Tuesday 21 August 2018

Spill

I don't know how it is that you amuse yourself, while we all jointly endure the slow liquefactional drip and trickle down to the foetid bottom of the dustbin of history to which we undoubtedly belong, seeing as how we've allowed our elected representatives to do nothing about climate change while showing the world how to run tropical torture gulags, but how I do it is like this: in those split-second instants when the shit-propulsion fans are momentarily pointed back in the direction of the operators, I enjoy it as much and for as long as possible.
The last decade has provided ample opportunities to practise the gleaning of moments of pleasure. It is a survival skill. Tiny little pocket-warmers, these moments are, giving off a heat that I find deeply comforting even while I know it's probably radioactive and isn't going to do anyone any good in the long term. I still remember with real enjoyment the deep inner glow of happiness and satisfaction which I experienced personally, and which lasted for at least two days, when Wilson Tuckey got his head flushed down the toilet in what was an otherwise dismal election. Even the fact that Kevin Andrews's ejection from the ministry meant that 'space' was made for 'young talent' like the cloud of malevolent chaotic psychological darkness in human form which is the present Minister for Women, well, even that didn't take off the shine, for me, of witnessing just that one single glorious moment of national public humiliation meted out to Andrews when he challenged for deputy, and duly got his head flushed down the toilet in the best manner. And let me just whisper to you four of the greatest words uttered in Australian politics, in our time or any other time: put out your onions

But the problem with dwelling too much on these marvellous memories, though, is that sooner or later you remember that once upon a time you just took it for granted that Wilson Tuckey was clearly, self-evidently, the biggest cunt that could ever be squashed into high office, but no: with each successive deposing of one huge prick, another even bigger prick accompanied by a squadron of arseholes springs up to take his or her place. It's like the Lernean Hydra of arseholes or something. What happens with each new deposing, now, is it unfolds in the shadow of the certain knowledge that behind the shitstain getting his or her head flushed down the toilet at this moment, there's a conga line of perhaps as yet unknown shitstains, stretching away to the horizon, each one of them orders of magnitude worse than the one before.

As the spill happened today I knew how it would go, just as I know now what is likely to happen in the coming days or maybe weeks. And it was this knowledge that made it all the more necessary to take a coldly strategic approach to the pinpointing of that splittest of split seconds when the despicable one gets his moment of public humiliation. And I got my instant of satisfaction today. I hope you got yours, too. We're all going to pay for it soon enough, although some of us will be paying more than others. 

  
 

4 comments:

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JahTeh said...

How could you mention old Iron Bar. After all this time of forgetting the little creep he is now unscrewing the bolts of the dungeon in my mind where vile politicians of my voting life are imprisoned.

lucy tartan said...

Sorry. Once he was an outlier, now most of them are like he was, or worse