Notes of an ex-exile
As I am sure you are aware, I’ve been bunking down with my comrades in the German diaspora of rural Argentina for the last seven years, weathering the storm of leftist propoganda that has wailed so relentlessly from our shores. It has been a tough time, no doubt, which I will opine about in the future. But I do not want to begin my web log, or “blog”, on a negative note. Instead, I will talk about the budget.
My good friends, there is nothing in the world more beautiful than docking at the wharves of Carrington under a sky as blue as a Liberal government, with a stiff offshore breeze in your face and a browned hide on your back. Such was the scene that greeted my triumphant return to the motherland last Wednesday morning.
Having disembarked on my trans-Pacific steam ship back in September (as soon as word of Our Tony’s victory had reached my man-friend Fritz’s Argentinian finca) I had spent the ensuing months in an aquatic cone of silence. Feverish with anticipation, I could only postulate as to what wonders would await my arrival as I whiled away my hours, days, and weeks tanning on the ship’s deck.
Stopping for fuel and supplies in the Easter Islands, I heard murmurs of our country’s glorious new direction – no more “science”, women kicked out of cabinets and sent back to kitchens, immigrants banished from our shores. And then again, as we steamed across the roaring 40s, for a fleeting moment our cabin boy’s wireless picked up a transmission from Australia, and my eagerness grew as I caught news of Knights, and Dames, and Bigots!
But, my dear reader, none of this prepared me for the wonder, the glory, and the socio-economic segregation that is OUR TONY’S BUDGET!
For too long has our country LABOR’d under the weight of the welfare system, with honest, hard working battlers like me having to give at least HALF our weekly wage to overweight immigrant single mothers and kale-smoking, kaftan wearing hippies. Whole generations have been raised to believe that they will never have to lift a finger, and only sometimes lift a leg; with docile, marijuana-riddled 14 year olds inseminating their bloated, bleating cousins every 18 months. Public housing and public hospitals serve as nothing more than baby-making factories, in one door and out the other in an endless procession of diabetes and broken dreams.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg of Australia’s ails. I could go on and on, just like the madly rooting teenagers in Apartment Block C.
But, thank the lord, along came Australia’s White Knights: Tony and Joe, and their Aussie Battler Budget. Finally we have the instrument to break the back of our country’s socialist democracy cancer; the blueprint with which all pure Australians can finally build the Australian dream: a nation built on free enterprise, punching above its weight in sport but keeping below the parapet in international affairs, and with no homos.
Yes, my friends, reading over the Budget Papers as I sailed through Newcastle Heads, with a stiff nor’wester wafting the odours of industry from Kooragang Island over the deck, I couldn’t help but think that finally, I was home.
I hope you’ve missed me.