Anthony Abbott’s Xmas Miracle

In the city of Canberra, of roundabout fame,
Lived a strange little man with a clergyman’s name;
He wasn’t a cardinal, though there was one he knew,
And he wasn’t a bishop, although he had two;
He wasn’t nun in a gown and a habit,
And he wasn’t a pope – he was only an Abbott.

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How many dead babies does it take to win an election?

I would say that reading about the election fills me with a hollow, nauseating despair; except that reading that reading about the election fills people with a hollow, nauseating despair also fills me with a hollow, nauseating despair. It seems like the most dull, painful cliché of this dull, painful, cliché-infested election is how dull, painful and clichéd the election is. Thus we are locked into an infinite regressive spiral, imprisoned by corrosive cynicism and shit Mark Knight cartoons. This is the Toyota ™ AFL Finals Season of our discontent.

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