I’ve long said that Kevin Rudd is a fraud, an absolute f*cking c*nt who would sell his own mother if it gave him a gold coin, a pat on the back and a single ounce of extra power with which to charge his extraordinarily over-inflated ego.
And without wishing to sound immodest I’m better placed to know, and those in the know – including David Smith, the National Secretary of one of the Wide Brown Land’s largest unions – can verify this any day of the week, because unlike the latter-day saints of the salient press rooms, I was actually there at the beginning and played something of a role in Rudd’s ascension to the Big House, much to my eternal shame.
I’m sure some certain Spandex wearers will accuse me of attempting to become Leonard Zelig, but the truth is that way back in 2001 Rudd was a Neville Nobody who wanted to become Nero, and had begun hunting the numbers that he had worked out he needed to make his dream come true after his previous plan of riding Big Bill Ludwig’s train to the top had been derailed when the AWU kingpin laughed in his face and told him to f*ck off.
In fact everyone was laughing in Kev the Rat’s face back in those days, even the leaders of the ALP Old Guard faction to which he had cravenly clung after being hurled off the bus by Big Bill. Everyone except the Branch Stacker and I that is, the two young guns who by cunning and stealth has suckered the numbers of the largest union bloc in the Old Guard without any sucker realising what we had done.
No sucker except Rudd that is, because that rat could read a rort a million miles away and had us pegged cold to the ground. It didn’t really matter, because by that time we had the numbers in our hot hands and he didn’t, but the Branch Stacker and I are both punters and never averse to backing a winner, and being on the outer with both the Beazley and Latham backers we figured after witnessing Rudd’s sheer bloody determination and self-conviction that we’d chuck the bloody dice at the wall and see what happened.
And thus Rudd won his first factional numbers, with the Qld Services Branch of the ASU handing him the union’s bloc vote – in the face of laughter from all – and off and awat he went, and we all know what happened over the subsequent six years, and mea culpa Father and forgive me for my sins.
In my defence, I only ticked off on the gift of our votes on the morning after the evening that I was standing next to Rudd at a top-level factional confab and the mobile dog and bone rang, and on the other end of the libe was the Stacker, with whom I had spent the previous week standing by his first wife’s hospital bed in the Mater Hospital as she lay comatose at the age of 31 after suffering an aneurism our of nowhere while her hubby was at the ALP National Conference.
I couldn’t stop crying when he told me that his beloved Sally had died just minutes before, and the compassion that Kevin showed when choked with tears I passed him the phone and he told the heart-broken stacker that he would move heaven and earth to help him, and then upon hanging up rang an after hours florist and ordered hundreds of dollars worth of floral tributes, made me think that perhaps he might be alright after all.
Of course I was wrong, and the Stacker was too, and he f*cked us both as soon as he sucked what he wanted from the marrow of our factional souls, and that’s the essence of Kevin Rudd, and the reason that I call him the Rat, and know that what I say is true.
Anyway, that’s the longest intro in the history of Mankind, and what I really want to tell you is not to believe a goddamn f*cking word that Rudd spouts about the world water crisis and it’s cure by capitalism, because every single thing he says is a lie and his solutions are about as legitimate as his claims on the UN top job.
Non-existent that is.
You see Rudd reckons the world’s going to fall over because a stack of women in third world countries are wasting their lives fetching fetid water, and the prick loudly and proudly proclaims that he can solve the problem simply by instituting some mega-profitable public-private partnerships with his privateer pirate mates.
It’s a great sales pitch. Rudd’s always are. But consider the facts.
The countries that Rudd is raving about – but oddly enough doesn’t name – are in Northern Africa and the Middle East.
That is, in the cradle of world civilisation.
They have been around for thousands of years, tens of thousands even, since the days of the Assyrians and Babylonians and the Sumerians. And in all that time they never died of thirst.
Not until the capitalists came and captured their creeks and rivers and canals that is. The same capitalists that Kev the Rat reckons are the solution to poor punters thirst.
The world water crisis is not a natural phenomenom sporstfans. It is a man-made disaster caused by the diversion of naturally flowing waterways away from the average mug punter who wants to guzzle a glass of H2O or two a day in order to stay alive, and to the rapacious riches seekers who build hydro-electric dams so that they may sate their desire to become billionaires, and to mining magnates keen for another twenty million or ten and require rainwater to pan their gold.
The seemingly imbecilic Rudd – who is not an imbecile at all, but rather a master conman – quotes statistics about the lack of menstrual sanitation causing women to spend their days seeking out water, and the knock on effect of a 25% reduction in their educational achievements. The craven c*nt even goes as far as to say that women suffer an increased risk of rape because they have to go outside to take a piss in an outdoor dunny!
He does not of course mention that blokes might have to piss outside too, and thus risk copping a cock up their arse from a c*nt like Greg Masters or his namesake Knight or Skippy Lynch or God knows who, but it doesn’t really matter, because Rudd’s ruminations are simply bullsh*t designed to win big business over to his jerk me Jimmy bid for the UN’s top job and the opportunity to pretend that he rules the world.
Read my next post by the exquisitely intelligent, and coincidentally drop dead beautiful, Arundhati Roy and you will realise in an instant the criminality of the claims that the craven Kevin makes.
Narcissus has nothing on this bloke, the Aussie who is blind to the tale of Ozymandius, the colossal wreck, boundless and bare, from which the lone and level sands stretch far away.
Look on your works Kev the Rat.
Nothing beside remains, around the decay.
Your shattered visage, your lies,
Your sneer of cold command, tell that well the stolen wells you read.
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that starved them, that left them dead;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Aussie Kevias, a f*ckin dead dingo Thing of Things;
Look on my Works, ye thirsty dickheads, and despair!