MirandaDevine.com

Gyah! What manner of foul Beast is this?

I stand on the brink of a great morass. Everywhere it is dark. The black sky, illuminated every now and then by the lightning, is teeming with scores of flying communists and vegan fairies, howling triumphant cries of victory. A radio is blasting leftist anthems and exciting the mob. Yet there is no radio. The radio never existed. But it has always been there, happily playing its leftist folksongs of dread. It is a postmodern radio. Quelle horreure!

Yet another of the Fellowship of the Completely and Utterly Correct has fallen into the yawning blackness below. It is Piers Akerman. He was pushed, shoved, and hounded to his doom by a large, hairy homosexual student riding a bicycle. I close my eyes. This cannot be happening. This is not what the prophecy predicted.

A gothic vegan incorrectanista with purple eye-makeup steps out of the menacing crowd, iPhone in hand. “Hah!” he shrieks, text messaging as he advances, “at last you’ll have your comeuppance, Miranda Devine”. He knows not what he is doing. I defeated that blithering buffoon John Thorpe and the AHA! I am a crusader of the people! How dare this raving, emotional, Bolshevik banshee taunt me! I bite my lip and say nothing. He will die soon, when I make my return.

I look to the Great Eye of John Winston Howard. It does not know where to look. It is trying to work out whether to trim its eyebrows or lock someone up. There are no boats. The refugees have safely landed ashore and have joined the leftist hordes in their advance. There is nobody to throw overboard. The streets are filled with Germaine Greers and Danielle Ecuyers, clad in fishnets and lapdancing the Ordinary Middle Australians who can’t work out whether this is just a film shoot for a particularly quirky Dancing With The Stars spinoff. I call for them to rally behind me but they can’t hear me. My voice is lost amidst the storm and the cries of the banana-bending vegetarians, and besides, there is an excellent night of television on.

The great Tower of Interest Rates is rising steadily and shadowing the land. The immigrants on my roof have mutineed and have torn out my rhododendrons. My sunbed lies smashed on the road below. Those blasted possums have grown teeth and are feasting on the bloodied remains of Gerard Henderson, who at this very moment is still crapping on about something glorious. Nobody is listening to him either, but then again, nobody ever did.

The White Wizard, Tony “Saruman” Abbott has fled. Or maybe they just threw him into the pit to shut him up.

A deathly squeal peels from the skies above my glorious and brave body. I look up. The Great Rudd is upon us, flanked by the Witch Gillard. He peers at me with his piggy little eyes. He speaks Mandarin, but inexplicably, I can understand him.

“I am Great Rudd from the Sky, and you are finished, Miranda Devine!”
“¿Que?” I reply defiantly.
Great Rudd from the Sky does not like this. Not one bit. His piggy eyes flash red behind his glasses. “I ask myself this question: why don’t you just give up?” The Great Rudd from the Sky is looking at me quizzically. The moronic chattering classes of leftist intellectuals echo him: “Yeah Miranda, give up. You’re an irrelevant old bag. Great Rudd will come from the Sky, take away everything, and make everybody feel high”.
“Silence!” Great Rudd booms, “I ask myself this question: am I as radical as you Arts Students? The answer is no. I also ask myself this question: do I want to be as middle of the road as possible so that I can just win this fucking election? The answer is yes.”

This shuts up the vegans good and proper. I might get to like this guy after all.

I want to tell the Great Rudd from the Sky why I will never give up. I want to tell him that all Glorious Middle Australians have the right to pursue what is best for them. That there will always be oil, and that the polar bears and cuscusses can go ram it where the sun wouldn’t even take a shit. That there is no way that I can be incorrect.

Then the communist mob begins to panic. It scatters, murmuring something about needing a cucumber smoothie. Great Rudd from the Sky looks confused. In the distance I can hear the sound of a Hummer roaring towards me. It tears through the crowd, laying waste to the hapless lefties in its path. There are guts on the bullbar. It is a glorious sight. A door opens, and a voice lisps from the vast space within.

“Get in”.

I get in. The interior is dark. As we race away from the scene, I catch a glimpse of some fishnet stockings. A familiar face leans over.
“I knew I could count on you, Miranda. You are in the circle of trust.”
“But Mr Downer, why are you dressed as a woman?”
“I am in disguise. They are after me too. Besides, I had plenty of outfits lying around. I knew they’d come in handy one day. Anyway, you know about my tendenc-…”
“I know, Alex. Your secret is safe with me”.

We must survive this horror for two more sleeps. Will we return to this cursed land triumphant?

Toodles!
xx Miranda