Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the Queensland Premier – thrashing around in the water and flailing her arms like a drowning woman, drowning in her own ineptitude as she attempts to meet the promise of jobs, jobs, jobs that she made never expecting to have to keep – is desperate indeed.
Accidental Annastacia promised the world before the election, as 100-1 shots in elections are wont to do, safe in the knowledge that they will never have to implement their craven pledges because won’t win government. But sometimes freak waves hit, and the surfer out the back gets unexpectedly lifted up and clutching white-knuckled to their board soar up and over the rider on the front wave, who is being dumped by the surprise centrifugal force that’s sent him crashing head first into the ocean floor.
That’s exactly what happened to Anastacia Palaszczuk at the last election, and when she washed up on the beach and looked around and saw Can-Do still flailing in the foam she let out a huge whoop of delight and was smiling for months as the waves receded and the waters became calm.
But of course calm always comes before the storm, and when the euphoria died down and the honeymoon period abruptly ended the Accidental Premier suddenly realised that the punters in the land of Pineapples actually expected her to deliver on her promises of job creation, and were intent on holding her to account for the pledges that she’d made to them prior to the poll.
‘Oh sh*t’ thought Annastacia. ‘WTF am I going to do?’
And suddenly she realised that she didn’t have a goddamn clue. So she retired to the dunny to have a sit down, a read and a good think. The book she took with her to the loo was the first of Matt Condon’s brilliant trilogy about the history of crime and corruption in Queeensland, Three Crooked Kings, and as she came to the section about the police shakedown of the prostitution industry suddenly inspiration struck.
‘I’ll become a madam!’ she all but screamed as the Eureka! moment hit.
‘Oh yeah baby! I’ll turn this joint into a political whorehouse, and while everyone’s getting f*cked they won’t be too worried about jobs, but by getting f*cked they’ll actually be creating the jobs, because when someone has to pay someone has to get paid!’
‘I’m a goddamn genius!’ she did actually shout, punching the air as she did so and bruising her knuckle on the clothes hook on the back on the House of Broken Dreams dunny door in the process.
And so the rooting began.
First, Annastacia rooted the reef, approving a foreign-financed and run environmental rape of out national treasure, knowing that the punter paying couldn’t cum because coal no longer stoked his fires, but screaming ‘Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!’ nevertheless.
Next she rooted the budget, deciding to spend $5 billion to build a brand new big underground train set, even though the same result could have been achieved by the paying customers simply changing trains at Roma Street.
‘Jobs’ Jobs! Jobs’!’ she cried.
And then she rooted a stranger. A mysterious, androgynous man named Morality and dame named Decency, who like the Son of God came down to earth in human form, and appeared before her as a billionaire from the Far East named Dennis.
Annastacia bent over before Dennis and cried ‘Fuck me! Fuck us all! Slam your speeding bullet into us until we’re so goddamn f*cked that we feel like we’re dying!’
‘No worries’ said Dennis, unfazed by the Premiers perverted desires, because he was an expert at the dark art. After all, he was no virgin.
He’d done it all before.