The farmers are loose in Parliament House and Brendon Grylls has the keys to the liquor cabinet.
It's time to call in the national guard - don't worry about those indo shark fin snatchers up north, we've got rural types drunk on power and it's gonna take a flotilla of patrol boats to reign them in.
From paddock to parliament, these boys have already started whooping it up and it's getting ugly. Snorting coke off hookers' backsides in the public gallery, body shots on the Speaker's Table, guzzling straight Bundy from filthy Blundstones... god help us if someone sends in the hallucinogens.
Seat sniffing and bra snapping is an entree for this mob. The blood is rising faster than the vomit slick on the member's toilet floor and there is a call for a sacrafice... It's come to this already. Carps is running, Buswell is curled up in the foetal position, McGowan is wearing a floral blouse... 'kill the pig, kill the pig!!!'
Time to flee...
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