Opinions on Australian election results 2019
by Mr. Fussy
About four weeks before this week’s Australian federal election, I forecast on social media that the incumbent government would return, but rather than it remaining a hung parliament, they would have a four-seat majority.
Naturally, my mates/associates/pay dates/enemies/drug dealers all thought I was mad. “There’s a golden age dawning,” they intoned. “Labor will win.” Indeed, all those sick degenerate slobs we call bookies were backing the ALP all the way. And hats off to anyone who put a few lazy lobsters on Lame Billy and collected before the gate opened.
You see, predicting horse racing outcomes is a fairly exquisite science. One has to factor in both the weight of the neddy and those high-pitched perverts riding atop them, the length of the track, the conditions of said turf, length of the grass, colour of the silks, how mercilessly the midget will whip the horse, past gallops, and how much untraceable dope the poor beast was zapped with inside the marshalling area.
Sharting King SloMo was no thoroughbred. The dumb bastard was just some thick-as-a-brick mule who humped his predecessor, spooked the bejesus out of him, and was thrust into the Canberra Autumn Carnival. In the mirror he thought he was looking at Gunsynd, but the rest of us were seeing at a fat, fly-blown milk horse, with manure drooling behind it.
As for Lame Billy, well we all knew he was a gelding. He’d spent years trotting around country meets, but never really amounted to much. It was obvious in that final week leading up to the Big One they’d dipped his carrots in crank and polished his choppers, but there was still that certain something missing – besides his boys.
The race itself was a fizzer. Asbestos Chanel #5 turned and bolted before she was even saddled. The rest of the field had barely left the gate when the clerk of the course whipped out a Howitzer and blasted the colt from Collaroy, My Friend The Kiddy Fiddler, into dog meat. That maniac had been running with a broken fetlock for far too long. Kind of a shame he was dispatched, though. The mad ones never fail to entertain.
Slug The Spud lurched his brain dead way home, and everyone started tearing up tickets and jumping up and down screaming “What?!” and demanding a steward’s enquiry. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
As if he never was gonna get past the finishing post! A former police horse from an electorate with a collective IQ of 327. They love a freak up north, especially when it looks like some mutant Mr Ed after a long-term holiday in Chernobyl. Here was a hometown star. Up there they even whack the name ‘pride’ on every second type of mango, so as if they weren’t going to back him to the hilt. Same can be said for Joyce’s Big Hairy Stud. That stallion just schtupped his way home. The CWA would have been so thoroughly ‘covered’ they’ll be stocking goons of his issue.
As for poor Wenty Air Kisses, she just woke up in the wrong stable last year and it all went too cray-cray for her own good. She’ll be right; they’ll put her out to a very lush Eastern Suburbs pasture where she’ll merrily romp with the Point Piper poodle – doing dog and pony shows for the kiddies and infirmed. Odds on Instant Sharma will even come and munch some apples with them.
They’re so teddibly, teddibly naice over there. And Lame Billy? Poor brute. When I started writing this, I thought “glue factory in November.” But by midnight he’d made his own mind up. Maybe he’ll check into the glue factory; maybe he’ll reinvent himself as Eeyore and go suck thistles in a dark and gloomy place near a forest. Who cares? He got his moment in the sun.
You just know that at this very moment, Calibanese is out on his very own island, being groomed, cooed at, leaping through dressage courses and studying up on Rat Cunning 101. (Which, by the way, he already has a doctorate in.) This is is good. The ALP will need him. Soon. Because as Stevie Wonder can see from this far out, Slug The Spud will be delivering Sharting King SloMo a very well aimed mule kick at his tiny little Shetland brain in the not too distant future. This government can’t help themselves; ever since Francis The Talking Howard The Duck took a tumble at the fifth furlong, they feel lost without a fool.
Luckily for them – and us – there’s no shortage of them.