Bonerby Pulls Out Early
Fri 16th Feb 2018
For one brief shining moment there, it looked like he might get away with it. The staunch defender of the traditional family might survive getting turned out as an adulterous fornicator with a pregnant office hottie on the down low. The resolute enemy of dole bludgers and welfare cheats might somehow shrug off the revelation of his own leech-like fondness for enthusiastic pornstar suckage at the public tit. For two, maybe three hours yesterday morning, while the National Party’s chickenshit collective tried and failed to find the nerve to send him a break up text, it honestly looked like Barnaby Joyce might pull off a miraculous escape.
And then Prime Minister Chauncey Blundercunt stepped up to sort a few things out.
For fifteen minutes and twenty-four seconds of excruciating body horror masquerading as a press conference, the whole nation shared a lived experience akin to searching for wholesome videos of frolicking baby goats only to get skull-fucked in the eyeball sockets by the anathema known as goatse. We have known for a long time now that there is no situation so irredeemably fucked up that Chauncey cannot find a way to further enfucken it. Yesterday, however, he brought his A-game.
His voice quavering as he spoke of Bonerby’s personal failings, he desperately tried to drag everyone’s attention off the catastrophic shit show of secret favours, maladministration, rorts, entitlement gouging and the metastasising cancer cluster of ministerial code breaches. Instead, he wanted everybody to remember that this was above all else A Sex Scandal.
Fuggedabout the rorting. Look at the rooting!
It’s possible he sounded so nervous and shaky because he was genuinely wounded by the grievous damage done to his terminal government by the Deputy Prime Minster’s one eyed trouser snake getting loose in the House. Or perhaps it was just because he was trying to pull off a stunt every bit as difficult as a second rate stand-up comic trying out his back-catalogue of Polish rape jokes in front of a room full of #MeToo activists.
As grotesque as were the contortions required of the PM so far in this unlubricated butt-twuntch—the insistence that Bonerby’s pregnant live-in girlfriend was not his partner; the denial of any oversight, involvement or even knowledge of her appointment to multiple high paying ministerial staff jobs; that thing with the rent free apartment—they were as nothing compared to yesterday’s live-streamed naked Twister marathon.
Too weak to cull the Beetrooter* himself, the PM tried to refashion a consenting—if squalid—relationship between two adults as a critical moment in the current and genuinely urgent project to recast the power relationship between the genders.
The hundreds of Australian women killed every year by their male partners probably would’ve liked some of that prime ministerial attention before their violent murders.
The young single mothers, the ageing widows, the countless numbers of completely innocent women fucked by Centrelink’s robo-debt collectors would doubtless appreciate the PM’s personal intervention in their cases.
But of course the actual genuinely urgent project currently exercising Turnbull’s mind is his own salvation, not theirs.
Salvation will not be the consequence here.
Instead, the maximum Blundercunt has declared open season on the sex life of any politician. He has made everything worse. It’s what he does.
And Bonerby? What does he do now? Take the hint? Retire to the billiards room with his service revolver?
Don’t bet on it.
His only goal will be to get through until close of business today so he can clock off and spend a week of paid leave with his side-bae. Between them they will trouser about eleven thousand dollars in base salary, and whatever allowances Joyce feels like claiming for Netflix and chill.
Those robo-debt collectors will have to pull some overtime.
* I am informed that the cruel and magnificent bastard who coined the term Beetrooter, is Mike Carleton.