Well and Truly Over It

I intend to write a bit more about our soon to be ex-Illustrious Leader in coming days (handily tying in with my writing challenge), but for now I will simply restrain myself to saying:

Crap on a stick, dude!

Why did you HAVE to go and quit during my days off?

I am NEVER around the newsroom when truly interesting things happen.

Do you know where I was when you were tearing up in front of the cameras? Do you know where I was, when I should have been at the Executive Building, 100 George Street, with the lap top on, the mini-disc rolling and the rapid fire questions from Spencer, Patrick, Cathy, Matt, Jessica, Steven and the others ringing in my ears?

Farting around Harbourtown. The factory outlet shopping centre on the Gold Coast.

Woo hoo.

Could. Not. Believe. It.

There are moments in our times when we can recall with clarity our exact location, even our precise emotional state, when a page of history is turned and a fresh pen is put to paper on the official ledger of our lives. The assassination of JFK, the death of Princess Diana, Britney Spears' widely panned comeback performance at the VMAs... all are remembered in pensieve and in sombre mood.

I shall always recall the moment I found out Peter Beattie was quitting as being just half an hour after I spent $100 on new bras from the Bendon factory outlet store.

So Premier Pete, because of you, I really and truly can say:

Thanks for the mammaries.