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Wash Your Fucking Mouths Out, Victoria

What a fucking load of motherfucking dickheaded bullshit those cunts in the Victorian parliament are, trying to impose old-fashioned tight-arsed, pursed-lipped, prune-faced, shrivelled-up, broomstick-arsed moral values on a free people, with their proposed laws against swearing in public. Goodbye barracking at fucking footie matches, for one thing. Or having a bloody beer in the pub. Or, shit, Melbourne comedy festivals. Or most prime-time TV these days. What will they do about Deadwood (ABC2 Mondays at 9.30) where almost every second word is “fuck”? (Honestly.) Ban a TV show in Victoria?

Fucking wowsers. It’s fucking un-Australian! Next the bloody moral guardians – arseholes to a man and woman (politicians, QED) – will bring in six-o’clock closing and book burning. No sex please, we’re Victorian; noisy sex-making that is audible through paper-thin walls (oh! oh! fuck me! fuck me!) will be a worry and attract the rozzers: so very Victorian, in the historical/colonial sense. When they (a Melburnian) told Sir Roger that Melbourne was essentially a conservative Irish Catholic village, Sir Roger declined to agree and has continued to disagree for 30 years, and continued to really like Melbourne people very much indeed. But this ….? Is the description seeping through?

Thought we’d got over all this in the 60s. Thought Don Chipp put an end to all this. Please do try to keep up, Victoria!

What politicians keep forgetting and we have to, what we MUST, keep reminding them of, is

THEY ARE NOT THE BOSS OF US. WE ARE THE BOSS OF THEM.

The micks will be delighted, especially the black-hearted, shit-for-brains Opus Dei. As long as the cunt Pell doesn’t try to import it to his new hometown.

P.S. I perhaps ought to warn any Victorians that although this post is published via servers in the United States, when you load the page you are legally “making” it in your own home which makes you liable if the plods sneak out from behind your curtains, or from under your bed. So before you read on please draw the curtains and check under the bed so Victorian government snoops can’t peek in.

Anyway, just saying … from the safety of NotVictoria.

To celebrate the bright new morality to the South, Sir Roger would like to share the difference Sydney makes with a special version of Lawson’s best-loved Pome.

And to quote from this glittering poetic prize: Ted Baillieu, may you slip back through your arsehole and break your fucking neck!

The Bastard from the Bush
Henry Lawson (with additional material)

As night was falling slowly on city, town and bush,
from a slum in Jones’s Alley came the Captain of the Push,
and his whistle, loud and piercing, woke the echoes of the Rocks,
and a dozen ghouls came slouching round the corners of the blocks.

Then the Captain jerked a finger at a stranger by the kerb,
whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb.
Then he made the introduction: “Here’s a covey from the bush;
fuck me blind, he wants to join us, be a member of the Push!’

Then the stranger made this answer to the Captain of the Push:
‘Why, fuck me dead, I’m Foreskin Fred, the Bastard from the Bush!
I’ve been in every two-up school from Darwin to the Loo;
I’ve ridden colts and blackgins; what more can a bugger do?’

‘Are you game to break a window?’ said the Captain of the Push.
‘I’d knock a fucking house down!’ said the Bastard from the Bush.
‘Would you out a man and rob him?’ said the Captain of the Push.
‘I’d knock him down and fuck him’ said the Bastard from the Bush.

”Would you dong a bloddy copper if you caught the cunt alone?
Would you stoush a swell or Chinkie, split his garret with a stone?
Would you have a moll to keep you; would you swear off work for good?’
Said the Bastard: ‘My colonial silver-mounted oath I would!’

“Can you play a game of billiards? Can you canon off the cush?”
“I can canon off the shithouse,” said the Bastard from the Bush.
“But you wouldn’t fuck your mother,” said the Captain of the Push.
“I’ve even fucked me bloody brother,” said the Bastard from the Bush.

‘Would you care to have a gasper?’ said the Captain of the Push.
‘I’ll take that bloody packet!’ said the Bastard from the Bush.
Then the Pushites all took council, saying, ‘Fuck me, but he’s game!
Let’s make him our star basher; he’ll live up to his name.’

So they took him to their hideout, that Bastard from the Bush,
and granted him all privileges appertaining to the Push.
But soon they found his little ways were more than they could stand,
and finally their Captain addressed the members of his band:

‘Now listen here, you buggers, we’ve caught a fucking Tartar.
At every kind of bludging, that Bastard is a starter.
At poker and at two-up he’s shook out our fucking rolls;
he swipes our fucking likker and he robs our bloody molls!’

So down in Jones’s Alley all the members of the Push
laid a dark and dirty ambush for that Bastard from the Bush.
But against the wall of Riley’s pub the Bastard made a stand,
a nasty grin upon his dial; a bike-chain in each hand.

They sprang upon him in a bunch, but one by one they fell,
with crack of bone, unearthly groan, and agonising yell,
till the sorely battered Captain, spitting teeth and gouts of blood,
held an ear all torn and bleeding in a hand bedaubed with mud.

‘You low polluted Bastard!’ snarled the Captain of the Push,
‘Get back where your sort belongs – that’s somewhere in the bush.
And I hope heaps of misfortunes may soon tumble down on you;
may some lousy harlot dose you till your ballocks turn sky-blue!

‘May the itching piles torment you; may corns grow on your feet!
May crabs as big as spiders attack your balls a treat!
And when you’re down and outed, to a hopeless bloody wreck,
may you slip back through your arsehole and break your fucking neck!’

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