Salad Lashings, from an uneducated gen y


Illustration, by Sam Moore

Writers note: This was a highly experimental piece, produced at a time when I was deep in the grips of substance abuse. The result: an onslaught of vicious anger directed at the page, taking it’s form in unrefined, self indulgent, political, and social satire.

Reporter: Why then, if you think most of your work is about dissatisfaction, and so on, why do you think you’re so popular?

Mick Jagger: Because, most young people are dissatisfied.

Reporter: In what way?

Mick Jagger: With the generation, which they think is running their lives.

Reporter: What things are you dissatisfied with?

Mick Jagger: The generation that runs our lives.

I do wonder, had I of been in my early to mid-twenties, in say 1972 – would I have done more acid? I never intended to have spent so much of my adult life, in an alerted state of consciousness. Spending weekends, that felt like entire years, traveling through the twisted dimensions of my psyche. The most prominent fallout being, a strange new sense of perspective.

I am sure, that had I of ventured down this very same path of LSD delinquency, in the late sixties, or early seventies, I would have steered further into psudo-philosophers, and a hard left – or new left – activism, and politics. I firmly believe, I would have been far more aggressive with my frustrations, if only, for the lack of information accessible.

Having the entirety of the world’s information at your fingertips, is just about the best thing, a boy could ever have. I have few memories of been scrawled out on a living room floor, going through a world encyclopaedia; very few. But, my time in front of an incandescent screen, reading tidy-black-words, off bare-white-backgrounds, has been innumerable.

A Nineties baby, of middle-class origin. A kid from the ‘luckiest country’. Yet, the dark perils of drugs, still managed to grab a hold of me, and corrupt my innocence for life.

I do often wonder, was my study completed? Did I explore my consciousness enough, to bring myself inner peace; should I return, to conduct further study? Could Alice, really return to wonderland?

Then, usually as I am pouring a drink, or packing a cone, I realise: whilst I have had a reasonable break from the ‘heavier psycho-active’s, I still have maintained, a stable diet, of: weed, alcohol, copulation, masturbation, dissatisfaction, and fascination. To keep that fire burning, at a mild, warm, level of lunacy.

I am an addict, a fiend, a lunatic individual, with a chronic case of overindulgence. Convinced by some ill driven, damaging notion, that it helps in some way. That I function better, when my THC levels are bordering on brownie-butter applicability. Or, when my ability to make a distinction between a poor old fashioned, and a reasonable one, is reduced to when I do, or don’t remember to add bitters.

Yes, so now you know, I am a dropkick. Some, may even label me a ‘criminal’ – should they choose to subscribe to atavistic views. And, let’s face it, most Australians do; the law also certainly stipulates that society, should view all drug users, in a criminal light.

It often becomes difficult to debate this with anyone who values Australian law, as ‘new gospel’. Especially, when ugly vicious men, like Troy Grant, are in positions of power and influence, to champion such ignorance. Making it clear, for all us, that they would rather see young lives lost, than in any way assist citizens, use illicit drugs safely.

(This dear reader, is a dig at Troy Grant’s, blatant disregard of the concept of pill testing at festivals.)

These men, are adamant on their stance on drugs, never even slightly flattering. A certainty equates from them; as if, all the information on the failure of the War on Drugs, simply, did not exist. These are the same rodent men – and Women– that are now dictating, when, and what legal drugs, we can use, and at what hour. Driving a dagger, straight into the heart of the entertainment, and creative industries, in two, of our most vibrant cities.

(Queensland, and NSW, “lock-out laws”)

Alcohol – the drug of our fine land. The drug we love to see guzzled down the rat traps, of our politicians, in ten seconds, or less. An initiation, that must go down in a similar fashion, to that of Bob Hawke, in order to gain approval from the surrounding constitutes. As if, this, were the only move that ever mattered along the election campaign, as they clap, and cheer, at the final confirmation, of your true-blue, Aussie spirit.

The War On Young People? – or, perhaps, A War On Humans? An inner struggle between greed, ignorance, and the future of our species. It all exists, and is the result of some strange doctrine that is alive, and breathing within this country. A disgusting nationalist pride, that has formed out of the consumerist swine, that populates our great land. The ones who are glad we stopped the boats, and choose to ignore the slew of human rights failures, that our country has committed in the wake of doing so. Echoing, a similar push towards the same nationalist-moronacy, that has seen Britain, choose to leave the EU. Yet, you may say, they are following us.

There is a theory in criminology, that dates back to the fifties. The theory of neutralisation; the notion of being capable of convincing yourself, that what you are doing is okay. That the pain you are inflicting, onto one of your own, is somewhat justifiable. It is something I am sure we can all appreciate, and understand – if only, for our crimes against our diets. It’s rife amongst those who have been served with disinformation, and injustice by their leaders. And, it certainly would not surprise me, if it were strong amongst those within the political game. After all, they move into politics, hoping to evoke change, and action, then, before not too long, they are fed the party doctrine, and brainwashed to step into line.

You can hear this when you speak with young liberals, who only quote party buzz-lines, and whom speak, as if they are, a faulty-beta-version of Siri.

Yet, I am the uneducated one, the high school dropout, leftist fuckwit; wandering through life aimlessly, and burdening others with indecisiveness, and an inability to adapt to the blueprints of life.

Always on the fringes – a non-conformist.

There is a cancerous hole, burning in the centre of me. An agitating, chronic void, draining me endlessly, of all pride, joy, and sense of self. I am required to give it constant attention, play with it, ask it: ‘What feels nice?’ Help it find a way.

Perhaps, I am a naive idealist; a man who has taken too many drugs, and read too much bullshit prose, by dope fiends. Maybe, I have spent far too many hours ingesting rock and roll propaganda, by crazed hippies. Brainwashed into a different kind of lunatic rhetoric, one that is clearly in contrast with a vast majority. Though, even if this were the case, I was brainwashed well, and my cult leaders would not have it any other way, then to have me forced against my will, to continue their work.

So, why go out easy, why ride the train with all the swine?


I have recently started working at a busy Café, in the central CBD of Brisbane. I have to catch the train into the city, as I live exactly an hour away.  It’s a long commute each day, but I get to read, which unfortunately, I did not find a lot of time for in my last job.

Usually, the highlight of the train ride, is getting to watch the sunrise in the east, over our city. The warm beams of light, reflect off the gentle waves, of the Brisbane river. You have a small, thirty-second window, to bask in the glory of the day coming to life, as you cross the bridge, from South Brisbane.

Unfortunately, on this particular morning as we crossed over the bridge, we were met with an ominous rain cloud. It hung low above the city skyline, forcing us into a Gotham darkness. The train arrived at 6 Am sharp, and my fellow commuters and I, exited outward, towards Edward Street.

As we continued down Edward Street, on our morning route, we were suddenly cast as audience members, to a man’s publicly, visceral, breakdown.

A man, in his mid-twenties, perhaps a few years older than myself, stands outside the large Commonwealth Bank; as we approach, the Louis Vuitton store, on the opposing side of the street. He has long hair, and is six-foot tall, shabby cheap clothes, no real style; an outcast of sorts. There he stands, about to give the performances of his life, to a handful of strangers.

He begins to scream absurdly loud, seemingly as if, his sole intention was to grasp our attention…
“I have nothing!” He bellows, from the bottom of his gut. The two tradesmen and I, all share looks with one another, as the man continues to scream.
“Don’t you understand? NOTHING!” he removes his shirt, and flexes his lean, lanky, body.

It is hard to determine, and although, none of us briefly hesitated to stop, and help the man. I think his cry’s, struck something internally with all of us. After all, that is what most of us are thinking, as we make our morning commute through the city, to our jobs, full of their own tortuous mundanity.

In a perfect world, at least one of us would have stopped, and given the man a moment to talk. But, we live far from a perfect world; we live somewhere between reality, and a small stray, from a possibly prosperous future for humankind. With, the opposing side holding: a near dystopian foreground, for eventual apocalyptic consequence. This might seem overtly bleak, as if almost, a masturbatory gothic extract, from The Book of Revelations. Yet, I feel that it is more accurate, than most would consider it to be.

We live in a time, when Britain is headed for a nationalist, monarchist decline. And, the bloke from The Apprentice, could soon be The President of the United States. All of this occurring, just as huge countries, continue to commit human rights failures, from Syria, to the Ukraine; to a new, and frightening, and ever looming world of pain, that is almost certain to engulf, across the African plains… and to, our own backyards, off shore, detention stays.

The Café is in close quarters, to the government buildings near George street. In fact, it almost serves as a hub, for all of the inhabitants of the offices above.

They will come for breakfast, breakfast meetings, morning tea meetings, lunch meetings, late-lunch meetings, and then finally swarming, to get another hot shot of sugar and milk, before we close up. The herds of swine, move in near perfect, half-hourly waves, of slow, yet with steady pace – with an almost gusto haste – towards their feeding trough. The beasts make hideous noise, as they move along the side of the building, dragging their guts behind them, squealing, and crying with excitement.

Some of the swine, appear almost hourly, seeming to have an internal clock that stipulates their arrival must be, precisely on the hour. Purchasing, more coffee and sugar, and ensuring that their likelihood of diabetes remains high; their stressed piggie-hearts, always pumping hard, and fast.

Harrison, is a little, old, Greek man; who when in first contact, comes off as a harmless 20th century man. A simple man, who has been working hard his whole life, and was finally, in his last venture, repaving the rewards of his life’s work. A blue collar man, having a seat at the table with the big boys.

He was so happy with his new position, in, and amongst the upper class, that he would guest them frequently at the café. He would bring them in for a free feed, and a chat about the football on the weekend.

Picture a little French man, in World War Two; the proprietor of a local bar, in a small, rural village: As the Gestapo, rolls into the town, Harrison’s French, WWII counterpart, opens his arms welcomingly to the Officers. He dusts off his most top-shelf drop, and invites them to share a drink.

A similar play of roles, exists between our real life incarnation of Harrison, and our WWII, hypothetical one. For you can visibly see, the mask that is formed, by his upper management acquaintances. The petty version of a friendship they offer him, for plenty of return.

Harrison, may have secured himself, a faux seat of sorts, at the Kingdoms, table of supper. However, it is not enough to leave him indistinguishable, from his new clique. He may play along well, but his worn physicality, and tendency to resort to violent, malicious, personal, verbal-attacks, on those whom upset him; prevents him from sinking in, as a true member of their world.

Frequent, short interactions with the clientele, remembering names, shaking hands, and handing out free fruit to customers, as they stand and wait in line. Always with a smile, always with charm.

‘Baby, baby, baby, how are you doing?’ Slick, and cool, with a twinkle in his tired eyes, this is a man who knows how to interact with people. Should he have emerged from a higher class, in a different life, he would have been a politician.

The very depth, of his Twentieth Century ways, revealed at the instance he presumed I was gay. Subjecting me to some bizarre, brazen, homophobic ridicule, whereby: over a forty second window, he repeatedly referred to me as, “his pretty boy”. Taking on, that strange tone of voice that encapsulates almost every one, as they pet a dog.

This incident, however peculiar, and somewhat alarming, barely even came to my attention. Having been subjected to similar ridicule, by immature youth, most of my life. The idea that this shameless display of apprehension, and vile bigotry, was now being directed at me, by my apparent employer, did not initially register. And so, I continued on, ignoring the initial warning sign, having been around bigoted bogans for much of my life, it really did not seem like a big deal. Besides, Harrison was not the only one in the workplace, that was approaching me with hesitant caution, over suspicions, of my wayward sexuality.

A twenty-six-year-old, kitchen-hand, who is clearly bi-curious, yet self-denying, had already started conducting his own ‘elaborate’ ploy, to uncover which ‘team’ I batted for. Investigating initially, to see if there were any customers, in which I had a liking towards. Then, promptly making a few innuendos jokes, regarding my behaviour, when interacting with the more effeminate male customers. Finally though, when all other methods to uncover my big secret failed, he shot for the question:

So, which team do you play for?

Oh, how oblivious to your insistent attempts, to acquire that information, I was. You, genius, beared-man-child, how could I be so foolish?

Never mind though, homophobia is rife within our country. And, having completed a trade qualification, in an industry that is apparently populated with mostly women, and men who are gay – straight, bisexual, and every, which-fucking-way you can be – I have been subjected to the same homophobic response from bigoted peers, for almost anything I do. From how I dress, to how I talk, to my lack of interest in sports.

I have been subjected to so much apprehension, on the basis of pure assumptions, that others have formed about my sexuality. Projecting their dormant animosity, and insecurities upon me, in a display of a bizarre natural defence mechanism. Sometimes, this is the result of skewered views, when it comes to basic morals and ethics – atavistic axioms, etched all across the history of humankind, heavily influenced by historical religious bigotry – and sometimes, out of poor education, and or, lack of intelligence. But, mostly, because your average bloke cannot comprehend, not being a misanthropical-bastard.

Yet, I can understand. I myself held homophobic, and bigoted views on a whole array of issues. When I really start to question, where those ideas came from, the answer usually returns to my Catholic upbringing – and, not forgetting of course, the twentieth-century doctrine, that is held by most Australians.

A conservative default amongst the common people, in a country that is far from politically correct. A nation that has many vices, – and somewhat champions them as social norms – and relies on old prejudices, to ostracise, and marginalise their fellow citizens. Accusing them of somehow jeopardising, the very fabric, that holds us together as a nation. Fear mongering individualist, with the dishonour of being “Un-Australian”, or, too politically correct. Creating a common enemy, for the populist swine to grasp onto:

Those, who do not treasure, Australian values.

Nevertheless, all of this occurring in a workplace in 2016; and, I just rolled it off. But, I figured the pay was reasonable, and I truly hate, not making my own way in life. Plus, these people, I knew their types: classic, blue collar Aussies – even if this was not their country of birth, they knew the values, that meant to most to Australian’s, and they displayed them proudly.

After witnessing huge unfurls of rage, extreme bigotry, and hate towards his staff, in long violent, and vile, personal attacks – the kind of scenes, you would typically see in your frightening, nightmare, flashbacks, of your own experiences with domestic violence – my opinion of, Harrison, the harmless Ole’ world guy; changed vastly. This twentieth-century man, turned into an evil rodent, clawing, and spreading disease amongst the swine.

I could excuse his vitriol towards myself, and his lewd antics, and even appreciate them, and consider them to be somewhat enjoyable with the right company – and perhaps, in another time, sink a beer or two with him. But, his attacks on female staff members were inexcusable. It was disgusting, and I wish I could have walked out, at the instant I witnessed the first attack.

I was shocked, and unprepared, living in some blissful ignorance, that we had only a glimpse of an ole’ world guy, and not the whole picture. But, we did. We had the violent, misogynistic, disrespect to go along with all the jokes, and charm.

Harrison, was the very essence of my common enemy; my now new employer. A twentieth century man, living in his own blissful ignorance. Full of the same Trump supporting, Nazi-esque, neutralised malicious thought, that is responsible for our current crossroads, in human history. The subjects who are less concerned about global warming, and more concerned about economic stability, and terrorist attacks. The very same swine, who’s jaws hit the floor, when you detail the history of ISIS to them. The one’s who can neutralise, just about anything, as long as it does not impose, on their well mapped, fool-proof plan, to storm the kingdom.

At a time that reminds so much of the edge of the sixties, before all the hope, and commitment for change fell away; and the Vietnam war waged on, and The president of the United States, became an infamous crook; and the harsh reality of power, and evil, prevailed, demanding compliance.

A precipice is upon our species, to either commit to change, strive for world peace, and unity; or, to head down worn roads, to our final destination of extinction.

Yet, with all of this information, easily accessible to 2.9 billion people, throughout the globe; many whom have that access, choose not utilise it. They would rather be drop-fed bullshit, by men like Rupert Murdoch, and James Packer. All of the consumerist swine, so blissfully ignorant, going with the flow, just skimming through, not wishing to disturb their own chances for peace.

Wake up. Neo…

Follow the white rabbit…

Political commentary – if you could call this hogwash that – was never even a blimp on my radar. If I were ever going to write anything, it would have been music, or fiction. The only other period in my life, that I heavily held an interest in politics, was when I briefly invested my time, in the financial market. I still always held a more central political standing, never this far left. However, I also relied on the vast majority of my information, from big media.

I spent very little time, doing my own fact checking, playing an ignorant part, and never questioning anyone’s journalistic integrity. Later though, as I descended into my current state of delinquency, I became: an information junkie. Spending hours, upon hours, endlessly living in a hyperactive, autodidactic-state. It quickly became apparent to me, that the void was calling me to politics; where minds go to die.

An endless vicious cycle, of misery, and suffering. A front, where no one could ever navigate unscathed, your life torn to pieces, just to create a little bit of leverage. I was being called, to an arena of death, to scream, and cry, a lunatic rhetoric to no end.

But, I cannot comprehend, still to this day: how the swine can knowingly support a party that employs little-rat-man like, Greg Hunt, – who is probably a relative to our friend Harrison of sorts – to be, The Minister for the Environment. The kind of man, who proclaims that there are no direct links, between coal, and global warming. The kind of rodent, who is awarded a minister of the world ‘sash’, for his apparently magic ability, to convince huge governing bodies, like the UN, to censor international reports, on worsening global warming situations.

(Greg Hunt, did not receive the Best Minster of the World  award, for censoring the UN’s report on the Great Barrier Reef. Although, I would like to believe they awarded him the accolade, purely on his ability to mislead the public. )

Convincing with his repugnant vermin charm, that if the rest of the world becomes privy to the fact: that he, and the Coalition, do not give a shit about ‘that dammed-reef’ anyway, – despite their pledge of $3 billion dollars towards saving it, an amount that falls $7 billion dollars short, of the estimated required funding, by leading reef experts – and by highlighting their gross inaction, or rather, utter disinterest in saving the natural wonder. It may affect, the last whims of tourism that our nation would profit off, before the reef dies.

A government, who after winning an entire election campaign, based off the promise of internal stability – and not to mention the removal of the first, progressive emissions tax policy, to affect action on global warming – would go on to have, their own party leader shived in the showers, for fear of losing this current election.

Oh Tony, you, onion-eating, monarchy-worshiping, Catholic, you. Our affections of Mr Abbott, in our fine nation, I think, for the most part were always limited. I despised the man from the beginning, if only for his horrendous public speaking ability.

There was only ever one man, who I held any respect for, who supported that embarrassment of a politician. A gentleman, who remains one of my true – and might I mention, one of few – mentors in life. A man who got over the other side of the fence, with his wife, his kids and his faith. But, the devil came for him, regardless of all of his efforts.

He suffered an awful death. His last days spent in horrendous pain, as he faced seemingly different perspectives on life, upon reaching the end. He had long, lost, his battle with a faltering sense of reality; due to the quick, and violent, deterioration of his health. All the result, to the best of their knowledge of, Motor Neurone Disease.

I could never be sure, if he truly was, a conservative man, in the same vile, monarchist, Christian ways, that Abbott was. Or, if perhaps, that were the case, right up until the end, where he finally came face, to face, with all of the disinformation, and lies, that shaped his life a certain way

Regardless, of how that great man, crossed over to the other side. He will forever remain, the only man, which I have ever held respect for, who supported that political joke. But, he died, and sure enough, Tony’s ratings tanked. And, just like clockwork: they knifed the cunt in the back.

“There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”

-Bret Easton Ellis

Turnbull, emerges from the shadows. Abbott is sent home to Margie, and, she sends him out to score a second-hand fridge from Gumtree. Turnbull, places his own platinum card upon the table, footing some of the bill, on the renovations of The Lodge. Assuring tax payers, of his self-made wealth – in a somewhat similar outlandish barrage, of wealth and success, that Trump, has torturously subjected all of us to.

After all, this is a man whose name, was in the Panama papers, and he will openly talk of his offshore accounts; instilling a confidence into the people, that he is indeed, a legitimate, and clean millionaire.

So, as this new character emerged, so did my new found interest with politics. Finally, a politician worthy of my disdain. Whilst, Abbott, was a perhaps the worst politician, Australia, has ever seen climb so high – in my lifetime at least – it was always clear he was never going to last long. He lacked the power of conviction, he was too transparent. But, Malcolm, our silver-foxed, knight in shining armour? Or, a brilliant Nixon-esque, mask-wearing, power-mongering, crook?

When the Coalition won the last election, I made an active move, to not focus on Australian politics. Turning my chronic, consumption-syndrome cravings, to international areas. After all, Abbott, was the man that spent sixty seconds on camera, just bobbing his head, up, and down, as faced apparently difficult questions by a reporter. Glazed eyes, like his circuits were malfunctioning. It seemed ludicrous that anyone would ever consider him a leader, even without the horrendous regressive ideas, his government would go on, to force upon our nation.

From, the almost complete destruction of the already well planned, and funded NBN by Labor – which was far more in line with the Coalition’s now proposed, smart cities – to, their clearly disgusting stance on marriage equality, and lack of empathy, and or, understanding of any aspect, of the plight for equality amongst minority groups; and not forgetting, their brazen love affair, with the fossil fuel giants.

These parties, are evil, misanthropical-bastards here to destroy our future. Living off the long gone ghost, of their previously long reigning leader, John Howard. The man with the eyebrows, responsible for the huge reduction of gun violence, in our country. Yet, a man who still lost to the edgy appeal, of Kevin 07.

New research from, the Australian Institute, has shown, that the Turnbull/Abbott government, only came fifth, after: Rudd, Keating, Gillard, and then Howard, when held up comparatively, against the performances of other members of the OCED – Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, a thirty-four nation organisation. This new research has also indicated: the Abbott/Turnbull government, could perhaps be, the worst our nation has seen, across a whole array of economic issues, since Menzies.

Turnbull, may be a much better showman, an articulate man who knows all the right buzzwords. With a great reputation, of personal wealth behind him, and even, an almost progressive stance in comparison to other hard-right conservatives – so much so, Andrew Bolt, believes he is too left. However, he, nor Abbott, have proven they are the better option economically, for our nation – fizza.

We need to be looking for progressive solutions. We need to come to terms, with the idea: the entire globe – including our nation girt by shore – will be internationalised. The only way to ensure that we do not destroy civilisation, and eventually extinct our own species, is by working together. Ending war, ending poverty, and unfortunately, ending capitalism in its current atavistic form. I am sorry people, but it is not going to work. Inflation is just going to continue to rise, poverty will continue to rise, inequality will continue to rise, anger will continue to rise, and, you can be sure, we will only descend into anarchy, destruction, and war.

We can begin that work now, to slow global warming; we can return to regulating big money industries, and we can make it easier, to buy your first house, rather than your fourth. We can welcome more to our nation, and, we can revolutionise our energy sector, utilising our huge country, to create thousands of jobs, and new industries for people from all works of life – even refugees. We can be joyous, in continually reminding ourselves, that individuality is the key to finding your calling, and supporting, and worshiping individualism, and exploration of self, is the only way humans will flourish in life. And, we can choose to only employ leaders, who understand, and grasp in full concept, this truth to humanity.

Moves like introducing progressive – but, necessary – ideas, such as Switzerland’s UBI, are the exact line of thinking that is going to be required to pull off such a world. The universal base income, is a fantastic idea. As, although we may be banning killer AI; AI is coming, and it is going to take all of our jobs.

If you go into any McDonald’s now, they have self-service computers, instead of 16 year olds. With the ever growing population, and an exponentially growing technologies market, you can be sure, that many of our basic jobs of minimum income, will become obsolete. Forcing the uneducated, to unemployment, and most likely to poverty. With an ever growing divide, throughout the entire world, between the wealthy, and the poor, with apparently no reasonable solutions, coming from current forms of welfare; it appeals as one of the only sane proposals.

The concept has been around for a long time, and there was even a notable conservative economist, named, Milton Friedman, who is well known for championing the system under the guise, of a negative tax income. It is quite self-explanatory, and is probably an easier way of describing a UBI, to a conservative – especially, if they are blue collar.

Yet, Malcolm Turnbull, looked into the exact area of Twentieth Century politics, that Milton Friedman made his name in; and, he only came back with: trickledown economics. We had a glimmer of hope, that perhaps, Malcolm Turnbull was as far to the left, as the right could go. I had brief optimism that he would at least give social issues, the voice they deserved.

Instead, he played along with the Australian Christian Lobby, and Cory Bernardi’s bigoted attempts, to ensure marginalised fear still runs through our schools. The whole Safe Schools fiasco, just the beginning of Malcolm’s, brazen displays of devotion, and worship, of old party ways.

The bankrupt morals and ethics, that run through the Coalition’s bloodline, exploding in an uncontrolled volcanic eruption, just before the election. With ole’ Malcolm’s revelation, regarding the Marriage Equality Plebiscite, effectively being rendered, nothing more than a $160 million dollar – or possibly more, as some have suggested it could cost up to $500 million dollars – question poll; when parliament is granted a non-binding free vote, after the plebiscite, regardless of its results.

Our society ridden with this diseased notion, that it is justifiable to limit your peers, with baseless restrictions, and limitations upon their freedom; due to old traditions, and religious beliefs. The very same consumerist swine, who claim over political correctness, when you call bullshit on their bigoted bullying tactics, and skewed, paradoxical Christian values.

Born into this 
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this

-Charles Bukowski

No one asked to be born. We are all, victims of birth. We should instead be focusing on ensuring, that ourselves, and every other human on this earth, can go through life, freely, and unharmed. We should be moving to empower all, everywhere, and whenever our fellow human falls, we should be there to help them up.

We should be treating every member of our species as equals; regardless of race, religion, gender-identity, and sexual orientation. This means allowing everyone the opportunity to use their voice – even if they are hateful morons like, Donald Trump, Cory Bernardi, or Troy Grant – though, never faltering to hold all voices accountable, to the convention of truth.

We need an update on our identity as a species. The 20th century is over. Ole’ world men, need to be educated. We are just apes after all, and there is no right, nor wrong way, to live like an ape. These bastards may not continue to get away, with trying to impose atavistic axioms, upon our lives. The jig is up, they must go.

You read about suggestions emerging, like the proposed changes to intellectual property rights, which rise up, from the mysterious Marxist-sounding, “productivity report”. And, their half-baked smart cities proposals, to their complete abuse, and facilitation of human rights failures; their regressive tax policies, and blatant reluctance to accept, adapt, and take action on, the well documented, revolutionary paradigm shift, that is required of the national energy sector.

To, of course: their utter disdain, and objection of any proposal, of a national corruption watchdog. Proof, no doubt, of a revolution of their own in the pipeline; the final merger into dystopian hell. A turn to the same, neutralised, Nazi-thought, that is leading a pack of consumerist swine, to support a misanthropical-beast like, Donald Trump. A movement demanding compliance, one last time, as the metadata exposes, those, which could impose, on their move, into a strange Orwellian-hell.

The only party I feel, that is pushing for progressive ideas, on renewable energy, aggressive tax reform, drug policy, social justice, and education – despite their lack of ability to hold power – is the Greens. Richard Di Natale, is putting forth compelling ideas, to rapidly change the face of our nation.

The Greens, have a track record of being somewhat radical ‘lefts’, but, perhaps that is necessary… Perhaps, in order to ensure our place, on the right side of this monumental, historical shift to enabling global progress – for the survival of our species. We must move away from even the central left; as their basis in old world politics, may render too slow, to meet the demands, of the ticking timer of global warming.

We must evoke drastic action now, as we are looking at tumultuous century, full of crazy unknowns. We need to be ahead of the curve, on the ball, up to scratch – proactive. We must be prepared, for the rapid shrink of the job market, for the exponential population growth, the rising sea levels – which will wreak havoc on coastlines – and, for a future where borders, become nothing more, than signs along the road, for global explorer’s to snap for their grams.

A globalisation; an incestuous breeding ground, for creative innovation, freedom of expression, self-exploration and discovery. A prosperous future for humankind, that could lead us to become migrants of the universe, leaving our own planet, as refugees; fleeing the destruction, we imposed upon our homeworld.

The freedom fighters of the 20th century, the ole’ world guys, who promoted some of the right ideas, with a quarter of the information, at their disposal. Some of those idols of my own, have begun to go; others have descended into their own capitalist hell. Leaving in their wake, a slew of idealistic morons – such as myself – to scream, and shout, as a new age heretic expecting immediate change. Impatiently growing tired, of the slow progress we witness, in our short lives. A short, but possibly meaningful stay, with just enough energy to say:

I am as mad as hell, and I am not going to take this anymore.

So, I am going to scream, shout, and rant away. As I feel it is the only way, to gratify that void of mine. There is no way for me to ever know, if this were the right thing to do. I can only use the information I have at my disposal, and you should too.

If you are voting this Saturday, you should consider heavily, all of the information available. This is a time in history, where we must decide where we would like to stand? To be continually fooled, fear mongered, and disserved, by these rodent men; who’s very essence of power, is fuelled on the reliance of compliance, from the consumerist swine, to eat up their Orwellian spiel. Or, to stand up for humanity, and end their ole’ world ways, once and for all.

Written by,