At work, there’s been a lot of talk about something called “politics”.

This morning my COWorkers -- upon hearing that I planned to vote for the Ewoks Want To Turn Auckland City Into A Forest party -- said they were surprised, as they always assumed I was a “lefty”.

Me? A Liberal? WTF?!
Oh, how I laughed and laughed and laughed. In. Their. Faces.

Politicians are all fucktarts. Seriously. You need to have at least five years “fucktart” experience on your CV, or they won’t let you into parliament.
(Check it out – it’s Section 8 of the NZ Central Government Act, 1958).

Politicians just do whatever their lying asses want once in power anyway.
So I just vote for whoever has the best hairdo, or longest eyelashes. Or, in the event that the candidate may actually be a transsexual, decisions are made, based on how convincing a woman the candidate is.

I guess if I had to pigeon-hole my political leanings, I’d pick “redneck-hippy”.

Let me show you what I mean:

We have too many Eskimo immigrants here. They have been flooding into the country ever since that movie Whale Rider was shown over in Eskimoland. These people have come here wanting to kill and eat our whales and now there are not many whales left for the rest of us to eat.

Because of this, I am against allowing anymore Eskimo immigrants into the country.
See, that’s the Redneck side of me speaking.

But the Hippy side of me would offer this proviso:
If the Eskimo has proven gardening/hydroponics skills, then they should, by all means, be allowed in.
Because NZ always needs good ”Tomato Plants”.

Murray, from Coffeewaffle has an alternative version of the billboard posted on his site. Pay him a visit.

Interesting fact about Murray: He doesn’t own a TV. Not because he’s poor or nothing. Because he’s a hippy. But he takes damn good photos of stuff with his camera thingee.

Women's dog and cats kidnapped and tortured in extortion bid

Daz from work is a Good Christian. By that I mean, he doesn’t get elected into power, based on a family morals ticket and then later molest young girls.

When Daz has kids, he wants to send them to a Christian school, but he’s worried because some friends of his did that and the girls grew up and rebelled against the church. And like, had pre-marital sex and stuff.
So I suggested a little reverse psychology: When he has kids, send them to a Devil-worshipping school and then they’ll grow up, rebel and become all Christian.

It’s hard to tell what he thinks of that suggestion. But he has since taken to calling me “Beelzebub”. What the hell does that mean? Is it Jesus-talk for “wise man”?

Two Arab mothers are sitting in café in Baghdad, chatting over a pint of warm goat’s milk.

The older of the mothers pulls her bag out and starts flipping through pictures and they start reminiscing:

“This is my oldest son, Mohammed. He’s 24-years-old”.

“Yes, I remember him as a baby,” says the other mother cheerfully.

“He’s a martyr now, though,” Mohammed’s mum confides. “A suicide bomber”.

”Oh, so sad dear,” says the other.

“And this is my second son, Khalid. He’s 21”.

“Oh, I remember him,” says the other, happily. “He had such curly hair when he was born”.

“He’s a martyr too,” says mum, quietly. “A car bomber”.

“Oh, gracious me,” says the other.

“And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He’s 18,” she whispers.

“Yes, “ says the friend, enthusiastically. “I remember when he first started school”.

“He’s a martyr also.” Says mum, with tears in her eyes.

After a pause and a deep sigh, the second mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says….