Commentary
Dear Prime Minister,
It’s not with a light heart or a trifling spirit that I commit these words to paper, but rather with an earnestness that echoes through the annals of time, much like the resonant clangour of a bell tolling in a hushed cathedral.
Before you unleash your misinformation crusade, I feel the pressing need to spill my thoughts. God forbid I'd be silenced by Orwellian tactics, courtesy of your government and the media.
Back when we started this rodeo, you were always on shaky ground with an approval rating of just over 30 percent but you made promises—no vanishing acts in tough times, no disappearing tricks when the job needed doing.
You pledged to show up, step up, and grind away to build our togetherness.
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Fast forward to today, and I’m here left wondering if you’ve set up camp in some undisclosed international location.
A relationship is about intimacy and it’s pretty hard when you’re collecting more air miles than a private jet on a world tour of climate change conferences.
You’ve made 15 trips to 18 countries, to be precise. How in the world are we supposed to cosy up if you’re playing pilot on your private jet, “Airbus Albo?”
Let’s talk about fidelity. It’s like you’re having a tryst with absence, a clandestine affair with distance. Are you trying to ghost me, or is this some misguided attempt at a long-distance relationship?
And oh, the saga of the red, white, and blue! It’s not a mere colour coordination hiccup; it’s the dramatic flag of our shared identity fluttering in the winds of neglect.
Are you allergic to patriotism, or have you just developed a sudden, overwhelming affinity for rainbow aesthetics?
In the grand comedy of our relationship, the punchlines seem to be veering into tragic territory. So, do enlighten me, dear Albo, because right now, your actions are more perplexing than a tax code written in hieroglyphics.
Attempt as you may, you’re no Biden, Trudeau, or Macron.
In the grand theatrical production of global politics, you’re more of a supporting character.
You feigning admiration for Xi and snugging up to other nations has left me feeling a tad neglected. As your own homeland, I confess to a tinge of jealousy, which brings us to the matter of your extravagant spending.
While our love story didn’t kick off over a ledger, I can’t ignore the open wallet policy you seem to have with everyone else but me.
A casual $100 million (US$67 million) here for the WHO, a whopping $910 million there for Ukraine, complete with Bushmaster-protected mobility vehicles and heavy artillery.
Oh, let’s not forget the generous $8 million pit stop in the Cook Islands and a cool $600 million splurge on Papua New Guinea.
I can’t help but wonder, Albo, where’s the love for me? Your $1,000 for families in one of Cairns’s worst floods just doesn’t cut it.
And when the going gets a bit rough, you whip out the “houso” like a budget magician. Your remarks about your upbringing might have been charming once, but the novelty’s worn thin.
Yes, you might have crawled out of the houso cocoon, but it seems you’ve flown so far from your roots that you’ve forgotten those who could use a bit of financial lift.
We’re like oil and water or should I say windfarms and eagles? We’re just not mixing.
While your predecessor didn’t hold a hose, at least he didn’t hold a $500 glass of Margaret River red while the country was floundering in economic ruin.
Drown your sorrows mate because in the immortal words of the 1972 Whitlam campaign, “it’s time.” Grab Toto, put on your Radio Birdman t-shirt, and hit the road. We’re done.
Yours truly,
Australia.
Views expressed in this article are opinions of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Epoch Times.
