck we’ll be able to get everything fixed before morning. The glaziers should be here any minute, the hotel is organising a replacement TV and I’ve got one of the boys re-stuffing and stitching up Teddy – if he isn’t here when Kruddy wakes up there’ll be hell to pay.

Ah, never mind. Everything is still on track for a win next week and he’ll be right in the morning. I’ll give him some more lines about how The Abbott doesn’t have the temperament for the top job.

That’ll cheer him up – he’ll need it when he finds out he’s going to Perth.

The Hedgehog.   

The Krud Diaries: Day 10

Dear Diary,

                   You will have to excuse me if I am distracted tonight, my little journal of record.

In just 10 days there will be an election and the the fate of Australia will be decided, which is precisely why I. Need. To ... practice my Russian.

Privet, ya Kevin, ya iz Kvinslenda I va zdes’, chtoby pomoch!

I know your German is up to scratch, moy malen’kiy dnevnik, but Russian is not your strong suit so what I said just then was “Hi, I’m Kevsky, I’m from Queensland and I’m here to helpsky’!

Isn’t that wonderful, diary? Do you see how quickly my amazing intellect mastered that?

The Abbott would never be able to that.

Already, I can hear the sighs of relief in the G-20 conference room when I stride into the room and utter those immortal words.

I may also not be able to spend the amount of time I would like to you this evening, diary, because my FUCKING bus was sabotaged.

It was obviously an act of subversives, in retaliation for my wiping the Rooty Hill floor with the tactless pugilist. Or, as my good friend Vlad would say: ‘scrub the earth with the peasant cuntsky.

The driver is being questioned, of course. Reprisals will be swift.

I am also monitoring the investigation my minions are conducting, as we speak, into the nature of the questions asked at the debate.

I issued very specific orders to Bruce to infiltrate my agentskis into the audience so that I could be asked questions about Syria so I could demonstrate my impeccable foreign policy credentials.

You remember Syria, diary. It is the crisis I am currently dealing with on behalf of the worldski.

It is clear that the failure rests with my minionskis – The Abbott’s minions are not smart enough to discern my subtlety. I am having second thoughts about promoting Bruce to Number 2 when I assume supreme power. I will return the eye-patch and cancel the order for the hairless cat.

And how was the debate itself?

Thanks for that enquiry, diary. You know something? I’ve pondered long and hardski that very issue and I think its worth stating a Clear. Unambiguous. Easy-to-understand position on that, so let me just say this:

I tire of these so-called debates, quite frankly. The Abbottski is an intellectual lightweight. Unlike me, his analytical skills were not forged in the white-hot crucible of the Second-Directorate – Stationery and Shredding Division of an overseas embassy posting.

The fool’s only attacking thrust was to accuse me of fear and negativity! Me!

I fear nobody – my press minions guard me constantly – and I am positive I am the saviour of the Motherland, of which I am Prime Minister, and its little people.

There were some tiresome questions from malcontents, but I easily batted them asideski. One moronic little person even asked me to deny undermining That Woman!

Laughable.

Of course I was undermining her, my little journalski, why should I deny it?

What I did, I did for the Motherland. I rid MY country of a traitor and usurper. Lets call a spade a spade here folskis: the peasants should give me a medal!

I have already awarded myself the Order of The Krud Banner, of course. My good friend Vlad will probably bestow some baubles on me and Barry has already assured me that he will be carrying my Congressional Medal of Honour to St Petersburg.

There was another question concerning landski. If I could just say, diary, I will never allow the Ratfucker kulaks to purchase The Motherland. It would, interfere with my programme of collectivisation and my plan to convert Queensland into a holiday retreat for myself and selected senior party functionaries.

(But, not Bruceski. HE can spend his one week a decade leave in the Northern Territory.)

Let me just say this too, diary. There has been some talk that the G-20 is an economic forum and will not discuss my plans to save the world from the Syrian crisis.

These foolskis never learn: The G-20 will discuss what I want it to discuss. Am I not Kevski? Is not the world waiting for me with bated breathski?

There has also been some talk to the effect that I cannot be absent from The Motherland during an election campaign.

Sigh, with the election already won, what does it matter? Let The Pugilist thrash and flail. I have an advance party of minions already in Moscow. I will travel there by trainski from St Petersburg and announce my victory from the steps of the Kremlin.

It will also give me a chanceski to measure up Lenin’s Tomb. MY tombski will be bigger, of course, but it will be interesting to see how less important figures in world history are treated.

Do you see what I have doneski here, diary? My entry is littered with Russian! I’ll be fluent by tomorrow!

Gotta Zipski.

Notes to self: Get my minions to: find the traitor who keeps putting superglue on my microphone; check on the whereabouts of Admiral Bradbury when my bus broke down; make sure my shoulder boards arrive before Wednesday night.

The Krud Diaries: Day 11

Dear Diary,

                   And so another day in my kampagne Marsch across the country – of which I am Prime Minister – draws to a close.

As with yesterday, mein schönes, it was a day which accorded with my grand strategic design, and the wunderbar bonus of two smashing breakthroughs.

And what is the grand strategy, my diary?

Do you know something? That is a good question and in response, well, let me just say this; it all comes down to four things and those four things are as follows.

Firstly: Surprise. Always do what your opponent least expects.

Secondly: And this goes to the point I enunciated previously; keep your enemy off-balance.

Thirdly: Lie, continuously, and cultivate a flying monkey press cohort to disseminate your lies.

Fourthly: Retain an inscrutable exterior and a Zen calm interior. 
And what were my smashing breakthroughs, I hear you ask?

That is a good question and in response let me just say this:

My first was my brilliantly conceived promise to move my naval assets to Brizzie. This is a prime example of the ‘element of surprise’ I referred to earlier in my remarks.

My opponents were reeling. They blustered, of course, but I fooled them by telling them it was in ‘the national interest’.

This, of course, was true in a sense, because whatever is in MY interests is fully in concordance with the national interest, and what is in MY interest at this point in time is to get the navy as far away as possible from that cretinous peasant Admiral Bradbury.

I have great need of my capital ships. Once my iron hold on the country is confirmed, those ships will be converted into luxury yachts for the personal holiday use of myself and selected senior lickspittles.

Until I can dispense with of him, Bradbury will have charge of my fleet of harbour water taxis. Disloyalty has its rewards, diary, as the buffoon will discover.

And what was my other smashing breakthrough, I hear you ask?

Well, let me just say this.

As you are no doubt aware, meine liebe, I am the centre of world attention at the moment, advising other leaders on how they should respond to the Syrian situation.

Just this morning, for instance, my good friend Barry called me for advice. Naturally, I arranged for my minions to photograph the moment for posterity.

(Actually, that photograph was taken when I was on the phone to a minion, dismissing him from my service because my underpants had not been ironed to my satisfaction, but the little people will won’t know the difference.)

My smashing breakthrough, diary, was to expose The Abbott for the bumbling yokel that he is at the very time that I am regarded by all as the greatest statesman in the world.

The Abbott lacks temperament. He is impertinent. He looks people in the eye and tells them the truth. This is madness.

Diplomacy is the art of speaking endlessly whilst saying nothing. It has taken me years of dedicated work to perfect this art.

I would go so far to say, diary, that there is not another person in the country – indeed the world (I’m not sure about the universe, I’ll have to check with Bob Brown and get back to you) – who is a better practitioner than I.

The reason I have world leaders begging me to solve their crises is that I have nerves of steel, ice for blood and the calm …

“Bruce! BRUCE! What the fuck is that noise? It’s what? He’s having a heart attack? Well tell the fucker to fucking die quietly.

What? Well, drag him out into the corridor or something. I’m trying to concentrate in here. What’s that? No, you can’t call a fucking ambulance and NO, you can't use my car. What? Well put him in fucking taxi, you idiot.”

I’m sorry, my diary, where was I? Ah yes. The true diplomat has the calm demeanour necessary for communicating with …

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. What now? Who’s on the phone? Does he know what fucking time it is here? Tell him to fuck off. What do you mean I can’t? Don’t you ever tell me I can’t do something. Do you know who I am? Well do you? Good. Now tell the prick to fuck off and blow up a few rag heads. I’ve got a fucking election to win here.”

Now, diary, as I was saying. A calm demeanour is vital. I have it. The Abbott does not and …

“Who the FUCK are you? Room service? You were supposed to be here three minutes ago. What are you fucking playing at? Don’t talk back to me, you little shit, I’ll have your fucking job. It’s no good crying your little girly eyes out. Go on, piss off – and if this is cold YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN THIS FUCKING TOWN AGAIN!”

Now, diary, if I could continue. As I was saying … hang on, this is chicken. I didn’t want fucking chicken. Why do I have to do everything my fucking self?

“BRUCE? Is that stupid room service girl still there? Well, who’s out there with you? Send him in here. Well wake him the fuck up! … Ah, awake now are we? Good. You’re a useless piece of shit and you’re fired, so fuck off. What? Don’t give me that ‘but dad, shit’, fuck off NOW … No, you can’t have a ride home, you can fucking walk … and don’t you DARE take those fucking Cuban cigars. They’re MINE!”

Notes to self: Thank my British ally Mr Watson for sliming the Evil Murdoch by ordering Billy The Rat to send him a few dozen pies, every day; sack the first little shit that disturbs my Rooty Hill preparation.

The Krud Diaries: Day 12

Dear Diary,

                   I am invigorated, meine liebe.

Saving the world always does that for me. Of course, there will be some posturing, a little to-ing and fro-ing as other world leaders scramble to realign their own policy stances to reflect my own, but I am confident that now that the world is aware that my gaze is on Syria an imminent solution is inevitable. The power of the Krud is irresistible.

The Kevin Lemon Chicken Risotto was also a resounding success, naturally.

Today was an excellent day, diary, and I am feeling just chipper. Oh, there were some Evil Regime-Change Murdoch minions who attempted to muddy the waters by throwing sand in the eyes of the little people, but I brushed them aside in the same way a Prime Minister – a role I happen to occupy – swats a blowie off the bonza burgers at a Brizzie burgher’s barbie.

One of the primary reasons for the excellence of previous 12 hour period, diary, was that I had the opportunity to spend it with little children.

As I’m sure Dietrich Boenhoffer was oft wont to remark: Pflegen Kinder: Sie können ihre Meinung zu manipulieren und emotional erpressen ihre Eltern!

I played with them in the sand-pit and regaled them with happy tales about the desire of my Government, of which I am Prime Minister, to build things.

Naturally, diary, I also appraised them of the nature of The Abbott, that nature being one of a wrecker predisposed to cut, cut, cut the jobs of teachers, doctors and nurses.

I had instructed my minions to be sure that those children present were the progeny of teachers, doctors and nurses, of course: the better to send that little frisson of fear up their little spines.

They were putty in my hands. Apart from one three-year-old, obviously an agent of the unbelievers, who resisted my blandishments and assaulted my person with a lego block.

If I just say this, diary: We have his name.

I also conversed with the parents. They weren’t the parents of the actual children, of course, but that is a trifling detail which should concern nobody.

So, what else happened in my day, diary? I’m glad you asked that question because it raises an issue most pertinent to the matter currently under discussion.

And do you know something, my little journal of excellence, as Prime Minister I know that we, as a country, can’t afford to just sit around and wait for things to happen.

We have to Build. Build. Build today to create the Jobs, Jobs. Jobs of tomorrow. And I’m just the Prime Minister to borrow, borrow, borrow to do it.

That is why, diary, I announced today that my Government, of which I am currently Prime Minister, is going to build a High Speed Rail line from Brisbane to Melbourne.

It is sehr brilliant idea, mein Tagebuch.

Indeed, it is as brilliant today as it was in 1984 ... and 1986 ... and 1989 ... and 1991 … and 1996 … and 2007 … and 2010.

Of course, diary, the main impediment to the proposal in the first instance was cost.

A paltry $4.5 billion!

Pfft, diary. No PM worth his salt would commit to borrowing such a paltry sum of money.

And as I am worth more in salt than all of the Inadequates who previously held this position, I wouldn’t let my valet get me out of bed for a project costing less than $100 billion, especially now that I have an unlimited supply of Ratfucker money. No, diary, $114 billion is a much more impressive price!

It will be the autobahn of the future, diary. It will transform the country! It will transform the way we live! It will transform my ability to move my besondere Aktion Krud Bataillone to trouble spots to crush dissent … but that is for the future.

My press gallery flying monkeys did their job adequately. I told them that MY railroad would cost less then The Abbott’s paid parental leave scheme. Not only did they faithfully report my little subterfuge, they ensured that no Murdoch minions queried whether it would also cost less than Disability Care or Gonski. My cultivation of these creatures was time well spent, indeed!

The only blight on my day, diary, was the discovery that The Abbott appears to have infiltrated a spy into my mobile headquarters.

His creature, Newman, was heard to say that he would like a supersonic jet. My minions will find out who leaked my plans to announce that my beloved car workers will build a fleet of supersonic jets.

The traitor will be found and dealt with.

I must abandon the plan now, of course. Fortunately, I have an alternative plan available for a contingency such as this: the announcement of my plan to build a bridge to Tasmania will leave The Abbott speechless with amazement. Of that I have no doubt.

Finally, diary. I have taken to wearing my ties again. Quite frankly, the mobs of Krud-Krazed women that flocked to every public appearance were getting too difficult for my minions to control.

Notes to self: Question Billy The Rat regarding his performance on Q&A this evening – I have warned him before about his little problem; get minion to acquire another The Abbott voodoo doll, the one I have doesn’t appear to be working. 

The Krud Diaries: Day 13

Dear Mysel … Diary,

                                  It has been a difficult day, diary, what with saving the world from a Syrian crisis poised to engulf the globe.

Thank the lord – who in his wisdom I know would approve of a conscience vote on gay marriage – that I’m here to step in.

After all, are not righteous goats as able to pass a needle through the eye of The Abbott as the sheep?

I cannot spend much time with you tonight, diary. I am under intense pressure. The situation is so fluid, attitudes change from moment to moment.

Why, in just the last 30 minutes, I have had to adopt 60 different positions at my desk as my flying monkey press functionaries took my photograph.

I had to adopt pensive poses, concerned poses, worried poses, decisive poses, weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders poses and consultative poses.

‘Consultative poses’, I hear you ask, diary?

I know. But apparently I must maintain the façade of collegiate esprit de corp. It costs me nothing to pander to the over-inflated egos of my acolytes – I control the PR department!

I’m tired of saving the world, even though I know that the Syrian crisis threatens to engulf its immediate neighbours in mainland Europe.

You know what? The last thing I want is to be at the centre-of-things again. Lets just cut to the chase here: I’m just a humble boy from Brizzie doing my bit in any way I can. I’d honestly like nothing more than to stay in the background, out of the limelight and let others take the credit.

Humble, diary, is my middle name.

Anyway, I have supreme faith, diary, that once the lesser world leaders realise the power of The Krud, they will let me implement my solution.

Speaking of world leaders, diary, I have a collection of some of the fan mail I have received these past 24 hours.

I swear to you on my own grave, diary, that they are genuinely what these people would write.

Would you like to hear some of them?

My Man,

               Ho shit, am I glad you are on the job. This Syria shit has been heavy heavy, bro. I blew six free throws and my Secret Service dude had to shoot himself in the leg to make sure I creamed his ass on the hoops today.

Hey, I’m real sorry about the kid that was shot by those little dudes of indeterminate racial origin.

You know, if I had adopted a white Australian kid 20 something years ago, he would have looked just like that poor kid,

Strength, brother,

Signed: Barry.

Most Venerable Kevin,

                                      I am keeping the seat warm for you, as ordered. Prease hully. Your fliend in obfuscation

Signed: BKM.

Dearest Kevin,

                        It is only now, when I watch your masterly handling of a world crisis, that I realise how selfish I was to rob the world of your leadership for those three years.

I would have been a dismal failure in handling this situation. Possibly even more dismal than I was at the job which was rightfully yours, but that I stole in a selfish act of evil betrayal.

Yours, in abject remorse and most humble subservience,

Signed: J.

Mr Kevin,

                I say to you that you are the rising of the sun that will blind me. I say also: turn your eyes to my country for surely will I fall to my knees in praise of your great wisdom. My troops are trembling the fear at the prospect of facing you outside the wire.

To know Kevin is to know the wisdom of Allah.

Signed: Basher.

To Mr Krud,

                    Please find enclosed a petition, signed by the representatives of 16 million Australians, none of whom can sleep at night in worry of the great conflagration that will surely engulf the world if you do not intervene and crush the Zionists.

Signed: Al Qaeda Neighbourhood Watch – Islamist Fundamentalist Chapter.

PS: Send big guns.

PPS: We have no weapons of mass destruction – but would like some.

Kev,

        Maaate! U r the bestest Kev. Kick the shit out of them Sillian mothers.

If you need any help, me, my mates and the Bundy Bear will give it heaps. Labor Rocks!

Signed: Anenymouse from Brizzie.

Dear Dreamboat,

                            Some women have a problem with strong men, but I don’t. I want to have your babies. I think you look like Brad Pitt.

Signed: N. Admirer’.

Kev,

For I can’t help

Falling in love with, you

Signed: The King

PS: Thank you very much.

Mr Kevin,

                If you can save the entire world from the Syrian crisis, we will forgive you for calling us Ratfuckers. We have added a little something extra with the latest shipment of money – though the interest rate will remain the same. We are thinking over your offer of Tasmania in exchange for more free money. Preliminary designs for turning it into a 3,600-hole private golf resort for Party elite look promising. We’ll get back to you.

Signed: All the Boys in Beijing.

Sir,

      I knew I was right to change sides again and help stab ve one who I helped stab you.

I shudder to fink what would be happening now wivvout you in charge.

Fanks again for letting me be a turncoat. Again.

Signed: Billy The Rat

The Krud Diaries: Day 14

Dear Diary,

                   The world is in crisis and has called on the one person capable of leading it through the path of pitfalls to the sunlit lands of a new world order.

Me!

Let me be completely clear here diary: the world as we know it is at a tipping point, and just as soon as I finish cooking lunch for my ABC friends here in Brizzie  – and let me say, diary, they are the best friends that Ratfucker money can buy – I shall attend to it.  

Firstly, let me say that it has come to my attention that scurrilous accusations are being made that I delayed a security briefing in order to cook for my bought and paid for ABC friends.

Let me just say this: anybody who thinks that I would delay the opportunity to be portrayed, on all commercial channels and Sky, to my adoring people as the righter of the world’s wrongs has, quite frankly, rocks in their heads, folks.

I just want to say diary that it seems a trifle incongruent that one such as myself – just a regular bloke, like you over there, or you, or you – should be apportioned a proportion of blame for the innate inability of the security boffins to take adequate measures at a speed relative to the speeds at which the minds of a commander-in-chief kind of guy, such as myself.

Further to that, it is a matter of some querulous consternation to those such as, say, myself, that Mr Murdoch’s employees Fail. To. Grasp what seems apparent to me to be an essential truth: a chain is only as strong As. Its. Weakest link.

Further to that, which was further to the matter I enunciated on with my earlier remarks earlier, as the brightest person in the room I must be ever cognizant of the need to wait for the dullard’s in National Security to catch up.

This goes to the very core of what an inclusive, consultative Prime Minister sensitive to the needs functionaries actually is.

Apart from all of that, diary, ASIO, ASIC, Defence and Foreign Affairs had to have a whip around so they could send the Second Assistant to the Fourth Deputy Secretary (Typing and Gestetner Division) to Officeworks to buy more carbon paper for the Gestetner machine.

(There were cuts to defence spending by an anonymous previous Government, diary, but those cuts have in now way contributed to the present delay in saving the world. Gestetner supplies fall under the aegis of the Department of Administrative Affairs.)

Now, where was I?

Ah yes. Saving the world.

Much as during the GFC – I really must find out what that stands for one of these days – I am once again not so much at the centre of things, but the sun around which all of the earth-bound planets revolve.

My good friends Ban and Baz have been ringing me all day for advice on what to do about the world-enveloping crisis unfolding in Syria, but the key to dealing with a crisis, diary, is assessing how far behind in the polls you are and how much credibility the blatant manufacturing of a Tampa moment has.

Others, such as The Abbott, may take the fact that the fate of the entire world, if not the solar system, galaxy and – in point of fact – the universe, as an excuse to Cut. Cut, Cut. Campbell Newman, but the people of Australia can be assured that their Prime Minister, in the person of myself, makes decision Based. On. The. Cold. Hard. Facts. Of. The. Matter at hand.

I fear, diary, that with the polls the way they are, I shall have to put the country on a war footing.

However, I believe we have the tools to do the job.

Thanks to my Government’s far-sighted decision to bank-roll the AMWU with Ratfucker money, our manufacturing base is poised to deliver the tools to do the job.

I have directed that the First Armoured Regiment be equipped with the latest Holden Commodore. The Syrian Army’s T-72 battle tank may have the 122mm main gun, but the Commodore has front AND side airbags.

Our reconnaissance forces will – as a matter or urgency - be re-equipped with Ford Fiesta ‘fast reverse’ scout vehicles.

I think all Australians should join me in giving thanks that our country’s unions had the intestinal fortitude to fight moves to kill off our manufacturing industry.

If not for their effort, we would not be able to equip our brave men and women with state of the art fighting vehicles.

We will, diary, zerschlagen unseren syrischen Gegnern mit eiserner Faust!

Of course, diary, we will make every effort to find a peaceful solution – as long as Monday’s Newspoll results are not too dire.

Notes to self: Double check the Chicken a la Kev recipe. It tasted a trifle tart to me; check with the programme producers to make sure they cut the scenes where I flicked my hair; get dessert recipe off Annabelle: get minion to find out exactly where in Europe Syria is.

The Krud Diaries: Day 15

G’day Diary,

                   Kevin isn’t available right now, so I’m filling in for him.

It’s a continuity thing. When we publish the Krud Kronicles (catchy title that; my idea, of course) we need something on the page.

It won’t be a problem. Bob has been ghost-writing Carr’s blog for years and nobody noticed. Mind you, it helps that they are both called Bob. Plausible deniability, diary. Plausible deniability.

(I got him elected, you know. No, not Bob, the other Bob. That made my reputation. I mean, if I could convince the punters to vote for Bob year after year, I can get them to elect a complete – well, a more complete, moron.)

Anyway, as I was saying, Kevin’s in no condition to write just now.

Actually, I’m not sure that’s strictly true, but we are running on the back-up at the moment, the boys are still trying to jump-start it and I can’t remember if it came with a factory-installed Literacy Function programme or not.

With a bit of luck we won’t have to wheel it out anyway.  

We’ve shipped the primary Kevin to Canberra for repairs and the technician reckons he can have it sorted sometime on Saturday afternoon.

We tried to book him in the morning, but he’s got two washing machines and a remote-control vacuum cleaner booked in, but he reckons they shouldn’t take too long.

I fucken hope so.  I don’t know what idiot thought up this Fair Work shit, but the penalty rates on Sunday are bloody ridiculous, not to mention the call-out fee. As it is, we had to strike a cross-union deal just to get him out on a Saturday.

If the ETU get him up and running again, it gets power of veto over Caucus decisions, the AWU gets to choose the Treasurer in perpetuity and the Maritime boys get to take the covers of the guns and fly the Jolly Roger.

We didn’t have to put up with any of this crap under WorkChoices.

Never mind. It is what it is.

We’ll cover our arses with the media dicks by putting out some bullshit story about Kevin flying to Canberra for briefings on Syria.

We’ve rigged a bypass, so he is only operating on ‘Serious World Leader’ mode, but I’ve sent a few of the boys down with the spare remote, just in case that bloody ‘World Ruler’ programme surfaces again.

It’s my own fault. I rushed in the Krud Mark ll before we’d finished the operational trials.

Everything seemed to work fine initially, but the malfunctions over the last week or so have been a bitch. The whole week has basically been a sticky-tape and baling wire job.

It’s this Chinese shit. They’re good at tee-shirts, but their hi-tech stuff is crap.

I wanted to get one made locally, but our manufacturing sector is only good at cars and those widgets that connect your hose to the sprinkler.

The car guys knocked up a prototype, but Kevin the Love Bug wasn’t really the look I was after.

Anyway, the Chinese said they could supply a fully functional ‘Mandarin Candidate’ at a good price, so I went with that.Big mistake. The hardware is ok – apart from the hair - but the software and after-sales service are just shit.

Take the Krud Mark l. It worked a treat for a while. We just loaded the Ned Flanders and Nino Culota personality software programmes, pressed GO and off it went.

Ok, in hindsight I should have taken the Empathy Circuits option with the original package, but at the time it seemed an unnecessary expense. I mean, we were building an ALP politician. Who the fuck ever heard of an ALP politician with empathy?

But when the Krud was going haywire and I wanted to order the Empathy Circuit upgrade, what did I get? Out of stock.

The remote control was shit too. It was ok with line of sight, but didn’t work through walls, so when the Flanders, Culotta and ‘Fiscal Conservative’ programmes glitched, the Krud defaulted to Indecision and Gratuitous Abuse mode.

I was hoping to patch it up, but the knife in the back made an awful mess of the circuitry, the warranty had expired, and it seemed better to junk it and order the Mark ll.

(Fucking Ludwig. He got some Russian crew to build The Gillard. I’ll say this for the Ruskies, their personality software is shit, but the hardware is built to last. The low-slung rear chassis on the Gillard was the same they used on the old T-34 battle tank. No finesse, but rugged as fuck.)

Anyway, initially the Mark ll worked fine. We installed the bonus ‘Vengeance and Retribution’ programme, put in fresh batteries and off it went.

After we saw off the T-34, we got Krud ll back in the shop to download the ‘New Way’ programme, but everything just went haywire! Something in the diodes or some shit. I dunno, I don’t do the technical stuff, but it has been a nightmare.

The debate on Wednesday night?

Had to use the emergency remote over-ride to get the microphone off the chin.

The 27 bottles of water?
Wasn't water. It was extra virgin olive oil.
The Marcelle Marceau hand and arm movements?

Fuck knows. Under ‘Limb Actuators’, the manual's trouble-shooter section just says: ‘See Your Local Krud Mark ll Service Agent’.

To be fair, the busted knuckle was my fault. Those years on the back-bench were boring as bat-shit, so we installed a pirate Sylvester Stallone programme one of the guys picked up in Bali.
We had a spare remote and me the guys used to take him down the basement and play Super Mario Rocky. It was a hoot.

After the debate debacle I let Trev - he's a bit of a remote control car freak - have a crack at updating the Limb Actuator Control.

Before we knew it, the Stallone programme kicked in and it started staggering around, punching everybody’s surf and turf and yelling for Adrienne.

We had no choice really. It had to go in for a service - it doesn’t have the ‘Serene Reaction to Public Derision’ programme installed and the audio programme has been stuck on 'Cut, cut, cut; Fight, fight, fight' mode all week.
We mustn't have erased the 'Son of Chucky' game we installed last year properly.

Fuck it. I’d better go. I have to make sure the boys have the remote control Emergency Over-ride enabled. I’m not sure if the Mark ll has the ‘Declare War On Syria If Behind In The Polls’ programme installed or not.

The Hedgehog.