Sometimes, when I’m feeling magnanimous, I think the worst things about Premier Jeremy Rockliff and Opposition Leader Dean Winter are their policies. But then, having seen their willies, I know that’s not true.

And yet, there they are, strutting all over the place like a pair of sociopathic Charlie Big potatoes, one a Pink Eye and the other a wannabe King Edward. Yet we know these petty, name-calling, threat-rumbling, scare campaigning, tantrum-tossing emperors have no clothes. And it’s not a pretty sight, let me tell you. Talk about the dad body politic.

Poor Jeremy. His political emasculation began with his loss of majority. His authority shrank further with the loss of the no confidence motion. It’s impotence, political or otherwise. That makes majority government the equivalent of viagra and a majority term of government like maintaining a blood-vessel-busting priapism. For. Three. Years! Whatever floats your boat … to Scotland?

And poor Dean. Desperately trying to convince his unconvinced and unwilling girlfriend, the electorate, that two and a half centimetres is ten.

I said lad I said pet I said Deano I said pimple-puss I said luv, it’s what you do with it that counts.

Halfway-in is not in fact the Campbell Town boozer. Now put it away and get a real job.

But there are more to members of Tasmania’s Parliament than a bunch of (limp) dicks. Stretching this sorry politics-as-genitalia metaphor to painful breaking point, the Parliament also contains vaginas. The Greens, political equivalent thereof. And no I don’t mean a bunch of cunts. I’m actually quite fond of them. Aw. Their fluffy hair, Birkenstocks and economic autism.

Here’s the punchline: if majority government is priapism then collaborative government, like that practised by our Euro swinging friends, is Big Vulva Energy. My new age white witch pal, Mags, tells me the world is shifting to a female paradigm. No rush. Get yer Gaia on, Gertie!

We simply cannot have yet another AFL-branded dick-waving contest. Nor can we possibly allow aforementioned small dicks to go through the Party Room equivalent of political bukkake; the seminal process of privately annointing the next Premier, far from the annoying prying eyes of the bloody voters. Perhaps Tassie is in more trouble than we realise.

It was wee (Josh) Willie’s willy that brought us here. In a sense. Shaking one – his – off the wrist – mine – in the parliamentary carpark late one night, after he stopped crying, being emotional, more relaxed and a little tipsy, he confided that Big Dean’s no confidence motion was an accident, a mistake; at best, premature, at worst, a surge of misplaced over-confidence.

Okay, so the boy wonder effed up. But the silver lining is… another election. This is not a bad thing. It can be a vote on the stadium. It can decide the next government. We get to see Antony Green in full flight one more time. Although we heard Labor won’t be doing any deals with him.

To the Chicken Littles running around, squawking “four elections in seven years! Four elections in seven years!”, like that’s a bad thing, at least it’s democracy. More voting gooood, less baaaad here on Animal Farm. At least you can tell yourself that through gritted teef as you run the Valley of Signs on the Midland Highway.

Listening to your average politician crap on can, admittedly be painful, draining and dispiriting. And worse still, you can’t believe a word they say. And what they do say generally amounts to piss-poor policy. But d’you know what? You can take it.

If you find occasionally tuning into – admittedly piss-poor – political debate – tough, how would you fair being a Palestinian trying to survive? A Chinese or Russian dissident fighting for freedom and democracy? An innocent American citizen trafficked to nearby dictatorship because of their tattoos? An everyday American taking time to smell the roses whoops tear gas?

Toughen the hell up, Tasmanians. Have a savoury toast and pull both your heads in.

You can make it to July 19 and Robson rotate yourself to a polling boof to weakly tick a few boxes. And I’ve practically got a ladyboner already about another starry night in the Tally Room.

Talking of boxes, here’s my prediction: voters say yes to an even more well-hung parliament. With more independents and Greens and whatnots (hello, Andrew Jenner!) standing proud, the next Parliament could be the most Big Vulva Energetic yet.

That’s what voters have been telling erected reps for a while now: put them away, fellas, and instead, come together. A better mix of boy bits and girl bits and everything in between. Politically speaking. Almost like LGBTIQ+, yanno: Leaders, Greenies, Businessies, Trustworthies, Independents, Questioners, plus …

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