I love animals.

Well, sort of anyway. To be perfectly Shirley it’s really the Bead Twirler and the tin lids who are mad about the buggers, and the joint at Geebung here’s a veritable zoo. There’s a dog, a cat, 2 guinea, five chickens, three fly-in fly out Magpies, a passel of nocturnal possa (a bunch of possums), a school of fish whose numbers fluctuate depending on who eats who on any given day, a pair of birds and of course the dreaded car-killing fruit bats, and all but the latter are invited and welcomed guests.

Well sort of anyway. My mob are rabid  I can pretend with the  best of them when I need to do so to ensure I don’t end of like one of the vanished fish. And don’t think I’m being gutless either; I’m outnumbered 3 to 1 by fervent (rabid would be a better adjective, but I’m not dumb enough to offer it) animal lovers here, and they’re about as tolerant of those who don’t share their passion for non-human creatures as the Mullahs of Saudi Arabia are for fellas who pinch King Salman’s concubine’s posterior.

You know what happens to those randy but feckless fools don’t you? So don’t give me stick about being a soft bastard without balls;  I’m simply concerned about copping a bag over the head during the middle of the night and having a one was ticket on a cargo plane to the Congo pinned to my PJ’s and ‘Drop From Five Thousand Feet’ stamped on my head.

Don’t f*ck with animal lovers, that’s my sage advice to any young Bruce or Brenda stepping out of the womb and onto terra firma to have their crack at this many-splendored magic mirrored maze that we call life. The bastards simply have no sense of humor at all, that’s why they like animals so much, because unlike humans – who have a brain – the half-witted little critters will actually sit on the Animal Libbers laps and feign interest while the fools rant and rave about about all manner of crap.

Crap like how we should shut down horse racing just because a broken down old crock – following the calamitous course that defined it’s rump chasing career – snapped a pastern and had to be put down after stepping in a hoof-carved hole in the straight half a meter from the finishing post when about to win a race for the first time in its whole bloody life. Meanwhile, in the time it took for the single-visioned tosser to tell the tabby his or her torturous tale, a thousand quails were hung, drawn, slaughtered  and quartered just down the road at the secret factory behind the bike shop, and the Libber’s cat’s licking the last of its juices off its owners dinner plate.

Hypocrisy is as hypocrisy does Kevvie always says, and as usual the great man’s right.

He hates radicals of all persuasions does Kev – left, right,. upside down, it doesn’t matter to him, they’re simply all bloody mad and almost certainly bludging off money pinched from the taxpayers purse. Doers he calls them. Do-gooders, do-badders, do-thisers, do thatters, it doesn’t matter what they want you to do he reckons, the common thread that stitches all the doers together is that they insist that you to do everything that you don’t want to – become vegetarian, get rid of shark nets so Jaws can have a surfers leg for brekky, give cows and goats the right to vote – and nothing that you do, like chomping on chef Charlie’s medium-rare sheep brains in the fine dining room at the Bunger, or having a punt on the Boort trots in the sports bar, or even having a bloody root!

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Just take a Captain Cook at the latest gibberish to emerge from the Animal Lib bunker at Annerley and you’ll know that King Kev’s correct, because the fun-police have issued a demand that the demented sheila who rooted her dog – not once, not twice, but three times, the last 2 recorded on her phone to make it easier for the police and prosecutors convenience – should be banned for life from owning a pet.

Fair enough you might think. The bird’s clearly f*cked in the head, her behavior’s an affront to common decency, and the sheila’s seemingly a bloody danger to herself when animals enter the picture. I agree with you too, but none of the reasons just expressed are the Animal Lib mobsters justification for the life ban on pet ownership. Their reason is that the sheila’s actions by rooting the dog were complete and utter callous animal cruelty.

Animal cruelty! Have you ever seen a dog in your life who didn’t like getting a root? C’mon, tell the truth, the last time Buster the bull mastiff tried to mount your leg did look like he was unhappy about getting on the job? Or was his unhappiness caused by the fact that he couldn’t, because your hubby Henry booted Buster the randy wannabe rooter ten across the room with his size twelve Blundstone?

It’s a rhetorical question obviously. Of course male dogs – like the male of every species, humans included – like to root. It’s what we blokes were born and bred to do – drop our loads. It’s in our DNA, and if you think about it for a second sportsfans, they don’t call the moment life began the Big Bang for nothing do they?.

Now I’m not for a moment advocating that people should be allowed to their dog, or their cat or cow or goat or goose or any other type of beast. It’s both bloody disgusting and downright criminal, and that’s why this brain-dead bint was charged with and convicted of the offence of bestiality under the Criminal Code.

The thing is though that copulating with a canine is an offence against morality, not an offence against the dog.

In fact under the relevant animal cruelty laws relating to dog-bonking – Queensland’s Animal Care and Protection Act 2001 – there is no such offence as bestiality, so the fired up Libber’s foolish calls for the judiciary to get tough on canoodlers with canines is so wide of the mark that it’s off the planet.

The simple reality is that the pot-f*cked darling who put the dogs dick where puppy’s penises should never go should have been buckled up in a straight-jacket and taken by ambulance straight to the loony bin where she could be detained at Queen Betty’s pleasure and treated for her disease, and not be released until the doctors are convinced that they’ve drugged the deviance out of her forever more.

Perhaps the ill-informed loudmouths from Animal Lib should consider a visit instead. A bit of ECT might shock a bit of sense in to them, and they can school themselves up on the law in the hospital library while they’re there.

As for poor pooch, well he’ll just have to get kicks someplace else from here on. Perhaps if the Libbers love him so much that want to sever his sex life they can do it properly and drop him off at the RSPCA  for the ultimate gear change on their way to to the bin. After all a snip in time saves nine as they say.

There’s more than one way to be cruel to animals isn’t there Kevvie.

Kevvie?

Kevvie?

Where’s Kevvie?

He’s knocked off and gone looking for the dog?

Oh shit ……someone call the RSPCA!