The spelling and grammatical errors in the following piece have been left in for dramatic effect.
In my last entry onto these hallowed pages, I never filled you in dear reader, on what happened after I was allowed up from the ant hill. It is a story that still makes me sick to my stomach to recall, but after the post election come down, I don’t realy feel that it makes a difference. Nothing matters right now. I go through spurts of feeling cpmletely numb all over my body sensations of such overwhelming and uncontrollable rage that are physically insermaountable that I find myslef craving a dark room and some privacy so that I can curl myself into the feotal position and wait for the next threee years to pass.
But the re I go on a tangent again. We were on holidays in a dusty Western NSW town the community were all racing camels around a track and as the children of religeos folk, my brother and I were not allowed to attend. We were banashed to walk the streets of the deserted one street town and listen to the roar of 3000 drunken bushies. It had been a hot dry day all those years ago. A fact that had mad the ants particularly restless. And as I groped and kicked my way throught eh empty streets, past pbus and post offices, all of which were adorned by signs that politely said closed, it began to sink in that I wasn’t going to find a place to free myself of the million little ants that were creeping into every little cravice of my soft little boy’s body.
After searching every concieved option in my panic stricken state my poor developing brain searched for ways to not allow the desperation to set in. This , I’m told is natural for anyone in the grieving process. The rage fase which I’m told usually follows was short lived. One innocent little cry of terror was replied by the sound of the hicks on the hill calling their favoured camel home. The slaps I had been giving me hurt more than the ant bights and did nothing tho remove the buggers so it didn’t take me long to realise I was shit out of luck there.
The next fase was negotiation. This is what really brought me undone. Because the only people around was the prick that had put me in this situation in the first place. Having not leared too many colourful words at that point, I cried to my brother for help using the strongest language I could muster.
AHHH!!!!, I said, You gotto flippen help me.
Don’t swear or mum’ll whip ya.
I got ants on me, you gotta help me. Help me you dill-pickle.
Oh wait till I tell mum.
The reason I call this tormented image to mind, dear reader. Is because that is more or less how the last week has felt for me and many other people I know. Seeing Tony Abbott walk on stage with his disreputable daughters in toe shattered the self esteem of every person with a conscious in what we used to call this wonderful, lucky country. It is a lucky country, and will be for the next three weeks so I might as well use the frase up now. It isn’t going to have the same ring when we say, this used to be a lucky country. It will be bitter in the mouth and will be save for the rare moments that multimillionares and neo-liberal politicians walk past. So long as we have the good sense to switch off our TV’s we will still have enough of our wits about us to know that these are horrible scum bags that will resort to every dirty trick their think tanks can conjure up to screw us over and oppress us.
The last week I have gone throught a similar grieving process as I did on that fate full day when I was a child. The rage stage lasted all of election night. If it wasn’t for the fact that I strategically brout a guitar to the party and had learn to play Dan Kelly’s Drunk On Election Night. I can’t imagine I would have got throught the evening without stealing a car and unleashing havok on the Warringah elactorate whith whatever means I could possibly find.
The next week found me int he negotiation stage. Where I prayed to god for some kind of way out from the terror that had suddenly become a reality for this country. The full implications of which have still only partially sunk in. For any of those who say I’m over reacting, I’d like to illistrate my point by enlightening you on what happened when I finally convinced my brother to help me.
You gotta help me I cried with tears running down my eyes.
Ok, but because you were using such unrighteous language I will.
The miserable bastard then proceeded to pull down the front of his stubbies and piss all over me.
I wretch to think of it now, but the sensof relief was so great at the time that I lay down on the baking black ashfault and took it like the poor ignorant gimp I had become.
The parallels between my parents staunch religeon and Tony Abbott’s is no mistake. I’m sure that he has instilled the same values into his b-grade celebrity daughters. if the stories I hear about them around my university campus are true, his old fashioned approach to parenting has had a similar effect on their self-esteem.
Tony Abbott is a bad man, a miserable scum sucking cretin who sits at home drinking port and scheming on how he can oppress the weak while a fire cast his enormous shadow on the wall behind him and excentuates his sharp spindally teeth. He sitts and rubs his hand together and dreams of the day that he is accepted into the Mount Pelerin Society along with John Howard. To the glorios day of his initiation. A group of such diabolical intenstions and capabilities has a reputation to uphold. You can guarentee that the most powerfull people in the worl will give old Tones the most detrimental hazing.
BUT THAT’S JUST THE PRICE YOU PAY. Compared to the soul staining descissions he has already set his mind to for the next few years, the hazing will be like sweet music. Or if you will, After the suffering the inner turmoil of being th e guy that presses the button on the education and capability of free thought of the majority of Australians and doing his part to allow faceless corperations to suck up the earth’s resources can be compared to being covered by feirce ants, and being pissed on can be compared to havong a baddle stuck up your arse.
One day all this will have to end. Economies can only grow so far and the demand of the human machine has already surpassed the earth’s capability to provide. Any christian that is not a part of the environmental movement is a filthy hipocrite and has no right to claim connection to a higher power. One day it will all end. We, as a species will be faced with the shocking reality that we grew too far and it all had to come crashing down. If you deny this you are far more deluded than you currently think me to be (what are you even doing reading this crazy shit?). The point I’m trying to make is that one day we are going to wake up from the capitalist dream to the reality of a trashed globe and a neo-liberal aristocracy that has taken off to Mars. We are going to have to reorganise and find a workable solution to the madness that we have just lived. But if we are all drone products of a privatised education system that can pick and choose what people learn, how will that happen?
Anyway. I’m not making any sense and I realise that I need to order my thoughts and present evidence for it to be viable. Now is not the time. I spent the last few days in the acceptance fase of my grieving. When I was a child this meant hoplessy and unashamed ly sobbing on a street curb while my salty tears mixed with my brother’s toxic piss. The grieving period this week has seen me exhausted. I have spent 16 hours in bed in the last day. I’ve only just crawled out from the covers and tried to make sense of it all. I clearly need more time.
I will end with this though my beloved reader. My more cherrished than ever. The kind of emotional cripple that can form the kinds of plans that Abbott has in mind for us cannot defeat us if we prganise. Love will conquore if we love each other. the time has come to let go of our hang-ups. In the dark times ahead, apathy will be fatal.
Love is powerful.