A ‘strong feisty woman’ struggled out of bed this morning knowing her hours were numbered. A ‘misogynist man’ leapt from the doona into a new dawn.
Julia Gillard is, to me, like the girl next door. You know, the scrawny freckled one who always refused to throw your ball back?
Now, speculation alone has killed Gillard off.
Tim’s bags are packed, McTernan has booked a flight home, even the dog has moved next door… it’s all over.
Labor’s lesbians are going straight in droves and Getup is going down on anything available.
Even the ABC is revisiting their charter in a fit of self-preservation as government is about to move to an era of comfortable boredom.
Fairfax Lefties are weeping into their Weetbix and the Courier Mail is about to return to Page One stories on cats caught in drainpipes.
Anne Summers is back home washing the dishes with a devastated Mungo MacCallum sobbing hysterically on her shoulder.
Caucus members are no longer equivocating over Gillard. Their dilemma is who the hell can they replace her with and it’s a nasty quandary you wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Rudd means an immediate election as half the front bench would walk. Crean is yesterday’s man, Shorten has bad AWU form and can’t keep his dick in his trousers. Combet is a short-fused global warming nutter. The treacherous Carr is unelected … and, except for Whitlam and Eddie Obied, that’s about it.
If Gillard had a mote of conscience she would resign and save her Party from tearing itself further apart. That won’t happen.
She has been given out but refuses to leave the crease.
Oh well, Labor’s salad days are gone until another generation of incestuous idealists in 20 years’ time decides the Press needs muzzling and the Earth needs cooling with a tax.
By then we may have paid for the salad days of this generation.