I’ll have one of these for valentine’s day.

I want to scream, but it would be considered rude.

The entire office where I work is decked-out in red and pink. There are red balloons and red hearts (not the dripping-blood variety; though that would actually be funny) suspended from the ceiling.

I arrived at work to find “Valentines Day” posters on the doors to my floor, and now have a bunch of boys and girls (bloody Gen Y’s again; don’t they ever stop?!) wandering around in red togas, faux laurel wreaths and handing out little heart-shaped (again, not the anatomically correct shape) red-foil covered chocolates.

“Happy Valentine’s day” they say as they wander past, beaming smiles and all young and energetic.

Bah Humbug…

What’s next, dead rabbits on the desk? I’m a vegetarian people!!

In celebration of Valentines day, I present the following, with tongue planted firmly-in-cheek:

Well, the Libs are in full-swing today.

What was it Kevin said yesterday in his speech? Oh yes:

“…infantile bickering, point-scoring and mindlessly partisan politics…”

And as for Tony GodBotherer Abbot’s comment:

“…Opposition Indigenous affairs spokesman Tony Abbott defended Dr Nelson’s speech and called some of those who turned their backs “radicalised activists”.

“I suppose for people who have just come straight up from the Aboriginal Tent Embassy who are radicalised activists, I suppose a certain amount of hostility is to be expected,” he said…”

And which people would these be, Tony? Oh, sorry, you said: “…I suppose for people who have just come straight up from the Aboriginal Tent Embassy who are radicalised activists, I suppose a certain amount of hostility is to be expected…”

There goes your credibility, Right Down The Toilet, you racist pig.

I see in my mind’s eye, a cartoon of three people walking down a path called “Reconciliation”. The larger, adult is Kevin Rudd, the smaller two, both drawn as children having temper tantrums and resisting with every fibre of their being, are Tony Abbott and Brendan Nelson. Oh, there in the distance is an even smaller figure, dressed only in a soiled nappy; Wilson Tuckey is his name, and he’s running for dear life back to the womb of his conservative leader, John Howard.

I might not be able to draw, but I can certainly paint a picture.