Oh, my! Hasn’t Fizza grown a big hairy set all of a sudden?
Didn’t have the balls to take on the right-wing nutters during his fizzy flop of three years as Prime Minister and yet his Bowens are now dragging on the privileged footpaths of Point Piper as he takes his morning constitutional while mentally rehearsing the clever, wise, and forceful comments he’ll be making to Fran Kelly on Radio National a short time later.
After returning to his harbourside mansion, he probably has to sit on one of his kitchen stools before taking Fran’s call, swinging his ‘nads up onto the stool beside him to provide some relief from the pain. Oh, the size of those plums! What a man!
This is the guy who was so nutless that he couldn’t bring the right-wing nutters in his caucus into line over the National Energy Guarantee, his and Josh Frydenberg’s energy policy lovechild.
Anyone remember the NEG? Fizza’s one and only remaining key policy after cowardly jettisoning the tax cuts to the banks and big business – wouldn’t even take them to an election – that had been argued by Fizza and the man who had his back, the Happy Clapper, for months as being so vital to Australia’s future?
The NEG? No, still doesn’t ring a bell? A brilliant scheme to cut electricity prices and wedge Labor, it had been twice overwhelmingly endorsed by the party room over the muted objections of those supposed handful of Carbonites, their own testicles blackened and abrased by years of relentless coal fucking.
“Get on board or so help me I’ll run you bastards over,” Fizza didn’t squeak back then in all his nutless glory. “The Labor Party has agreed to support this scheme and if you cunts don’t come on board, I’ll get it passed with their support,” he didn’t say, the tiniest of camel toes visible in the crutch of his expensive pin-stripped trouser pants.
Instead, just like the company tax cuts to his big end of town, he abandoned the NEG he had invested so much capital in. A bit like the emperor with no clothes, he then stood naked before his colleagues with not a single policy for modesty’s sake, and with Newspoll losses stretching back over the horizon. If Fizza had some rudimentary testicles back then, his colleagues cut them off without hesitation and tossed him and them out.
But in all those weeks brooding in his luxury Manhattan apartment, more than just the penny dropped about what he could do to make his MPs pay for their treachery.
Plop. Plop. That big, bulging scrotum full of bitterness and an almost unquenchable lust for revenge had emerged.
The first buds of testicular regrowth showed when he quit Parliament, left Wentworth and Dave Sharma to their fate and supposedly on his return followed some social media site of an organisation seeking to oust the Mad Monk on the other side of the Heads.
But aren’t those hormones, now flowing fully and freely from that glorious, newly descended ballsack, making their mark in the most spectacular of fashions?
Just yesterday, Fizza, his voice deeper and resonating even more with barristerial brilliance if that was at all possible, played the elder statesman, explaining how any attempt to save the political hide of right-wing nutter Craig Kelly would be contrary to all the basic principles of decency and decorum, political principle and probity.
It would be a seriously weak and wanton thing to do. That it would also fuck over Kelly big time for fucking Fizza over big time and make the Happy Clapper look weak if Kelly does get the chop would have been a distant secondary factor in Fizza’s ballsy deliberations.
Today Fizza is imploring the Happy Clapper to go to the polls early next year. Not to win; just to save the NSW Liberal government of our Glad. Before a federal Budget, mind, that could have been promoted with gusto and might save some of the federal furniture.
The Liberals’ fate federally is now the least of concerns for Fizza, his new improved testes, bigger and better than ever before, and hanging loose, full of juice and ready for vindictive, payback use.
The man who left office trailing only by two points in Newspoll is now demanding that his successor, the Happy Clapper from the Shire, despite being currently 10 points behind in Newspoll, should bite the bullet and go to the people in March next year.
Or in other words, get what’s coming to him for his role in deposing a man who will go to his grave knowing full well, perhaps scratching those big bloated nuts one last time as he shuffles off this mortal coil, that through the sheer weight of his good looks, charm and polished oral skills he would have easily won the 2019 election and could have remained a much-loved, nay revered, leader of the Australian people for as long as he liked.
Policies are so, so unnecessary when a once-in-a-lifetime figure of such charisma, charm and conviction to long-held core principles comes a’calling.