It’s a strange old world sportsfans, let me give you the drum, and let me tell you why honesty is always the best policy and the Bead-Twirler’s been correct in what she’s been telling me for 20 years, the dictum being that the truth will set you free.
Now I’m no Christian – not anymore anyway – my personal view is that if you believe that some ghostly figure named God whacked a bloke in a garden in Geebung, then robbed him of a rib to create a bird that he could do it doggy with, and thus the world was created, then well have I got a few business propositions for you.
But that’s just my own cynic’s opinion, and I don’t have a clue whether I’m right or wrong, for smarter Bruce’s and Brenda’s than me have been trying to work out where we came from for millennia, and not a single one has succeeded, so who the f*ck am I presume I have it sussed. Neville Nobody, that’s who.
So I respect every bugger’s view, whether they are Muslim or Christian or Animist or just straight out Kalathumpian, and I always scratch my head when people ask me how I can be married to the passionately devout Bead-Twirling catholic when I long ago shed my belief in the infallibility of a politician in purple who calls himself (it’s always him) Pope, and think to myself that if you want to be betrothed to yourself then buy yourself a mirror, a tube and lube and a box of Kleenex.
I’d rather be shagging the bead-twirler than wanking, and if my reasons for hanging around her are that she gives me the space and latitude that I need to survive in this chaotic world, and provides me dough for cigarettes and punt on the weekends, and makes me laugh, and is a dead set spunk and a top shelf root to boot, well what the hell do I care if she goes to Mass every morning of the week and twice on Sundays?
It works quite well actually, because it gives us an hour to the business between her waking up and me hitting the sack, and leaves time over afterward for her to have a shower and get dressed, and me to take a piss and brush my teeth. And then when I wake up in the mid afternoon brekky – which was her lunch – is in the fridge, and there’s a packet of Winnie Blues on the office desk, and we have a quick chat and a cuddle and then she’s off to the art room and I’m off to word zone, and Bob’s your bloody uncle, and it doesn’t get any better than that sportsfans does it?
Of course all this carry on has only come about since I decided to face my demons and shed the snake skin that has shrouded me since a snake attacked me in my teens, and make the decision to be the real me. Well, sort of make the decision, because it was more that I went more than a little bit nuts, but if accepting that you’re as mad as a snake means that you can once more become the 12 year old knockabout larrikin from Geebung with an IQ of 147 who loves to have a yarn that you once were, well that’s ok by me.
You see, the trick to being disabled is to own it, and embrace it, and say yes World I’ve got a f*cking disability and so f*cking what? I’ll tell you, it scared the shit out of the average d*ckhead who is conditioned to believe that a bloke in a wheelchair or with a mental illness is somehow less able, or less worthy than them, rather than simply being differently abled and equally as worthy as the idiot judging them through the filter of their own moron’s lens. And in fact often more abled and worthy, which always catches these dumb-ass suckers by surprise.
Just as my mate Rob Pyne’s about to catch the crooks who’ve polluted the political environment of our pineapple loving state by surprise, because as I’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen, Rob’s a man on a mission and he is an extremely clever, principled, and politically astute operator who cannot and will not be stopped.
People – to their peril – badly underestimate Rob, and forget that just as I was a young bloke with the genius of an IQ who developed a debilitating mental disease thanks to a pervert rapist wank; Rob was a young sports star brought up in a political family with a mayor for a dad who lost the use of his legs when clowning around he jumped out of a boat and landed head-first on a sand bank.
Sure it changed both of our abilities to function the way that ordinary folk do, but it didn’t suddenly make us stupid. And although for years we both struggled to accept and embrace our respective disabilities, it meant that when we did emerge from the darkness that had shrouded us, we had a different outlook on life after being discriminated against and treated like a cabbage for all that time, and we were men on a mission to make up for lost time and neither of us really gave a f*ck about what anyone thought because those clowns that judged us and others were simply standing in our way.
Funnily enough, we both sprung out of our cocoons with a shared mission, although one expressed in different ways that accommodated our respective disabilities and allowed us to achieve our potential and our goals the best way that we possibly could, for me by the written word and for Rob via the House of Broken Dreams.
And what was and is that shared mission?
To keep the bastards honest.
It’s morphed into other things, such as keeping the memory of decent blokes like Jamie Mackenzie alive, and if you read what I’ve written and what Rob said today you might wake up and realise that we’re not just a pair of disabled spastics speaking crap, but a canny pair of Queenslanders who all of a sudden have the craven, corrupt, cologne-wearing creeps who pretend to be our parliamentary and council representatives – but are really just greedy, selfish stooges of the money men – shaking in their bloody boots, and rightly so.
Did anyone ever wonder why for 2 years I, a mad bloke sitting in front of a computer in Geebung, went so hard on the conman Hong Kong Tony Fung and issues in Cairns, 2000km away?
Did anyone ever notice that Rob picked up the issues and ran with them, and won a seat in the House of Broken Dreams on the back of it?
Did anyone notice how hard I ran against Billy Gordon and called him every name under the sun to deflect your attention? And how Rob stood by him all the way, and thus distance was created between us too?
Did anyone ever notice how he were both members of the Left faction of the ALP, even though through circumstances not of our own making we both started out in the Right? Or how we both actively sought to split the right and bring Bill Ludwig’s whole tied-up show crashing down?
Of course you bloody didn’t. Archie was just a disabled mental-case and Rob a f*cking cripple. In your tiny little twisted minds anyway.
Well guess what fellas and fillies?
Ha f*cking ha!
Your house of tissue thin cards is about to come crashing down, and any day now Billy and Rob are going to team up with the Katters, and the North Queensland sugar industry is going to be saved, and with it the Far North economy, and we won’t need any con-man Chinese casino operator fronting for the Triad to feed us fantasy and false hopes any more.
And the stacked CCC will go the way that it should have since Goss pretended to throw Beattie to the wolves, and stuck the poor bastard who’d later succeed him in a pre-arranged deal with the allegedly awful political-wilderness dwelling job of setting up the CJC, which was later to become the CMC and latterly the CCC.
All politically stacked bodies that walk like ducks, quack like ducks, and are ducks. Ducks that swim in seedy pools and duck down into the deep and always come up with their bellies full and their feathers preened and clean, and not a single worm in their bills ever to be seen.
But those days are over, at least unless Assetstacia and her crew decide that protecting the dirty dogs within their ranks is more important than holding the levers of power, for when the Katter Lads and Billy and Bob team up and say ‘Hey! Here’s the deal – it’s this or the LNP’, what’s the Polish Princess going to do?
Blokes like Stirling ‘Commonwealth Games Contracts’ Hinchcliffe are, I am sure, lying in their beds at night sweating profusely wondering.
The gigs up guys, and the gimps have got you by the gonads.
You f*cking blind and ignorant idiots. Never think that just because a bloke has a disability he’s a bloody idiot.
It’s a lesson you’re about to learn the hard way. Ha ha ha!