I'm breaking two self-imposed and rather lackadaisically adhered-to bans on alcohol and election
When I lived in NZ, strangers would ask me, "Why do you guys keep voting in that short, nasty little man?" as soon as I opened my mouth and revealed my Australian accent. Their question was never couched as a personal criticism, just a kind of bewilderment with our national predisposition to wing right. Despite my protests and leftie hair do, I was usually shuffled into the camp of the homophobes, xenophobes, nay Sorry people, Treaty renegers and climate change deniers, purely because of the bad press we were receiving back then.
That was about seven years ago. Or was it the 1950s? I forget.
So, I've lit the fire and cracked a red. I was supposed to go camping with some mates who specialise in ukeleles but the skies have been raining tears all day and the idea of driving 80 kilometres on a wet road to sit in the rain and commiserate, then swag it in the rain, maybe even wake up in the rain, all the while watching the lizard king rise to power ... well, I'm tough but I'm not that tough.
Jennifer over at No Place for Sheep wrote a great piece today on why she can't call the potential new prime minister a cunt. (Here) She's right. Cunts are actually quite nice things. Mine own has given me an inordinate amount of pleasure over the years. It is deductive logic with a most excellent premise (read Trudy Govier, she's awesome) to state that if the antecedant is true, the consequent will be true also. Therefore the potential prime minister Tony Abbott is not a cunt.
However this kind of deductive overthinking when it comes to giving right wing political party leaders vaginal avatars can self destruct. For example:
It's stopped raining. It's dark. I know those guys are sitting beside a fire playing ukeleles and having a marvellous time while I am in front of a screen and still wearing my ugg boots. Nah. It's started raining again. I'd prefer to be here.
I don't know where I want to be.
What a fucking day.