I feel like I have exhausted myself in this electioneering frenzy. The sense of expectation and fear is palpable as we enter the final countdown. I feel like I have done all I can to vent my spleen and inculcate folk with some wisdom.
I’ve just received my (unopened) CD ROM from Kevin and, as always, have left any Coalition pamphleteering in its plastic bag for posterity. There’s been so much waste and whatnot in the grasping grovel for our vote. The gay rags were looking like the “Turnbull Times” in the last few weeks. Why spend so much money telling us you have integrity? If you had a modicum we wouldn’t need convincing.
I’ve just returned from BrisVegas, aquaplaning on a river of schoolies vomit. Politics seems a touchy area in the old south-east Queensland. I was a host at the Fluffy festival, but trying to inject some interest in the election seemed a lost cause. I guess party drugs and politics contraindicate.
What else is left to talk about but sex? Sexy politics is an oxymoron, like trying to get water out of a new dam. Apparently sex sells, so let’s delve below the belt like one of those nasty “Why Weekly” style publications. Let’s air the laundry and see if there are any unsightly smears.
John Howard is spew central. Rudd is a dud. Bob Brown is a silver fox and Julia Gillard’s a minx. The list could go on but I’m afraid it just gets freakier. The only recent politician to give me the horn is the now departed Victorian Premier, Steve Bracks. Am I shallow? Is that wrong?
We are tired of this tedious campaign circus. I just can’t wait to get my free dental care, my no-baby bonus and some fresh air to breathe – not much to ask from our affluent western island.
We have hopefully come to a new chapter in life’s revolving door, and we must hold our heads high, smile, turn things round for the better, and not get crushed getting out.
I want to thank my partner Peter Randall for helping me write and edit this election column. I couldn’t have done it without him. I’d also like to thank my fans, coiffeur and frockmeister for helping me glide through the campaign trail crap, vodkatini in hand. Like the old 70s Whitlam slogan, folks, it’s time.

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