I had that dream again

The year is 2013. It’s election night in Australia. Tony Abbot is about to become Prime Minister. The setting is a Catholic Church in Chelsea, a suburb in Victoria.

Adrian Guerin, Father Greg, Tony Abbot, Rupert Murdoch.

Act 1: Where’s Rupert?

Ok my son, tell me your sins.

I had that dream again, Father.

Which dream?

It was about Tony.

Oh dear. Tell me about the dream.

There’s a voice, it tells me what to do.

Go on.

It gives me instructions.

Instructions about what, Adrian?

About what to do about Tony. In my dream, Tony Abbot is sitting in a chair. He’s in a straight jacket. I am deciding what to do with him. The voice whispers, ‘Hold the scalpel up, Adrian, inspect it closely. Pause for a moment, and say, ‘You know what, Tony? I’m a reasonable guy. I don’t believe in God, but I believe in forgiveness. I believe in redemption. I’m going to give you a chance. All you need to do is answer one question. Just tell me where he is… Where’s Rupert?’.

What does Tony say, Adrian?

Nothing Father, he’s silent. He doesn’t tell me where Rupert is. The voice gives me more instructions. It tells me to level with Tony, so I level with him:

‘I’ll level with you Tony, you’re not the one I want. I know you’re just a puppet. A pointless careerist. You work for your billionaire masters. You answer to Rupert. I’ll let you walk right now, if you just tell me where he is, where’s Rupert? Won’t he come to protect you, as he always does? You don’t have a single credible policy, yet, he doesn’t mind. He has your back. Until now, is he coming?’ ‘

What does Tony say, Adrian?

Well, Tony’s mouth is gagged, Father, he can’t speak. He tries to, but all it results in is inaudible muffling, just like his policies.

‘Each second of silence takes you closer to your fate, Tony. Where’s Rupert?’

Act 2: Time to turn things up a notch
The voice advises me to start playing church hymns on the stereo speakers. Loudly. So loud it’s deafening.

I then proceed to turn the hymns up, louder, and tighten the cloth around his mouth, and ask one more time, ‘Where’s Rupert?’

Did the voice tell you to do this?

No, I took initiative.

‘Ok Tony. I was reasonable. I tried to help you out, but you’re being extremely difficult. I’m going to have to call upon my little friend.’ That’s when I change the music to a heavy orchestra track.

The voice grins, and whispers ‘Put the scalpel down, Adrian. Reach into the glass box hanging from the ceiling. Take the needle out. Fill it with 5 grams of Pancuronium Bromide. Spend 5 minutes conducting the orchestra with the needle. Press stop. Calmly walk closer, smiling, head tilted. As he begins to jostle in his straight jacket, hold the needle up, proudly, as though you’re presenting it to a crowd. Release Tony’s arm from the straight jacket. Hold the needle to it. Inject it halfway into his arm, but don’t kill him, yet. I repeat, do not kill him. Lean forward and whisper, ‘You must have known it would end like this. You’re stupid. You rely on the stupidity for power. It’s over, Tony. It’s over.’

What did you do next?

Then, I turn the lights off, and turn on the spotlight, so it shines on my face. I tell Tony that I have just one final request… I lean forward, and smile, ‘Say hey to Maggie on the way down. And save a spot for Rupert’.

But that was two requests?

Silence, Father. I inject it the needle all the way. Slowly. I then burst into hysterical laughter, clapping my hands. I then bow.

Act 3: The crucifixion
I Change the music to the theme song of Bugs Bunny. I remove Tony from his straight jacket, and drag his body through the halls of Parliament. I bring my portable stereo system with me, so I can bop my head to the music. Once I enter the House of Representatives, I seek support from all Members of Parliament to help lift his body. As we lift his body, I hold his right arm up, and nail it to the wall above the seat of the Speaker of the House. I repeat this process with his left hand. The crowd cheers. I take my place in the Speaker’s chair and call an emergency session. The crowd is rowdy, ‘Order, order! Today is Good Friday, the death of the Son of God. I point to Tony, ‘Yeah, that brain-dead turd. Lets see if God will save you, Tony. Let’s see if you are Rupert’s chosen one in the forthcoming election. Where’s Rupert?’.

We Wait. 3 days pass. ‘Order, order! It would appear that Rupert has lost faith, and so too has the House. You are not the Son of God, Tony. You’re not going to do anything for the economy. You’re not going to do anything for anyone, except your billionaire masters. And not even they can bring themselves to endorse dead weight like you’.

The Final Act: The house always wins.
The House is united, laughter, cheering and merriment. Then, there are 3 loud knocks on the door, the House falls silent. A courier opens the door and hands a package to the House messenger. The messenger approaches the Speaker’s chair, and hands the package to me. It’s a newspaper. Well, not a newspaper, it’s the Sunday Telegraph. The cover reads: NO POLICIES? NO BRAINS? NO WORRIES! TONY ABBOT, WE ENDORSE YOU. The House gasps. Rupert has arrived to help his man, after all, just like he always does. The tables have turned; and if Rupert turns on you, you are doomed. Suddenly, the House looks at me in disgust. It’s over. I turn to Tony’s body, and see that his right eye has opened. The journalists of News Corp help him down, for only they have the power to carry this dead weight to power. The mob comes for me. They tie me to the chair. Tony picks up the needle, points the news camera to my face, and grants me a closing statement. It goes like this:

‘You thought Labor was bad?’ I burst into hysterical laughter. ‘Fools. The lucky country just played its last card. Say your prayers Australia, you’re going to need them’.

The needle goes straight through my heart.

The church hymns play loudly.

The House bows.

In the name of the father (Rupert)
And the son (James)
And the Holy Spirit (Rebecca Brooks)
News Corp.

Editorial: How does a clinically brain-dead terd like Tony Abbot get anywhere near power? 70% of Australia’s media is controlled by Rupert Murdoch, that’s how. You don’t need to be a Labor supporter to understand that this guy isn’t fit to handle one of the best performing industrialised nations in the world. It feels reminiscent of when George W Bush was elected, and it seemed as if the entire world knew it would be an absolute disaster; except the people who voted for him.

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