Implosion Week Day One: Glenn Milne Knifes Abbott

Glenn Milne hits the turps again:

Dear Tony,

I love you mate, you are my bestest friend in the whole world (hic!). But when we lose on Shaturday it will be all your bloody fault.

It's not your fault, of course (gulp!). You are a man of honeshty and convikshun. Thash why I love you.

But you are just so bad at (hic) lying, mate. You are just too frikkin' honest. Too raw. Too effing soft, really. Like a bloody Jeshuit priest - HA HA HA!

I know, I know! It's all Howard's fault, really. He's been flailing around desperately, changing his (hic!) Health policies under your nose, making you look like a fool. And he should have given you Defensh, not Health. I mean, just look at that prishy little fart, Brendan Nelson. What a wanker.

But did you really have to lose it on camera, mate - on mike, on air? There's always a bottle of Pimms in my desk if you need to blow off some shteam! Ma-a-a-ate...!

I will mish your (hic!) deep religioush and shpiritual convicshuns, mate. I will mish the way your fashe looks sho shteely and determined, even when you are shlagging off dying ashbeshtosh victims. I wish I could pull off that sort of fake shinsherity. I wish I was out there on the hustings like you, day after day, a one-man Praetorian Guard, copping all the shit, just to shave the PM's sorry arse...(sob!)

Shorry, mate. Shometimesh it all gets too much. I mean, you know. Whash it all about eh? Here we are, you and me, after all these yearsh, shtill searching for these higher truths. Endleshly compromishing (gulp!). Par for the course (hic!). Funny game, innit? (burp!)

Wazzat? Oh... Margie wants you back home now, Tony. She's calling you. Go to her. Go to her, mate. I'll be alright.

You go to her... You're a fucking legend, mate. A martyr. A trashendent fucking Jeshuit martyr! Shailing into the shunshet...

[passes out, head on the SUBMIT button]