The Krud Diaries: Day 27

Dear Kevi … Dear Diary,

                                        I have been remiss, my schatz, for I have neglected you these past few days.

Why have I neglected you, my liebste liebe?

Well, that is a very good question, but let me just say this: I was busy finalising my plans for the great assault.

You see, diary, I was finally granted the opportunity to come to grips with my opponent.

You will remember how I had cleverly taunted The Abbott in previous weeks. Debate me, I dared, and he showed his true colours with his refusal, the bumbling fool.

Finally. Finally, my masterly plans lured him into an error and he agreed to debate me.

So you see, diary, I have spent the past two days harvesting my thoughts, husbanding my energy, haranguing my minions, hanging with the homies on twitter, honing my hand-gestures and writing my notes.

This is why I have been unable to avail myself of your caresses, my most dearest of true friends.

But, oh diary, I … I can hardly bear to say it, but it seems that my stunning performance against The Abbott has not been greeted with the acclamation it deserved!

I know, I know. I can hardly believe it myself, but such is the fate of those of us chosen to possess the intellectual apparatus, if not to say the intelligence, that allows one to recognise a vision for what it is.

And what is that vision dear diary?

Why, the vision of myself seated upon the thron … the treasury benches, blessed with the opportunity to impos … bestow upon the little peo … the electorate the benefit of the policies and solutions arrived at by my magnanimity in turning my vast intellect to the conundrum that presents itself when considering solutions to the concerns that plague their pathe … daily lives.

You would think, as do I, dear diary, that they would be grateful that I notice them at all, but alas it was not so.

In short, my liebe, my beneficence in addressing their issues not only remained unrecognised, but was positively derided.

All because of a few paltry written notes!

Don’t these narren understand that they were not notes, but perlen der weisheit?

Ich habe meine Zeit verschwendet Gießen meine Perlen der Weisheit, bevor Schweine!

They speak of rules. Rules?! Rules are for the many: rules are for the likes of Der Abbott, not for such as myself!

Don’t these fools see? How can my mind be expected to house my visions for die Leute von Australien, für die guten Bürger dieses Landes, von denen ich Ministerpräsident when it is cluttered by useless facts?

Did I not express facts and figures over the previous days?

Was I not able to stand before the marionetten der presse with ein jar of Vegemite and tell them how much such a jar would cost under the jackboot of Der Abbott?

Was I not able to demonstrate that under a mythical GST increase a jar of Vegemite would cost 46 cents more?

Was I not able to demonstrate that a $70 billion black hole in Herr Abbott’s policy costings would result in more than half a million cows being thrown on the heap of scrap?

Was it not clear to them that those cows would be cut to the bone?

Apparently not, dear diary.

Sigh. So much time expended on practicing my hand gestures? Wasted!

So much time expended on not playing with my hair? Wasted!

So much time spent controlling this weird-as-shit facial tic I seem to have developed? Wasted!

But it is not just the notes, diary – may I call you mate? I’m practicing for my next press conference – for which I was criticised.

No, according to the große ungewaschene, my brilliant subterfuge regarding a second Sydney airport, was NOT GOOD ENOUGH!

Ich schwöre, dass, wenn ich unangefochtene Marktführer bin, die Sydney Abschaum wird froh sein, eine neue Straße zu bekommen verdammt!!!

I am Kevin, I am from Queensland. How fucking hard is this to understand?

I don’t give a flying fuck about Sydney – apart from Sam and Eddie and all of the gang at Sussex Street. Those guys are really, really upstanding guys - so how fucking hard is this to understand.

What I said was: I’m from Queensland, Sydney isn’t the only place with an airport and infrastructure issues are best dealt with by the relevant minister.

You wouldn’t think it would be so fucking hard to deal with those fucking facts, especially when I have given up the seats in fucking Western Sydney and am relying on winning seats in Queensland to be crowned Fuhr … Prime Minister, would you?

But, no. Apparently I am supposed to be Prime Minister for the whole country.

Country? Country? Do these fools seriously think that I Geben Sie einen toten Esel den Schwanz about this country?

I am destined for greater things, diary. If they don’t elect me, don’t they realise that the world will be a poorer place?

I despair, diary: at least, I would, if I didn’t have you to hold me close. We will prevail, I swear it. I just wish this weird facial-tic thing would go away.

Tomorrow I travel to Mordor. Ha, ha, not really. I am in Bennelong where I have installed by own Mandarin-speaking candidate.

I just call it Mordor because M … Mist … Mister Howard was the member there before I vanquished his sorry arse in 2007.

Goodnight, dear diary. Tomorrow is another day. Yes, that’s right, I KNOW they still love me and I WILL get them back. And we will all live together at Tara.

Notes to self: don’t call ‘notes’ to self ‘notes’ anymore; make minion cry to re-assert my authority; speak Mandarin in public to Bennelong candidate, thus impressing moron voters; make stupid jokes about ‘notes’, ha, ha; see doctor about tic; check on progress of legislation to send that Korean kid’s sorry arse to PNG; get minion to buy bigger pins for my The Abbott doll.