Honi Soit writing competiton. Entries close July 29
Comedy //

Lefty Righty

No one ever told Sam Farrell not to snoop in other people’s diaries.

A morning in the life of a left-wing nutjob…

5.00AM: Am awoken by pig demanding I vacate my gutter. I explain to pig that I dwell wherever the fuck I want, currency is filth and housing is a lie. It insists that even so, I am still blocking traffic and should move. I yell ‘Chris Pyne Liberal Swine’ at it, and even though it thinks that isn’t relevant, I once did a class on intersectionality at uni and that means I can say whatever I want, wherever I want, to whoever I want because all the festering tentacles of the state drink from the same goblet of capital muntery. Pig does not take well to my explaining this. Claims muntery is not a word.

5.03AM: I briefly renounce my fuckoff perfect set of state-smashing values in acknowledgement of the fact that I actually just super love McNuggets. I demolished a six-pack of those bad boys like I will demolish the monarchy.

5.05AM: Commence daily repentance wank in honour of comrade Lenin. Ejac on the statue of Governor Macquarie in Martin Place. Am not sure why, but I’m very political.

5.30AM: Board ecological disaster masquerading as bus. Driver (wantonly cis-white male still clearly connected to the matrix and festering in his patriarchal sty of power) has the gall to demand scummy coinage from me. ‘Fuck you, petrol-guzzler’, I calmly explain. I shit where I stand. Driver, wearing anklet socks made in Bangladesh (I pulled up his trousers) asks me why. I explain to him as patronisingly as possible that I simply won’t shit in a toilet until Tibet Is Free. Also I am trialling a new method of non-violent direct-action that we all twinkled on in our last bi-daily caucus.

5.31AM: Am unreasonably thrown off bus. Am totally having Rosa Parks moment. Briefly happy-cry into my organic trade canvas alliance rainforest bag, unintentionally dampening my hunk of recycled-kale Fuck The System protest pamphlets. Begin writing Facebook post about Sexism In Corporate Azerbaijan.

10.30AM: Finish writing Facebook post. I celebrate this small victory for the working class by beginning a small occupy movement in the lobby of Campus IT. Just me for now, but I steel myself against humiliation by asking myself, as I always do, that without micro-actions in Croatia, would Pussy Riot be free today?

Cops off campus.

A morning in the life of a right-wing nutjob…

11AM: Idiot of a mother wakes me too early, again. I was up late last night typing Halo III cheat codes into the stock portfolio that Daddy bought me on my eight-and-a-half Birthday. I hate it when my mother wakes me instead of our man-maid Juan, because Daddy said I’m allowed to slap him with my gold-plated man-maid slapping paddle that he bought me for my eight-and-three-quarter Birthday.

11.30AM: I instruct Juan to summon my father. Father is working from home today, as his jet is being serviced and he understandably refused to use poor-person transport from Mosman to the city, like his chauffeured limousine, or the Comm Car Clive Palmer gifted him. Daddy is complaining about the overcast weather in the Congo today, where he runs a private military contracting business, but don’t worry because he also moonlights as CEO of the Commonwealth Bank to keep us out of The Other 99.9%.

11.35AM: Mother asks me which cow I would like Juan to shoot for my dinner. I click for Juan to hoist me out of bed and onto my Segway that Daddy brought me back from Bombay. I point at Sebastian and Humphrey. I only want a Sebastian eye-fillet, but yesterday I saw Humphrey sharing his food, bastardising The Market. And, as Friedman always said, ‘Shoot the weaker cow, and the shepherd will appoint you Vice-President (Internal Operations) at one of the Big Four.’ You must always be vigilant in these matters, or the poor will inherit the earth.

12.00PM: Juan knows that 12 o’clock is Alan Jones o’clock. And when those dulcet tones do not serenade me as I take my sparkling mineral water bath, I know something is wrong. Juan timidly informs me that St. Jones was sick this morning. Something primal stirs in me. I rip the ivory-tusk taps off the shower wall and pelt them at the ghastly Monet that pollutes my house-sized bathroom. They ricochet into a Ming vase but it’s okay because we have like ten of those ugly fuckers that Daddy got given by his business associate in Zaire.

Lest we forget.