Crankypants former Prime Minotaur Tony Abbott is throwing stones — and who can blame him, says contributing editor-at-large Tess Lawrence.
STONY ABBOTT LIVES IN A GLASS HOUSE but that doesn't stop him from throwing stones.
And who can blame the little sausage.
Here he is, King Lear in budgie people smugglers, rudely turfed from the prime ministership of the Christian god's own country, for no good reason that he can think of.
He's entitled. He's the annointed one. It's obvious why. He's adored and worshiped not only by the silent majority but also the noisy minority.
In Trumph figures, those numbers add up to 150 per cent of the people, so why doesn't the Coalition Cabinet get that?
What's more, it is well known that to a woman and a man, each one of his political colleagues adore him. They would tie-dye for him. Even closet heterosexuals and gendabendaglendas love him.
LBGTIQ types love him. So do LBW types. The media, mass and otherwise, we just can't get enough of him.
He understands us all like no other devout Christian leader, save for his religious mentor Cardinal George Pell with whom he shares a condition (excluding appearing in person at Royal Commissions because he's too sic ( sick ) known as ADD ).
Even Justin Trudeau wants to be like Tony Abbott. He's appropriated so many of Tony's ideological political framework and is inevitably among the first to implement what has become known as Abbottism, whose devotees have an almost cultish adoration for the lycra-wearing former prime minister.
Adoring members of the public cross the street just to meet up with him.
Dogs howl and bay when he passes by, acknowledging the his alphabeta maleness. Men swoon. Women have the vapours. Rain clouds weep happy tears of joy.
Babies lift up their dear little heads so that he may kiss them as he's fleshing the press.
The terrifying moment a creepy looking Tony Abbott cradles a crying baby... but how did the Prime Minister cut his pic.twitter.com/tx1NykcHNu— WordLink.com (@wordlink) May 22, 2015
Pregnant ladies say when he is nearby the foetus will move position in the womb just to catch his life-affirming rays and magnetic field.
Flowers and even those horrible weeds whose roots always break off, turn away from the sun to bathe in the radiance of his beautiful face.
He's suffered the indignity of being forced to make way for an older man.
Malcolm Turnbull has long been his insufferable nemesis — even from those fruit salad days when both were journalists on The Bulletin, that once proudly boasted 'Australia for the White Man' on its masthead. I think I was there at the time and popped in and out of their conjunctivitis orbit.
Tony is both a woman's and man's man, even though women and men may not quite realise it.
He rightly makes important announcements and religious revelations whenever an important head of state is visiting, or when a divinity contacts him, or when he travels the world as the self-appointed ambassador of the alternative prime minister of Australia. A role coveted by too many by those whose credentials are too few.
Few people realise that Tony Abbott's role model is Jesus the Man, as exemplified by that fabulous forensic religious historian, the late Barbara Theiring, the grandmotherly she-woman who constantly outwitted the likes of Pell and his intellectual dullards who never won even a single debate with her.
Even fewer realise that Pakistan was so enamoured of Tony Abbott that they named part of the Khyber Pass in his honour.
So taken with the region was Osama bin Laden that he and his wives set up a holiday home in Abbottabad, but was unfortunately the victim of an extrajudicial killing by President Barack Obama's administration before he was unable to invite Tony Abbott to his humble home.
Bin Laden was keen to glean leadership skills from Abbott. Whenever the Bearded One could drag himself away from his collection of porn, he was enmeshed in the politics of alternative conservatism and the realisation that multiculturalism itself was a bougus nomenclature, for the mixing of races is a heresy and copulation between whites and blacks an affront to Darwin's and Queensland's Theory of Devolution.
Too right it is. Even as a tinted person I know my place. Why shouldn't the political class, including those who are retired, have gold passes, golden showers, endless free travel for themselves and various partners, some of them spouses, claim legitimate expenses for helicopters, planes, weddings, dental work, accommodation, liposuction, botox, butt lifts, fine whines, fine wines, relief massages and tantric real estate. It makes sense not only to me but to every single taxpayer who loves the body politic. And we are legion.
I bleed for Tony. So many of us do. Even now, my stigmata is oozing a most unattractive seepage in sympathy and empthy for our former primed minister.
It's a hard ask being ejaculated from the throne to a dusty back bench, where you're so far from the action of the front bench that you can't hear the fatherly comfort of George Brandis' heartbeat and heavy breathing. Or smell Christopher Pyne's apres shave.
Especially when you know you are not just better than all the rest, you are the best and effluent in several languages to boot.
All around him, the careers of Abbott's peers (not just those he briefly anointed) and those he admires are flourishing. It's torture for him.
Look at the amazing adventures of his one-time underling Senator Cory Bernardi, who rightly thinks bestiality leads to unsame sex marriage. As it clearly does.
Bernardi has gorn and formed his own one man party, based on his reflection in the mirror and the premise of the beast with two backs, cor blimey. And why not? It's as good a reason as many. And better than most.
Even though there is no reflection when I look in the mirror, I'm thinking of doing the same. We all should. Vanity parties are infra dig.
Cory scored that beaut junket to New York, funded by the Australia taxpayer to study Donald Trump up close. Real close. Okay, we pretended it was the UN, so what. So close was Hunky Cory Dory, that he could see the microbiological activities going on in the enlarged pores in the Donald's nose, and is now able to affirm that the great man's nose and ear hairs are plucked.
Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with President Donald Trump, period. He's a deadset legend, even Russia wishes he was their lederhosen.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man.
Pussycat, pussycat, I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you. Why did I think of that Tom Jones song? Who cares?!
Tony has empathy with millions of people around the world. Look up his fan club, you'll see what I mean.
There's that French girlie who speaks with a neo-Nazi accent, Marine Le Pen, she's shaking up Europe, muslims and immigrants, big time. She'll be running the Christian caliphate soon and not before time.
Back home, we've got Pauline le Pen... Poops! I mean, Senator Pauline Hanson, who also has her own Party; by, for and of Pauline Hanson.
The revolving doors of party headquarters are wherever Hanson happens to be at any given moment of the day or night, and this means there is a constant flow of entrances and exits of candidates and incumbents being demoted, disbarred, tarred and feather dustered and what's wrong with that, I ask. It is, after all, the year of the red Rooster.
You might as well get elected first — and then deal with the excess baggage later. That way you'll still get paid out — and you've got a readymade media profile. What's not to love?
Some of us look at Canada's Justin Trudeau with nostalgia. For a moment, he looks like the young Malcolm Powder (thanks, Simon) that we hoped would be untethered in muscular intellectual and political vigour.
The hour has cometh.
Where is the man or the woman who dares claim it?
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