I voted in the seat
of Dawson for the first time in my life today. Not for the local seat, I just
happened to have moved The Office north of Capricorn once more and figured I
might as well procrastinate an afternoon away to absentee vote for Griffith.
Overall, the
experience was underwhelming and overshadowed by forgetting the key for the PO
Box and Suncorp’s inexplicable decision to place the coin deposit ATM inside
their branch at Canelands.
Burdened by shrapnel
and disappointment, there was little left to do but purchase some chook before returning
to the rooms that are my base for this week.
I like Mackay. It’s
flat, which makes it easy to get around for pedestrians like myself and most of
the roads run straight. Provided one restricts themselves to the main throughfares
and remembers where the KFC, IGA and Bowls Club are, it’s pretty hard to get
lost. The town lends itself to quiet contemplation for those that bother to
take the time.
It is fitting to be
talking about time in this election campaign, especially in Dawson, where old
mate George Christensen decided he could represent his electorate for almost a
year from The Philippines and seemed a bit confused when he got called up on
it. I almost wish that this was my seat purely so I could vote against him. But
I’m stuck with Griffith and some double barrelled name Green who got my vote
purely because the only other person on the ticket was Terri Butler, who will
probably win the seat, and the much harder than you’d think choice between four
Nazis of various shades.
While a massive fan
of compulsory voting, I find myself in two minds in situations like this when
it comes to compulsory preferencing. Tossing up between the LNP, Hanson, Palmer
and Fraser Anning is like walking into a gathering of Catholic Priests and
trying to figure out who isn’t a Paedophile.
Anning got the third
preference in the end. Mainly because I want to see how bigoted the electorate
is. I can’t remember the name of his candidate but if he manages to get in,
there are only two words that come to mind – comedic gold. Malcolm Roberts
almost got my thirteenth vote on the senate ticket for exactly that reason, but
I decided he’ll probably get in anyway and doesn’t need my help. He is an
adorable stupid little Hobbit though and I’m related to more Halflings than I
would usually admit to in public, so the idiocy, incompetence and intolerance
he brings to the Senate can easily be dismissed as Ring Fever due to the
hilarity that ensues following any utterance he makes.
Seriously, Trump has
nothing on my boy MalRo. He is far and away the funniest bloke to have ever
been kicked out of office for outright stupidity. It’s so much fun it hurts to
see the poor little bastard try and answer a sensible, fact checked question whenever
Pauline lets him out of the damp, miserable hole she keeps him in.
Imagine a sinkhole
somewhere just outside Ipswich City boundaries where Malcolm has been festering
since his ignominious departure from the red room in Canberra.
A dank pit in which to subsist on the scraps
tossed to him by sympathetic farmers passing by in the hope he won’t chew his
limbs off while waiting for the empirical evidence proving global warming exists
that he so desperately needs.
Local children throw rocks at “The Gremlin”,
as they call him, or dare each other to descend into the pit and confront him
with their grade eight science project. He looks up from his dreary lair as
urine rains upon him, waiting, always waiting for his flame haired mistress to
remove his shackles and let him loose on those damned communists who stole Harold
Holt and were complicit in faking the moon landing.
Malcolm watched a documentary once. It was
called The Dish and it proves that the whole Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and
the other guy thing was entirely false. It was really an American on a two-way
radio piss farting around Parkes while the local bogans played cricket in an
oversized salad bowl and took orders from a New Zealander.
Now there’s a
tangent for you. This was supposed to be useful political analysis, but we find
ourselves where we end up. I started with the best intentions – deal with the
big issues, the players, the division and the nuances of the Australian
Political System – but end up talking about Malcolm Roberts. To be fair, it’s
probably the most coverage he’s gotten this election, Clive Palmer screwed
MalRo’s chances big time.
Old Clive. This is
great, I thought he’d gone down about as quickly as his stupid idea to build a
second Titanic, not paying his workers and what not, but the fat bastard
reckons he’s a good shot of winning power and thinks Queensland is where he can
pull the most support. Sorry mate, it don’t matter what preference deals you
make with ScoMo, I’d be surprised if you get a single vote in Herbert.
And shit, Morrison…
I didn’t think anyone could make Shorten look competent, but he has pulled it
off almost as if he wants to lose. It’s no secret that half of the coalition is
expecting him to, but the poor bastard is making it easy for them. I’d takes
bets at almost even money that a Dutton/Abbot/Joyce ticket will be on the cards
come May 19.
Which brings us to
Anning. It has been widely speculated that he wouldn’t have the numbers to get
his xenophobic arse back on the benches this time, mainly because he didn’t
have them last time and had to rely on Malcolm Roberts being a complete nonce by
not renouncing his UK citizenship, but also because he is a fool and a racist. With Palmer and Hanson splitting
the nutjob vote in Queensland this time around, Fraser might be in with a
chance. This is disturbing for more reasons than just looking like a bloke sitting
at the back of a small child’s birthday party sweating uncomfortably and
keeping the cake plate firmly planted on his crotch.
Unfortunately, we
seem to be heading for a hung senate with one or more of the deranged fascist
parties holding the balance of power. The lower house should fall one way or
another to whichever major party makes the most convincing case, but the senate
is an entirely different beast. If Palmer, Roberts and Anning weren’t fighting
for the one seat, they’d probably all get in.
It’s moments like
these that make you proud to be a Queenslander. Of course, the banjo playing
with your toes ability is something to always be proud of, but when you have
three stellar candidates of the calibre of whom one will surely be elected it’s
nice to remember that State of Origin is just round the corner and while we
might not breed the best politicians north of The Tweed, we have the market
cornered on athletes.
