Election Day is today. The day when Australians go forth and vote for the person they want to lead the country for the next 4 years. I am not optimistic about the outcome. I just know that John Howard aka the Lying Rodent is going to get in for yet another 4 years, bringing his total term to 12 years. 8 years ago, Australia was a warm friendly place where everyone was ensured a fair go. Now, if you aren’t a white heterosexual male, then you simply don’t matter.
This is a commentary on the morning of election day by the wonderful Polly Bush. I now have to go find an appropriate Lesbian shirt to wear to the polling booth. That, or I can wear my shirt that simply says “G_ F_CK Y__RS_LF. Would you like to buy a vowel.”
Saturday October 9, 2004
by Polly Bush
Rub tired eyes and resume chain-smoking and caffeine intake. If still awake from the night before, stuff it, crack open another beer. Shiver.
Stupidly scan and fume at editorials, reminding self again, no one really reads them, least of all Joh Blow who lives in a marginal seat and is yet to decide. Breath, sigh, rollover and contemplate moment of relief – whatever the result, finally the long fekker’s over.
Nine hundred years of campaigning and nine gazillion dollars later is hard work, for any member of the public to digest while hitting the snooze button. A bargain bonanza is out there for the distrustful mob, with different products actually on offer this time around, not just razor wire going dirt-cheap.
On one hand, there’s a drunken sailor tossing around free tool kits, pre-emptive strikes, and scary premonitions of interest rate rises if he’s not at the inebriated helm. He’s also got his trusty record to reflect on.
Eight (hundred) years ago Honest John, our captain of the mother ship, set sail hoping to make our vessel as relaxed and comfortable as an old boot. Light another fag.
A couple of years later he promised a major new tax system he said he’d never ever promise. A couple of years later he said ‘we will decide who comes here and who throws their children overboard’, depending on advice not heard at the time.
Eight years later, now described as a Lying Rodent, he dedicates his entire campaign on trust, and declares he is the one who can deliver. Lie back and think about Iraq. Choke on caffeine for a moment.
On the other hand, we have Captain Bogan, a modern day Robin Hood robbing from the schools of old-boys-turned-Liberals, building factories to manufacture and roll out unlimited supplies of gold plated hospital beds, and generally engaging in a good bout of old growth grogging.
Flanked by his two J’s, J-La and GI-J, or Janine and Julia, Captain Meatloaf has distinguished himself as the Russell Crowe of this campaign – once a bad boy, now a tree hugging three-stories-a-night love-ya-babe family man.
Ah families. Flashback to Ross Cameron, family man extraordinaire, who’ll benefit from the Drunken Sailor’s personally negotiated special preference deal with the onward Christian soldiers putting such fine family men first.
Families first who, while on an egging spree in Brisbane (as you do, and I’m serious), casually suggest lesbians are witches and should be burnt to death.
Gawd help you if you’re a lesbian Liberal without a preference deal. Gawd help you if you’re a lesbian Liberal. Sigh.
Drag self to polling booth, not forgetting to staple pink triangle to crusty flanno. Don’t bother with a bra, shoes or deodorant as such grooming methods may encourage major party leaflet givers.
Bounce through the gates of the local school, donning signs about Mark Latham’s driver’s licence and scratchy tickets revealing Peter Costello’s cheeky grin. Smile back, recollecting a four-year-old ninja turtle shin kicking the bastion of tolerance. Wonder if a fourth flag will finally kick a good hearty knife challenge on. Pray.
Scan crowd and soak in the vibe momentarily. Mingle with the people giving away free ratsack. Stock up, there’s never enough to go around.
Note the large gaggle of bible bashing folk waving crucifixes and handing out flyers using and abusing the word ‘family’. Shiver. Curse self for not wearing t-shirt that says ‘dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians’. Damn.
Join the queue for mark off, some marking off Mark. Wish self could be 75 in order to be eligible for the ease the squeeze hospital beds available during the wait. Wonder if JH quietly hums ‘when I’m 75?’ Shiver again.
Collect forms, and after racing through the reps ticket, begin big bastard individual Senate selection. Note the abundance of biblical names and associations. Proceed warily, clearly differentiating between loopy and kooky.
While sheltered in the cut out box, think of the Mad Monk’s confession about his so-called confession with another frocked up bloke. Again, think about trust. Chuckle, but try not to disturb the doctor’s wife in the next cubicle.
On return home, indulge in watermelon, bags of cheese, and ecstasy, but only if it’s on trial. Ride a bicycle. Laugh.
Resume beer intake – after all, it may become more expensive under a future government without a seniors card. Flop.
Consider options. There might be a lot of parties on offer, but will it be a celebratory occasion or will it be a case of pin the tail on which country to move to for the next three years?
Hmmm, perhaps dip toes into a bit of Antony Green for starters, with an initial safe seat on the couch. You never know, other seats may not be so safe during the night. You may want to hang on for the ride.