The wave of #libspill crashed, and Tony’s egotistical boat was stopped. In his eyes the coup was unnecessary and shameful: kinda like a cash deposit into a people-smuggler’s bank account. As has marked his career, Tony isn’t going to let a dignified air of decorum get in the way of his new goal: topple Turnbull and deliver a retributive shirtfront to his former flock.
To Tony, life is all about choices. One can choose to live as a bush-Aboriginal or one can choose to restart writing a more homophobic version of the Holy Bible. While scribing the Book of Abbott he gets lost in an archaic trance of self-righteousness and religious sanctioned prejudice. His words shine with such angelic glow that he needs to wrap on a pair of speed dealers just to focus on his inspired work. He goes to bed that night reborn in his own bullshit.
He awakens to the fleeting memory of a dreamscape’d baby Jesus appearing to him, “you are the great white hope my son, go forth and reclaim the Liberals”. Tony has risen from political death and gets to work consolidating his power. Pyney and Hockey are the easiest to persuade. Simply put, Tony’s brief absence has cast a damning spotlight on the pair. Hockey needs a bigger buffoon around, and Pyney needs a more repulsive reptile in the terrarium they call a Cabinet. After all, Tony was a majestic political rodeo clown, keeping the focus on his baffling fuckwitery rather than the policy that so often tarred Australia with the brush of incompetence. Now for Julie Bishop.
Later that day, Julie Bishop heads to her new deputy leader’s office. She opens the door and spots a shadowy figure sitting in her chair. She flicks the light on to reveal a speedo-clad Tony attempting to stoke the fire of her feminine wiles by seductively eating an onion. Tony smiles and winks at her like she was a phone sex worker, “now Julie, how about you find out why they still call me the minister for women”.
Naturally, Bishop denies the opportunity to experience the wisdom of Tony’s sensual suppository. He looks into her cold eyes, and tries his last chance at a romantic takedown, “well girly, I remember when we were rubbing our foreign aid in Indonesia’s face, we had a moment, now look, no, no, no, I won’t use a condom, but that should be OK for a woman your age”. Remarkably, the last ditch attempt by the Minister for Pussayyy doesn’t work. Tony is sent from the office, and his prospects of bouncing back look bleaker than his Old Spice’d scented combover.
How could this happen? Who could’ve predicted a constituency would actually want to listen too? Political exile is cold, and Tony heads to the coal-powered embrace of his only friend left in the world: Gina the Rinehutt. She nurtures Tony’s vexed head and assures him that the big bad wind turbines won’t get him.
Shit happens ay, Tony?
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?