“Shut-up, fool. When the fuck have you seen me eat one of those greasy shit-tubes? And don’t even think about putting one of them in your mouth.”
“You’re starting to sound a lot like Mao. You’re bucking centuries of dinky-di Aussie tradition. When we go to the polls, we neck Democracy Sausages because Straya!”
“What’s stopping these idiots handing out fruit? Or a nice salad? Or some muesli and yoghurt? Instead they fry up pig offal and cancer. Shut the fuck up and get in the car.”
We arrive at the polling station, park the car, and commence the poster-and-banner walk to the entrance.
“Do not speak to anyone.”
“Oh come on, Chairman Mao. I’m sure there’s some brain-fucked Liberal or National stooge who’d be keen to engage me in an exchange of ideas.”
“Do not even open your mouth. Take the How To Vote paper, move on in dignified silence.”
And that’s when some idiot from the Nationals started flapping his paper at my wife.
“Vote for the Nationals! They’re saving jobs!”
“No thank you,” my wife said, as always, the very avatar of politeness.
He then waved it at me. I shook my head. He understood that to be a gesture meaning: “Please tell me all about your candidate and his policies.”
“It’s about saving jobs, mate,” he said.
“Step the fuck back from me or you’ll see it’s not about saving jobs at all.”
“Do you know James (the candidate)?” he then said, and before I could reply that I did not know James, did not want to know James, and me knowing or not knowing James would have no bearing on my vote, my wife stopped and fixed him with THAT look.
“Are you deaf?” she asked him. He stopped flapping the How To Vote paper.
“Answer the lady,” I said. “She wants to know if you’re deaf. She understands your stupid, she’s just wondering if you’ve got other handicaps as well.”
A silence appeared between us all. Then Lynette took my arm and led me into the school so that we could vote.
“I told you not to speak,” she hissed as we stood in line to enter the hall where the voting booths were.
“He started it.”
“Are you six? No, stop staring back the way we came. And put your hoodie back on.”
“It’s easier to swing on pricks in short sleeves.”
“You’re not swinging on anyone! That’s not how democracy works.”
Then our local Labor candidate, Dan Repacholi arrived. I pointed him out to Lynette.
“He’s a big bloke.”
“He is magnificent! He is a fitting leader of our tribe. He is strong. His shoulders are broad. He has a mighty red beard. I would follow him into battle.”
“Where are you going?”
“I want to hug him, pledge him my sword, and swear my allegiance to his cause.”
“Get the fuck back here. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be hugged by you.”
“What about yourself?”
“Do not touch me.”
We went inside and voted. On the way out I wished Dan the best of luck and assured him that if I could, I would vote for him another six times. I was about to tell him that should my sword be needed, I would provide it with all speed, but my wife led me away.
“Can we go talk to the Nationals idiot again?”
“Walk out the other gate and get in the car.”
“You’re impinging on my democracy on this great day. You look great in those jeans.”
“Get in the fucking car.”
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Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.