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Monday, 26 March 2012

Queensland Election 2012 - Frontline Coverage


 Stan Clear 25-3-12

      To assure an honest jaw-grind with the guaranteed victor of the 2012 Queensland election, Campbell Newman, my secretary organizes a private interview-room at party headquarters during tally afternoon - along with a trailer-load of the best damn cocaine I've ever had the privilege to gag on.

    I point to the thick line of devil's dandruff on the glass coffee table as the King of Queensland, Campbell Newman, enters the room.

    'Thank Christ!' Mr Newman yells then throws his full champagne glass against the wall. He snorts the rail with the enthusiasm of a starving cannibal sucking the meat off a baby's arm. He jerks his head back, eyes bulging. "You have spoken decisively and emphatically and delivered a strong government so that we can deliver for you and get this great state back on track," he says.

    I knock the heads off two beers and sit next to him. 'Save that shit, please. This is an honest interview.'

    Campbell applies pressure to his nostrils with thumb and forefinger as tears stream from his left eye. 'Yeah, I will. I was just practicing to see if I could say it with a straight face.'

    'So Mr Newman, what's to be done about this crazy fucker Katter? He's been giving me Bjelke flashbacks.'

    'Well…!' Mr Newman sculls half of his stubby. 'He's a real fly in the ointment about coal-seam gas. How'm I supposed to get us back on track without whoring us out to the highest bidder? I'd love to whack the old fuckstick, but he's got more supporters than a 100-leg-patio, and besides, he does that "fire and brimstone" shit so well he may come in handy if we can keep his booze and prostitutes out of the papers.'

    Mr Newman starts rolling a 20 dollar and grins. 'Check this shit out.' He places a hand on his chest and an over-sincere expression on his face. 'We will work with all Queenslanders regardless of their vote tonight.'

    'Nice,' I say, snatching the tightly rolled note. 'You kiss your mother with that mouth?'

    It seems word of the private interview room had spread quicker than Tony Abbott's arse-cheeks at a foreign investors meeting. Then, right on cue, ears burning, Bob Katter burst through the door, brutally twisting the stately doorknob westward.

    'What're you cunts doin'ere?' he enquires.

    'Celebrating!' Newman says, bowing for a serious NCI (Nasal Cavity Injection).

    Katter slams the door and strides to the table. 'Jesus, give me one of those fucken things willya?'

    Newman passes the coiled lobster toward the 13-gallon hat. 'Here, get that up ya guacamole?'

    No crossing the double lines? Horse-shit. Katter snorts both. Like an expert.

    'Holy sheep dip, Bob. Surprised about the extra seats?' I can see the Mexican Numbing Wave working it's way through his snarl.

    He winks. 'Can you believe that egghead son of mine actually bagged Mt Isa? The lucky little cunt.'

    'Not bad.' I spoon another lump of marching powder onto the table and begin crushing. 'Soon you'll be able to rule the galaxy as father and son.' Then I hand him a beer. 'What are your thoughts on our Anna, you cowboy junkie?'

    Katter then laughs so hard he seems in danger of losing a lung. 'Maybe she could front the Pirate Party as Captain Bligh.'

    Campbell Newman, new chancellor of Queensland, chokes down another rail before his final rehearsal. 'We will work with all Queenslanders regardless of their vote tonight.'

    Katter tips his hat. 'Nice one, cunt.'

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