The Glasgow Climate summit is imminent, but unless Scummo can arrive there and tell the rest of the world how Australia will stop acting like a shitcunt and commit to moving away from fossil fuels, every remaining trading partner we have will torpedo our economy just like our former trading partner, the Bat Empire, will torpedo our mighty armada the second it floats into range.
Keeping Scummo from arriving in Glasgow and saying meaningless words and lies, while reminding people he’s best mates with the Pentagon and Jesus, were the Nationals. You remember them, right? They are the ONLY reason the Liberals are able to form what they’re pleased to imagine is a government because on their own, there aren’t enough rich people to vote them in. So they need the Nationals and their woolly, beefy, cottony, watery, coaly, and gassy lovin’ electorate to provide the needed votes.
It’s democracy, bitches.
Anyway, this kind of democracy requires the electorate who voted these fly-blown fuck-trumpets in to not know anything about what they’re doing. Or how they’re extorting Scummo and his mates so that Scummo can go to Glasgow and lie to the world about what he plans to do about the death of all things.
But they have been found out. Behold the secret demands of the Nationals…
I want more hot bitches working for me. I seem to have run out. The last one I rooted for a while and she moved in and gave me some kids and well, you know how they let themselves go a bit after that? Yeah, well, she’s let herself go. Probably more than a bit. I don’t quite know. She hasn’t let me see her naked for months now. So more hot bitches, Scummo. Stat.
Also, I need those beer taps plumbed into the fucken Chamber quick-smart. I’m fucken sick of having to go out every twenty minutes to smash a schooner. I can smash schooners in the Chamber.
And tell those cameramen cunts in the Press Gallery to ease up on the red filter they always put on when they’re filming me. I’m only that colour after 9am.
Make sure Scummo signs off on all the water. All of it. Yes, even the rain. That’s mine too. No, I’m not sharing any of that with Angus. He’s a fucken wanker. And then we have to drain the Arafura Sea and get all the coal that’s under it and the gas that’s under that. We can use those big salination plants that my wife designed. So it’s a good thing. We pump all that rubbish sea water out of the stupid sea, turn it into fresh water, use it to irrigate all my cotton farms, and then we’ll have lots of cotton things we can use to make T-shirts and underpants.
I want Manilla. And nudie bars. And lots of hot Asian bitches to put in them. Dutton can have his Euro au pairs. He just makes lampshades out of them anyway. I’m not sick like him. I like when they dance for me and open beers with their toilet parts. I give them a few bucks and they give that to their families. I’m like the fucken UN, but I can speak English.
So that’s the first place our new submarines have to attack. Manilla.
Guns. Give me all the guns. I want to be Minister for Shooting, Spotlighting, and Culling. And there’s tonnes of fucken things to cull out in our beaut Aussie bush. All those feral fucken animals the Aborigines imported here that are taking all the prime grazing land from our native livestock. So the kangaroos and wallabies need to be exterminated. Most of the koalas have been burned to death, thank God, so we’ve saved some money there. But we’re going to need some investment in getting rid of the venomous platypuseruses, those dangerous crocodiles, and all those stupid pretend rats we have running around. Oh, and the bees can fuck off as well.
I just want a statue of me built in each state. They can all be a bit different – but they need to be statues of me doing epic shit. Like digging for coal, digging for iron ore, fracking all that spare water under the ground, and clearing all those old forests and replacing them with shiny new coal-mines. The statues need to be made out of coal and iron ore and concrete. And they need to be really big so you can see them from far away. I’m thinking nothing under 200-metres in height. And I’m holding a sword and a shovel and I have a viking helmet on my head.
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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.