Guest blogger Ross Sharp explains why . . . and he pulls no punches.

From awful to f***ed in the space of one brief week, Prime Minister Tony Abbott, our Dear Leader, the walking, talking testicle of contemporary Australian political life, and embodiment of everything that is, and has been wrong with it these last several years, has morphed toot sweet from the once proudly simian gaited and throbbingly tumescent Cock ‘O’ the Walk and King of the Hill to flaccid impuissance, an instant noodle body-slammed into a bowl of his own steaming hot faeces.

Communications Minister and former Prime Ministerial hopeful Malcolm Turnbull now wakes every morning, and smiles, broadly, deftly tap-dancing his way from bed to shower, belts out a chorus or three of “Puttin’ on the Ritz”, follows it up with a softly gleeful rendition of “Singing in the Rain”, and fantasises about ramming the thick, block head of his most loath’d nemesis Cory Bernardi into a wood-chipper.

Foreign Minister Julie Bishop tingles with coldly exquisite anticipation at every paragraph of ridicule and criticism of Abbott she reads, licks her lips, and trippingly tra-la-la’s her way down to the nearest high class fashion district to shop for new blouses and matching pearls, some sensible shoes, and other items of elegantly understated garb to best befit a Prime Minister in impatient waiting.

Former Prime Minister Julia Gillard, still with steel in her veins, and who bore the brunt of Abbott’s base, savage primal brutalism, and never once cracked under his witheringly incoherent barrage of gonad-driven misogynistic hatred and contempt – “Make an honest woman out of her” – finishes watching another episode of “Game of Thrones”, lets her hair down, throws back her head, erupts with peals of glorious laughter.

North American citizen and billionaire media mogul Rupert Murdoch, Tweeting fool, boils with decrepit and aging rage and demands, DEMANDS, to blame it all on the barren bitch who runs Abbott’s office (the women are destroying the joint), instructing the always compliant polyps who cling to the increasingly desiccating organs of his Fish Wrapper Paper Empire to confect some righteous outrage over the whole goddamn thing, GODDAMMIT!, and help him elect a new Prime Minister to his liking. News Corpse. Morality on page one, tits on page three, on page thirty-seven, you can find an advertisement for sex call lines where a fifty-two year old woman on a disability pension will mimic an eight year old in a school tunic so that you can masturbate into a sock for sixty bucks, all major credit cards accepted.

“Quality journalism”, I think he calls it.

“There is something about the state putting the power to bully into the hands of subnormal, sadistic apes that makes my blood boil” (Gore Vidal).

You’re f***ed, Tony.

F***ed.

It’s delicious.

Clap hands. Clap hands.

Ross Sharp regularly presents an assortment of copacetic delights and vents his spleen on his own blog site: Smelly Tongues

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