It’s a great day for thousands of lowlife alcoholic child abusers today, as Kevin Rudd’s booze money wings its way through the ether to bank accounts across the western suburbs. All across Australia, brickie’s labourers will be celebrating with a trip down to the pub, followed by a stop-in at the local bordello for a quickie from a diseased slapper, before heading home to bash the long-suffering missus.

What a victory for Labor! What a disappointment for Middle Australia.

All the family values that Mr Howard fought for years to uphold have been thrown out the window in the past twelve months, thanks to the rabid bunch of lefties, lesbians and labour unionists who are now farting their policies through our once-glorious parliament. Meanwhile, the economy is falling in a heap thanks to Swan’s stupidity, it is no longer safe to walk the streets of Sydney at night, and boatloads of boat people are on the verge of driving house prices through the roof once more!

Now is the time when we must hear the voice of the conservative loud and clear through the noise of the chattering classes. No longer can we afford to sit and watch as Julia Gillard hands away our hard-earned prosperity to radical fringe groups, such as the Aborigines, the environmentalists and the working classes. What Australia needs to get us through these tough times is real vision: tax cuts for the rich; longer working hours for the poor; and mandatory work for the dole programs to get some decent rail infrastructure built. We’re paying all these layabouts to lounge around at home, while the rest of us have to sit in traffic because there is not enough public transport to get the poor people off the roads! It must end now.

Friends, I have returned from the wilderness to lead the conservative revival. Lazarus with a quadruple bypass I am not, but I promise rekindle the good work of Miranda Gloriosa Esmerelda Agapanthus Bonhilde Diamond Devine and put the sword to the Queenslanders who are currently purporting to run the country. Plus, I’m angling for some more taxpayer-funded trips to go and chat up the spunks in our defense force!

Toodles!

xx Miranda

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

I ask you, Middle Australia: what do the following people have in common?

• Danielle Ecuyer
• Monica Attard
• Julia Gillard
• Germaine Greer
• Paris Hilton

Don’t think too hard about it now. The answer shall be made clear to you.

Syphillis!

How dare these cheap harlots of the left dare to question the importance of my fact-finding mission to the Middle East. How dare they question the eleven year reign of the benevolent John Winston Howard. How dare they ride around in all of the available taxis, flashing their rash-ridden privates to all and sundry!

But, Middle Australia, it is not the vicious attacks on my character that concerns me. I, Miranda Esmerelda Agapanthus Gloriosa Diamond Devine, am above their criticism. I rise above it like the image of Mother Theresa, and defecate on these insignificant little worms from on high. I shit, as it were, in their shoes.

No my dear readers, it is the little people for whom I am once again spurred into action. Rudely I awaken from my wonderful dreams (involving Daniel Craig, a family size tub of yoghurt and a rubber-coated 6 D-Cell Maglite) and hear the call of the downtrodden. Those poor, defenceless voices of the silent majority are once again being trampled by the louche left, smothered in soya and battered by barley, beans and brown rice.

The vegan left are slowly and efficiently oppressing Middle Austrlia, led by that communist cyclist Carl Scully, whose flag is flown by the bitter bitches who mourn the decline of their beloved leader and economic extirpator Paul Keating at the 1996 election. For eleven long years these denizens of depravity have attacked the very fabric of Middle Australian society, and like Abigail Williams have been ousting their enemies with wild, baseless accusations.

Caroline Overington, two-time Walkely award winner and author of Kickback, the story of the AWB scandal, dared to make an innocent joke regarding an old lover’s tiff. The louche left immediately cast her to the wolves, claiming interference with the political process, despite the presence of the “cyber wink” which made clear that this was a short, jocular conversation.

Meanwhile Danielle Ecuyer, with all the grace and sophistication of an elderly dachshund in heat, has been stirring up the media by making formal complaints to the AEC. It amazes me that she has the time or ability to even write a letter of complaint, as the rest of her campaign has been spent tarting her “credentials” in a manner more suited to the front cover of Penthouse.

Phooey to you, Danielle. After the election, you will be back to selling your body on Bayswater Road, and I will continue to be the voice of the silent majority. Yet again, the good guys win, common sense prevails, and the reds are locked back under the bed.

Toodles!

xx Miranda

To the Australian Hotels Association and all the barristers that represent it: each day I grow more powerful. I am the raging, flaming incarnation of Influence itself. I am an immolation, sent back in time to burn through red tape and be a beacon of courage. I am a lobbying superpower that galvanises glorious Middle Australia and coaxes it into action. One glorious, united, informed nation of Average Joes.

Truly Glorious.

Don’t fuck with me, John Thorpe, you blue-singletted buffoon. I strung you up from the rafters of the beer swilling barns that you love so much. To me, you are nothing more than the fart in the crowded pub that causes every Middle Australian to exclaim “That’s a bit wrong…was that you, mate?”. You were offensive, but you dissipated. You split into a billion pieces and wafted into the night air. You settled on the walls in tiny gaseous bubble particles. You are nothing more than a distant, lager fuelled memory.

Watch out, Joe Hildebrand of the Daily Telegraph. I saw your facetious comment to my post from a while back. I am the Big Dog of Australian journalism, and you just pissed on my fire hydrant. The audacity! Joe, if you dare write as much as one more word that even remotely attempts to criticise my astonishing talent, you’ll be joining Mr Thorpe.

My latest victory gives me much hope for November 24. According to the latest left-leaning poll, the Glorious John Winston Howard is really in a pickle. However, I am hoping that on account of the new and ‘funky’ bars that should start popping up as a result of my efforts, all the Leftist, Greenpeace-Loving Sausage Warriors will be drunk at the polls on that fine Saturday morning. As drunkards tend to do, they will vote for the Shooter’s Party, just for a laugh. Hah! Those Leftist, Marxist, university-attending comedians won’t be so smug when they find out where their preferences go!

A glorious plan! Honest John, you have nothing to worry about. Interest rates will not harm you. And with 15 days left, you also have plenty of time to recapture the House. After all, there’s plenty of ocean, there’s plenty of refugees wandering around the place (I have a large family rapidly multiplying on my roof, in fact), and my late uncle Ted willed me a leaky tinny that I’ve been trying to find a use for.

Toodles!
xx Miranda

He left because he was guilty.

Thanks to my highly investigative journalism, I believe we can put the Haneef case to bed as a triumph for our glorious government. Hurrah! Take that, Queer Charlie, Quite Communist, Civil Rights Barristers Q.C.!

Unfortunately, while our hummus-consuming friend is basking in his own body odour in darkest, foulest, smelliest India, news in my part of the world is a little slow. However, in the interests of uncovering the evils that peril our glorious lifestyle and ensuring that I continue to be paid a ridiculous salary for writing 1000 words a week, I decided it would be beneficial to write an article about…something that outrages me.

• Aborigines? No. The less said, the better. Particularly with an election coming up.
• Communists? No…I might end up contradicting myself. Besides, I now have the reds that were living under my bed working as a chain gang to pave my driveway. Marvellous! Capitalism in Action!
• Terrorists? Be alert, be alarmed, and fire at will on suspicious-looking Muslims in burqas!!! Oh, but it’s all so old hat right now.

Let’s talk about Pop Trash Pornstars, Middle Australia. You know the ones that I’m talking about. The ones infiltrating the minds of innocent teen girls from Perth to Point Piper.

1. Paris “Hotdog down a Hotel Hallway” Hilton.
2. Lindsay “Loose Lips Pink Tacos” Lohan.
3. Nicole “Something down there feels itchy” Richie.
4. Posh “Pig-nose-prissy-pants” Spice.
5. Germaine “Terrorist” Greer.

To the individuals 1 – 4: you are a menace to society, with your shaven crotches and fast cars and outlandish drinking habits. Quit bikini waxing and get a day job. If you’re going to drive dangerously, only do so in areas populated with persons of colour. To individual no. 5: Quit your day job and get a bikini wax. Or in the very least, consider removing your beard.

The increasing sexualisation of women in our society is somewhat worrying. Not only are young women being portrayed as sex-on-tap supertramps, ready to do the rumpypumpy in the rhododendrons at first opportunity, trollops such as Ms Hilton and Co. are encouraging our young women to become proponents of the stereotype.
Male magazines are loving it. Shorn pubic hair is clogging showers throughout the nation!

Our Middle Australian women are turning into lapdancing labradors, panting and howling for bone!

A tragic, crack-smoking, raging generation of lascivious strippers!!!

I really don’t have a solution for this, but boy, it makes for great filler.

…

Encourage all aboriginal children to read!…

Please excuse me, anyhow. I have a date with Kevin Andrews. We met online. Hubba hubba!

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

What on earth is this “QC” business? Every second lawyer with a bit of experience is referring to themselves as a “QC” lately. What in Whitlam’s buggery does QC even stand for? Quite Communist? I think so!

What a load of hogswash and tiddlywinks these learned bookworm intellectual bottomfeeders peddle! Put down your chardonnays and listen up, Queer Charlie barristers of Australia: just because you windbagging blow-your-own-alpenhorn peace-mongers have a law degree and wear a powdered wig, doesn’t mean you’re more correct than me. I’m the one producing literary masterpieces. I’m the one Fairfax publishes.

I’m the one with the mathematics degree! I’m Miranda Esmerelda Diamond Agapantha Gloriosa Devine!

Which of course, makes me an authority on all things legal. I’ll let you in on a little secret, lefty-barrister scum: Laws are there to protect the population. To preserve the glorious Middle Australian, his house, his car, his plasma screen and his magnolia tree. To let him water his lawn without fear of a terrorist attack on his rhododendrons or the Harbour Bridge.

Which is why I propose we scrap the judicial system altogether.

Hearsay is a load of garbage! There is nothing better than an unqualified assertion. Here’s one for you: Kevin Rudd told me that he eats aboriginal babies. Alive! Hah!

I just don’t understand why we’d want to help criminals like Dr Haneef, infesting our children’s internet chatrooms and planning all kinds of voodoo muslim higgledypiggledy, when we can simply trump up the charges and wash our hair of society’s nits!

I propose that we just let that glorious hunk of All-Australian Man-meat, Mick Keelty, sort it out. He is more intelligent than all the barristers in the universe. What’s more, he’s a police officer.

This is a completely infallible proposition, yet again. The Glorious Fellowship of the Completely and Utterly Correct agreed with me completely at last night’s cognac and poker party.

Never fear, Middle Australian readers of glory. Innocent people don’t need justice. Further, be assured that the Howard government has never lied about anything. They are the single most transparent institution this glorious nation of cricketers has ever produced. I can prove it. In fact, while we’re on the topic of chatrooms, I will disclose the contents of an internet chat conversation I had with Alexander Downer a little while back.

Devine69r: Hi Alex you l33t0.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: Hi. :(

Devine69r: LOL LOL LOL! There is nothing like a r3p0rt from the government to silence the howling, homosexual, Rastafarian civil rights rent-a-quote lawyers of the left. Excellent work Alex. u Rock FTW BBQ!

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: Oh but Miranda I’m so worried. IMHO i’m in serious shit right now.

Devine69r: Y????

Devine69r: (btw KKK ftw mthafkr :P:):PPPP)

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: I forgot to take off my lipstick before parliament. OMFG OMFG OMFG i’mmmm sKreeeewwed.

Devine69r: yo, the electorate may absolutely loathe u, but darling, it has absolutely nothing to with the fact that u dress up in stilettos and fishnet stockings on the weekend. Or that the boys at that leftist club in Kings Cross refer to you as ‘SausagePants’. ))

Devine69r: srsly.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: huh?

Devine69r: seriously.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: oh.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: r u sure?

Devine69r: yep. ftw mthafkr. omgbbqgrass

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: Thank god 4 that.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: ….

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: ……….

Devine69r: waaaaaat??????????????

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: What about when I did my Star Spangled Dangled-Doodle Lapdance for Pres Bush? Do they know about that???????

***KevinAndrews{N0-V1sAs-4-CuRRIes} has joined the chatroom.***

KevinAndrews{N0-V1sAs-4-CuRRIes}: WTF?Hellooooooo??????

Devine69r: Nothing has been found out about you.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: Sure?

Devine69r: Nothing has been found out about you.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: K.

KevinAndrews{N0-V1sAs-4-CuRRIes}: WTF? Who’s SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r??????

Devine69r: Uh….it’s Mohamed Haneef.

KevinAndrews{N0-V1sAs-4-CuRRIes}: k. Kewl. bye.

***KevinAndrews{N0-V1sAs-4-CuRRIes} has left the chatroom.***

Devine69r: LOL kbai.

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: hahahaha. bi…..

SausagePantsForeignMinisterR0xx0r: ………sexual. :P:P:

Devine69r: LOLOOLOLOL ROFL ROFL OMG. gnite.

Barristers, go jump off a short pier and take your bleating leftist followers with you. Due process is for dolebludgers, fags, and aborigines!!!!!!!!!!!! Why wait in line when you can drive straight over the top of it?

Toodles!

xx Miranda

Even that ruddy-faced nerd-herder, Kevin Rudd, is in agreement. Not to give credence to anyone’s opinion who sits to the left of Tony Abbott, but honestly, if that homosexual midget sympathiser agrees, then anyone who doesn’t must be loopy, or chatterbox civil rights lawyers.

For the benefit of my informed Middle Australian readers, I thought I would espouse the contents of my go bag. I’m not sure if ‘espoused’ is the right word to use there, but I’m the correct one around here.

Miranda Esmerelda Diamond Gloriosa Devine’s Anti-Terrorism Go Bag.

1. Shotgun with plenty of ammunition, sawn-off for maximum collateral damage;
2. Bio-chemical suit, in case contact with leftists is required to engage in peace treaties;
3. Mathematics degree transcript, in case anybody questions my authority or intelligence during time of chaos;
4. Tins of baked beans, kidney beans and chick peas for sustenance while hiding in bomb shelters;
5. Box of matches, because lighting farts in bomb shelters after consuming legumes is the best entertainment money can’t buy;
6. Plasma screen television to keep up to date with latest developments;
7. Sri Lankan Immigrant pedal-powered electricity generator, to power said plasma screen television;
8. Life size picture of Daniel Craig (hubba hubba);
9. Aboriginal house slaves; and
10. Sudoku and colouring books for when I get bored.

Superb. The only issue that concerned me is where I was going to “Go” once I had my “Go Bag” all packed, but being the genius that I am, I solved that one quick smart. I currently have several immigrants building me a bomb shelter in the back yard. Glorious. I will hole myself up there and fight until the death! No lawyers allowed in! I will never be taken alive, muslim doctors with terroristic tendencies!!!!!

After all – so many history’s greatest died valiantly in bomb shelters, didn’t they? Yes, they did.

Toodles!!
xx Miranda

I must say, I love dabbling into the world of economics. After all, the holy dollar is what drives us all. Even filthy pinko lesbian book-reading types pick up a dole cheque once a fortnight and fuel the heroin trade. Ugh. the thought makes me bilious. I think I might go and vomit out the window.

Ah. Better. I managed to hit a passing aborigine with my spew, from 5 stories up. It’s probably the first shower he’s had in years!

Let me tell you, when it comes to economics, I, Miranda Esmerelda Diamond Agapantha Devine, am an absolute authority. After all, I have a mathematics degree, which allows me to derive everything from first principles. In fact, this morning, while basking in my righteous glory atop my sunbed, from first principles I derived the entire economic problem with Middle Australia today :

Single Mother Leftist Whale Savers.

Don’t ask me how I did it, you simply wouldn’t understand. You’ve trusted my genius before, so trust my genius again.

Glorious!

Anyway, my episode on the waterskis a couple of weeks back hasn’t allayed the flood of dinner invites that I, an A-List journalist of the highest calibre, am constantly recieving. I attended a Centre for Independent Studies dinner this week, in support of this highly independent organisation sponsored by the finest corporations going around.
To think that some pinko types call me “biased”! Hah! I am as independent as that raging hunk of leftist radio codswobble, Triple J, and much hipper too.

The dinner, of course, was glorious. The filet mignon was top notch. The wine was tremendous. And, through a rosy haze of Bacchanalian cheer, I managed to hear somebody say that Milton Friedman is undoubtedly the second most correct person in the world, after yours truly.

I can confirm, from first principles, that whoever said it (undoubtedly a leading economist) was entirely correct.
Friedman was the great free marketeer of our time. He gave us all the freedom to choose. Even Bono is free to choose, but it’s a shame that he spends so much of his free choosing on freeing dirty Sri Lankan boat people and singing ti-diddle-ti-di-tee-dee-taters Irish post-modern smut.

We are all free to choose. Relish that thought!

Poor people are poor because they choose to be.

(This I also derived from first principles).

It also made me realise that you should always trust a bald man. However, then I remembered that emblem of the hideous sickle-and hammer-communist 1980′s, Mikhail Gorbachev. So, using my mathematical powers of deduction, I refined my formula.

Always trust a bald man wearing glasses.

Case in point.

I love being correct!

Anyway, I sat down and wrote my column and derived, from first principles of course, the entirely correct notion that all economic policy is attributable to one man.

Milton Friedman.

I don’t see how this notion could possibly be incorrect. But yet, those leftists on the other side of the fence started whinging. Browsing yesterday’s letters column, I noticed that Paul Keating, that wind-bagging old sausagedog of communistic unionism, had piped up with another long-joweled rant about how the Labor Party made up its own policies. This notion is ridiculous. I’ve never had an original thought in my life, so why the fuck would that irrelevant old-droopy-chopped bassett hound Paul Keating have one? Look at how he slandered me publicly:

When Miranda Devine writes about contemporary social issues or even social history, one can be amused or furious depending on one’s proclivities. But when she decides to write about economic history, as she did yesterday (“Different drivers, same map”, March 15), her contribution becomes laughable.

Listen up, Droopy. Here’s what I think of you:

You’re irrelevant, and incorrect, and you need a facelift. I’m the one with the mathematics degree. I’m the one deriving from first principles. I am correct.

Moreover, you’re not bald, and you’re not wearing glasses.

Toodles!
xx Miranda

Sydney is absolutely choked this minute, filled to the brim with filthy pedestrians, skateboarders, and vegan cyclists. So full, in fact and I was forced to turn on cruise control, hide under the dashboard and let the trusty Toyota Monstrosity do the driving for me. But why was I hiding?

These weren’t ordinary pedestrians. They were unclean, howling, leftist, hippy, vegan cyclist ferals protesting the arrival of that glorious icon of conservative strength, Dick Cheney.

Hideous! Just look at them. Ghastly!!!!

Even the ferries were under attack from hordes of naked vegan pirate protestors who took to the sea in an attempt to ruin Dick Cheney’s Shangri-La water view:

Gyah!!! Put a bra on, you saggy, leftist harlots. You look like Schapelle Corby!

I was scared and of course, offended by the sights and the smells of these boils on the backside of Middle Australian dignity. Hence the cruise control. I needed a good epsom salt spa bath after that ordeal. I assumed the position atop my sunbed, blunderbuss in hand, just in case any of them followed me home.

Middle Australians, we don’t want the United States of Middle America to think of us as a bunch of idiotic nudist vegans. John Howard is completely correct, as usual. That sort of protesting rubbish might fly in Ireland, but then again, those dirty leprechauns do nothing but dance jigs, tee-diddle-ti-dee-taters and listen to hideous Celtic postmodern jukeboxes of smut; namely, U2.

Australia, it’s time to get out there and support the great man, Mr Cheney. Middle Australia, I implore you to take to the streets, flag in hand, fully clothed! Don’t let these ingrates ruin our alliance, our glorious coalition of the willing. These fools bite the glorious hand that feeds them!!

I plan to get out there this weekend, banner in hand, telling the vegan cyclists that they’re completely incorrect. I’ve even made a superb t-shirt bearing the slogan “Middle Australia Loves Dick!”. Glorious!!

We’ll show those leftist, hairdressing, Kylie Minogue-listening feral lesbians who their Daddy is. Hah! 

Toodles!

xx Miranda

Who are they to question laws passed by our leader, elected by popular ballot under the laws of our constitution? This court challenge is shaking the very basis of our democracy, and what’s worse, there is freedom at stake.

No, I’m not talking about the freedom championed by those pillow-biting, tofu-eating, art-exhibition-attending lefties. I’m talking about the freedom of Middle Australia. The freedom to be safe from the death and destruction that the arab world is hell-bent on bringing to our glorious nation. The freedom to drive our children to their cricket matches without having to check underneath the Toyota Monstrosity for suspicious packages. The freedom to lock up anyone who looks different from us. The freedom to walk down the shops and purchase a meat pie without having to listen to anyone speaking in Ching-Chong Chinese or that language spawned from Satan’s tongue – Muslim.

Jack Thomas, or “Jihad Jack” as his friends like to call him, financed terrorism. He effectively paid cash to have some darkies come over here and try and blow up ordinary Middle Australians. He travelled under a fake passport. When he was convicted of these offences, the lefties kicked up a storm about how his confession was extracted under “torture”, and he was released.

This is a slippery slope people. Arabs aren’t like normal Middle Australians. They don’t tell the truth when questioned by good honest Middle Australian Federal Police. They eat kibbeh, felafels and baba ganoj. Their sabbath is a Friday. The only way to get a proper confession out of the little bastards is to use a little bit of force. Besides, what would you rather, one tortured muslim, or your children killed by suicide bombers?

If Jihad Jack is let off the hook today, he could go anywhere and do anything. We would have no control over who he speaks to, who he calls, and what time he leaves his house. What’s worse, this would be a clear signal to arabs everywhere that Australia is open for business. To overturn Jihad Jack’s control order would be to concede defeat to terrorism. I would even go so far as to say that overturning this Middle-Australian innovation would be worse than withdrawing from Iraq.

Middle Australia, unite! Lock ‘em up, before they blow you up. Stop the Muslims taking over our streets and suburbs, replacing pie shops with kebab stores, and picking fights with our hard-working Middle Australian lifeguards.

Stop the outrage!

xx Miranda