You might wonder, what in Adam’s name a crocodile hunter would be doing opining in this election. Well, I just figured there is so much argy bargy going on it might be best I avago at it. After all, it doesn’t seem like your status among the living or where you drop your boots at night has all that much to do with it. So I thought it might be nice to pull up stumps for a bit, have a nice cold glass of Adam’s ale, light a durrie and put fingers to the keyboard. Crickey, you didn’t think this stuff was just for schoolies, did ya? Plus you Yanks let that poofter Peter Frampton move to Cincy and have his say, so I thought why not give it a go?
Now you will have to forgive me, but this contest is like choosing between the smell in your dunnie or the neddie stall; only difference between the two being one you can ride and maybe make a few bucks. The other a bloke rides and it just takes from you. Like when you have a bad case of the trots if you know what I mean. Bloody Matilda, I already feel sore for the poor bloke that becomes an object of that analogy
Anyway the Thunder box is my place for deep thinking, so it seemed like a ripe time create a metaphor. You might think that last word is a bit too fancy for a bloke like me. But don’t start throwin the yonnies or you might just get me cheesed off, like when that sheila Katie Couric asks questions her 50 IQ couldn’t figure out with the answer on a page in front of her. I mean, how does an accomplished high school cheerleader have the gall to ask a candidate questions about your Constitution? That’s like Bozo quizzing Jonas Salk on ingredients in a vaccine. Entertaining? Sure, but so is putting firecrackers in a roo’s pouch. Crickey, I am losing brain cells just talking about her, so let’s get back to the story.
When I was in the dunnie, my mate and I were having a barney through the door. All of a sudden, in jumps me old woman with quite a loud barrack for me mate. First thing I thought was, “crickey, let me light a baccy it stinks in here”. But right after that I thought ”barrack”, down under that means cheering on your mates or taking sides in an argument. I had no idea what Obama meant, other then some gent on the telly said it gave him a tingle. To this day, it put me up a gum tree what any of that had to do with the telephone. And between you, me and Aunt Matilda, it sounded like the gent had an itch in his trousers for the fella. But, to each his own I guess. Anyway, I kept thinking about “barrack” because this was getting more painful than turps on a cut lip or watching a half hour infomercial with some smooth talking whinger as the star. In the end it made sense that “barrack” meant to argue and helped form a basis for my metaphor, so lighten up. But who was he arguing for? I pondered that thought while wiping posteriorly from my mind.
Once I got out of the loo it helped clear the air a bit. Who could this Joe Bloggs be, where did he come from and who were his mates? Well, I couldn’t find anything on the box so we fired up the IBM AT. It took a bit of searching, but there it was on the screen in 800×600 resolution. Why, right in front of my eyes Joe Bloggs became joe blake. This guy barrack had done more mucking around with rat bags than a Barney Frank on an all expense paid junket to San Francisco. Crickey, it was like learning the bloody Whiggles where part of the Manson family. How could anyone vote for this guy? End of investigation, my hunt was over. Barrack’s judgment was the worst this croc hunter had ever seen. We Aussies wouldn’t even make him queen of the Waltzing Matilda’s.
Anyway, in the end it seems to me you yanks shouldn’t spit the dummy over this election. The choice is pretty clear when you have a bushranger like John McCain and some airy fairy guy named after an argument- by jingoes. So crickey, get up off your arses and make the polling place look busy as Bourke Street in the rush hour. Otherwise you might chuck a spaz after the contest if your man loses.