The statistics are in and they tell me that stupid ape is going down. The frenzy of likes on a facebook page I co-administer (Too Informed to Vote for Tony Abbott) provides evidence of the demise of your friend Tony Abbott. After over a year of limited interest, the facebook page has become a veritible hotbed of populist rage.
As co-administrator of the page, perhaps I should be fullfilling my job, posting something witty and thought provoking, engaging with debates about the failure of the trickle down effect, tracing the parallels between the fundamentalism of the Coaltion and that of extremist terrorist groups, or postulising about whether ice or Tony Abbott is the true scourge of society.
Inevitably, I will be read as a green, nihilistic, homo-terrorist in an open relationship with a communist Staffodshire puppy dog. In all my smug self-assurdness, I don't care so much about how tragic humans perceive me, however, I remain highly succeptible to anger managment issues that the Daily Telegraph would define as 'spiralling dangerously out of control'.
On Easter Sunday, a walk in the park descended into a battle between your innocent staffy loving commrad and the world of Lovejoy, and other human-centric 'people' that are so close to death that they really should know the joy of puppy-love. Ollie (or Olive, as I like to call him) was "straying". It's common for him to hang out behind the pack when in the woods. The possibility of food, pats, dinner, shade, scratches, ball, love, eggs, puppies increases loitering likeliness. I returned to the cafe where Ollie was performing. I like to watch him entertain his peoples with his staffy antics. He pretended to hug some some children while nudging toward their sandwiches. They seemed to laugh at the way his ears perked up, pushed to the top of his head like a little girl with piggy tails. They mimiced his snorting as he sniffed the ground while similtaneously peeing on the ice cream freezer. He used his ninja moves and drew on a number of his favourite styles of walk, from the grapevine to the rocking-chair, conducting his own circus of joy. In private this great magician is known as a "little lamb", "pie of the Ollie", "sweet Olive of Olliebama" and even "Bubby bearskin Rug", as he outstretches his body to form one line of delightfullness.
The naggy, know-it-all Anzac rattled me with a tone that exibited my lack of respect for my Christian elders.
"Your dog is being a pest".
"What's wrong with you", I asked, a statement demanding a list from the psychologist that he never realised he needed.
"There's nothing wrong with me".
"Shut up", I concluded.
"You just told MY father to shut up", another human pestering me unnecessarily in Ollie's favourite park.
"You're a stupid b***h".
I don't know what it was, maybe it was the frenzy of Erskineville Kings, the fact that it was Ollie's park, or that it was Christ's eternal birthday that made me react in such a manner.
Having made eye contact with the stupid bitch, I looked up and a couple of very stupid looking faces appeared shocked. Murmers of disgust further fueled my outburst.
"Hey, watch your language. There are kids around, you know", said the father whose wife was clearly flirting with Ollie, when I watched her from a distance.
"Just fuck off. F-u-c-k off", I said. My manner was abrupt as I placed Ollie on the lead.
My smug, narrcistitic grandiosity is only reinforced by the fact that I am bragging about this incident on my blog. Amused by my own behaviour, most disappointed that I didn't add "Just fuck off...back to your trashy white suburbs you god fearing breeders".
The page I co-administer, why don't you click like on it? You can be part of his downfall. You can tell your grandchildren that you helped make the moment. I might post something on there too, before I lose my job. When you read it, remember that I wouldn't tell you how to fix your car, bring up your children, how to make Anzac cookies or that Jesus doesn't really love you.
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